Little Christmas
Through the car window, my eye catches a young man rushing down the street straightening his white collared shirt and black blazer. As if he felt me looking at him, he turned in my direction and made eye contact. I wondered if this young man dressed in a suit on a chilly Monday morning in January would be one of the pall bearers at my mother’s funeral mass. Was he in high school? He looked so young and mismatched in his clothes. A college student on break making extra money?
How strange to me that he and other men my mother had never met would carry her into the church, and then place her back into the hearse for her final car ride to meet my father at the cemetary where she had buried him 50 years prior.
As I shakily entered the church, I was struck by the numerous beautiful red poinsettas surrounding the alter. On this Three Kings Day, the church still festive with Christmas.
I found my uncle and his wife sitting with my mom’s last best friend in the front row. How happy she’d have been to see them. Little by little, our small party arrived and found seats.
It was then the young suited man and the others entered the church carrying my mom’s coffin. Tears immediately falling at the sight of her coffin forcing again this inescapable reality.
Steadying my feet over my shaking legs, I sat between my two sons, leaning into them for support as I fell into my little girl self whose mom had just died.
It was a lovely mass in a beautiful church that my mother would’ve loved. The priest, who had also never met my Mom, spoke of how strong and loving she was as a single Mom for 50 years. “A single mom” resonated with me as my mind flashed to all the summer trips she took us to in Wildwood, the new clothes she bought for us on layaway, the Christmas morning presents, supporting us through colleges, all on a secretary’s salary. Just then, a random memory popped up in my mind of a cold winter morning when we all accidentally overslept and were late to school. When my Mom called, the nun shamed her and said “You must get these girls to school on time!” My mother shocked me as she yelled back, “I’ll bring them when I’m ready.” She made us breakfast and told us to take our time. I thought I had the coolest Mom in that moment.
The priest spoke of God taking her home on Christmas Day, and this day on Three Kings Day being her birthday. My mind flashed back to the shock of waking early Christmas morning to my son saying my niece said I needed to call my sister. I immediately jumped out of bed crying and pacing, unable to catch my breath; dialing my younger sister’s number terrified of what may have happened. Sobbing and screaming herself, she said, “I think Mom is dying!”
I told my 14 year old to go wake up my 23 year old and tell him we needed to take the long drive to the hospital as I called my older sister, who had spoken to the hospital. My older sister spoke calmly and slowly, filling me in on each detail of the calls she had received from the hospital. The first call had been saying our mom’s heart had stopped and they were currently giving her chest compressions, asking my sister if they should stop trying to resuscitate her or continue. It was as if all her words after that had turned into another language. She spoke slowly and articulately, and I could process nothing. I cut her off and said, “Should I be getting in the car and running?” Both my sisters lived significantly closer to my Mom. Both said they were rushing to get to her, as I cried, “I live so far away.”
I threw on sweatpants and a hoodie over my spaghetti strap top. Grabbed food for the car and told my kids “We have to go!”, as we ran past the mountain of wrapped gifts under our Christmas morning tree.
I felt sad for the 14 year old eager to open his presents, and the pressure on my 23 year old to drive us there safely yet quickly. I’d been up very sick most of the night before and was in no condition to drive.
My son drove quickly but carefully with hazard lights on the entire way. I went from sobbing out loud to telling myself to pull it together. My sisters texted they wete both there with her and that the doctors had placed her on a ventiltor and were giving her medicines to keep her alive until we arrived. They said her vitals had kept crashing and it was clear she was indeed dying. But to drive safely.
“Fuckin Christmas” I cried. Our Dad had died on December 19th when we were 7, 4 and 2 years old.
The 2 hour drive was somehow an hour and 15 minutes, in part by my son’s driving and in part to early Christmas morning - everyone in their homes opening presents.
When my son pulled up to the hospital entrance, I turned to him and said like a child myself, “This is really hard.”
As I approached the security desk, it all looked wrong. Tunnel vision, my body coughing and displaced. I attached my pass to my hoodie and hesitantly pushed my body forward. As I arrived in ICU, I saw people on respirators everywhere. My distressed look led hospital staff to ask who I was looking for. As they entered her name in the system, they told me she was still in her regular room on a different floor.
My stomach had been sick from the night before, so I stopped into a bathroom with diarrhea. I knew I needed to rush but I couldn’t stop it. For an instant, I laughed and said “Mom, I have to do this or I’ll shit my pants.” She’d had colitis and might think this was funny…
As I reached the elevator, my son was calling on my cell, “Where are you?!” He was terrified I’d miss her. Even after parking and having been also sent to the wrong floor, my kids had beaten me to her bedside.
A nurse in the hall told me my son had been looking for me and she walked me to my Mom’s room.
I took a deep breath and entered.
There she lay in her hospital bed with a respirator. Her hands thankfully untied, thanks to my older sister asking them to do so when she’d spoken to them earlier.
My younger sister and her 16 year old daughter sitting by my mom on one side, and my older sister, her husband and 15 year-old son on the other. My 14 year old stayed in the back of the room, while my 23 year old stood by my side as I approached my Mom.
I took off my hoodie and wrapped it around my waist. I leaned in and touched her hand.
A nurse asked me if I wanted time or should they remove the respirator. I said to remove it, I didn’t want her to suffer longer because of me.
A young doctor came in, turned off the machine, listened to her chest with a stethescope and checked her pulse. He looked pained. He then looked up at me, into my eyes and said, “She’s gone.”
I held his eyes and nodded to him, gripping the bed rails with both hands, and said, “Okay”. My younger sister shouted out crying, “Mommy!” as she held on tighter to her hand and stroked her face.
They asked us if we’d like to step out of the room for them to remove the breathing tube. Most of us stepped out.
When I was re-entering, my younger son had gone ahead of me, and was walking out sobbing. He said, “I can’t.” I knew it would be bad from the look on his face.
My mom did not look like she was sleeping peacefully. Her mouth was wide open and she was still leaning towards the left of the bed, but very clearly looked dead.
I went back to my younger one and told him to give me a minute and we’d go outside for some air. Eager to escape this nightmare, I also felt the need to be sure I didn’t need more time to be with her before they took her away forever.
Through my tears, I heard my voice saying to my brother-in-law, “She’s gone. This isn’t her anymore.”
Outside into the freezing cold December air, coughing and crying, feeling lost in this new forced reality.
Two weeks later, following her coffin in procession out of the church, the big heavy wooden doors opened to another cold day, but this time with snow falling. I gasped and smiled, saying to my sisters, “It’s snowing!” The joy inside me in such drastic contrast to the grief that had gripped me for weeks.
The snow continued as we followed the hearse to the cemetery, listened to a minister’s graveside prayer, and tossed our flowers on my Mom’s coffin as a final goodbye.
The funeral director then surprised us, honoring a denied request my sister had made of the church. He played “The Hills are Alive” from my mom’s favorite movie, The Sound of Music. As the intro began, smiles and tears from all those who loved her. Julie Andrews’ voice resonating on what suddenly felt like a hilltop, with gentle snow falling on her 80th birthday. Mom would have loved this.
