Fall and the Journey from Life to Death

It's fall, my favorite time of year.  Even if it is getting closer and closer to the anniversary of my mama's passing. I still love the sight of trees changing. I know the colors mean that they will die soon, fall to the ground, and be covered with snow if they are not raked up. All of us know, because we learn when we are little, that leaves must be raked up. The piles are a riot of fun to jump into, but left to sit on the ground under the snow, they will rot and kill the grass underneath, making it more difficult for new grass to emerge in the spring.  Going through the process of dying is kinda like fall.  You know it's coming, and what happens after it does, and if you are wise you do a lot of preparing, like the squirrels.  You ruminate over every memory, ask every question you can think of, and make the most of every moment possible, because we all know that like expecting a tulip bloom in January, so is being able to ask one last question of the loved one who is gone.

As the days shorten, and the shadows lengthen, I am re-visiting the year we've almost concluded, and the year that led up to its beginning.  We were like those squirrels, busily preparing all that mama wished for.  We begged her to wish for a trip to Paris, or go on a Safari...anything crazy we could do together while she was still feeling good.  Ever the planner, she was adamant about us painting the house, stripping wallpaper, and anything else that might need doing instead.  She wanted to make sure that when our daddy was the only one left in the house, that he would not be overwhelmed by all that would need to be done before selling it.  So we steamed and scraped, rolled on paint, and laughed as much as we could...to keep everyone's mood lifted. And we teased, "Are you sure you don't wanna go to Paris, Mama?"  Then went back to work.

Later just as we hug our jackets a little tighter, as the air gets brisker and brisker, signifying the end of summer for sure, we stayed close.  Every sibling was on call, and every one of my sweet auntie's were ready to come running at a moment's notice. Mama tricked us twice, causing two impromptu gatherings at the local hospital, where we entertained each other...and the staff.  We even had a mascot for our club. His name is Herman. He kept an "eye" on things when the room was quiet. She pulled through both times, leaving us to rejoice in "just a little more time."

All the while we told stories.  We laughed, left the room frequesntly to secretly weep, and held each other while mama slept.  And we held our breath.

On the evening we met for dinner and she said she wasn't hungry I knew the time we would have her was dwindling. Cancer is a monster, because of what it does to its victims.  When they need the hugging, caressing, and reassurance that human touch provides, it hurts them so badly that both the giver and the receiver are at an impasse.  Both are left to grieve before it's time, scraping the heart raw like the tines of the rake, preparing it for the separation that is to come.  Then the scratching scrapes a little deeper with each segment of her incapacitation, each marking the change of the season.

In the end, when you have traveled together toward the most important day of her life, your heart is so ripped to ribbons, the only resolution for peace...is passing. Only when we witnessed her pain, empathized with her agony, and begged for her release could we let her go- and only when she was assured we were going to be okay did she let go and fall into the arms of her Savior.  His presence there in that moment, and knowing without a doubt that He was holding her is the only thing that saved the hearts of the ones left behind, during the winter that was to follow.

This fall I'm not preparing to say good-bye like last year.  I'm looking at the colors, soaking in the sun of Indian Summer, and remembering.  Remembering the funny, the unexpected, and zany moments on that journey so that it can warm my heart enough to press through another winter without her.