Goodbye, Mom

This past week I took part of my mother up to Kentucky with me.  I took her to my grandfather's gravesite, eulogized her . . . and then I told her goodbye and I left her there.

Now that you are totally confused, let me explain.

My mother died back in November, 2017.  She asked to be cremated, probably because she'd had enough emotional turmoil dealing with my father's funeral, my grandmother's, and my aunt's (her sister) over the last several years and she didn't want my sister and me to deal with that sort of turmoil.  My sister honored her wishes.  She asked if I wanted a small urn with some of my mother's ashes, and I said yes. 

This past July, I visited my sister briefly and she gave me the urn.  It's about 3-4 inches tall, blue-green in color, with a dolphin decorating the front.  I thought it was appropriate because green was my mother's favorite color, she lived in Florida (famous for dolphins) and my very first favorite TV show was Flipper, about a dolphin. 

I decided that since my mother was born in Kentucky, I would take part of her ashes and scatter them at the cemetery where my grandfather--her father--is buried.  In a sense, it would be bringing her home. 

It took several months to arrange this trip, mostly because I didn't want to drive up there during winter weather. But I finally figured out a time I could go, which was this past week, made reservations, and started getting ready.

The weirdest part was dealing with the actual ashes.  When I'd first gotten the urn home, I twisted the top to see if it would open, or it if would be hard to open.  The top twisted . . . but I could not bring myself to lift the lid and see what the ashes looked like.  Instead, I put the urn in my china cabinet. 

Last Monday, while I was alone in the house, I took the urn from the china cabinet.  It was heavier that I thought it would be, probably because it was full.  Then I took the top off and found myself looking at what is best described as sandy gray ashes.  I put a portion in an old medicine bottle.

I left last Wednesday, driving up I-75, the road we'd travel when we'd head for Kentucky on vacation.  I'm old enough to remember when you had to get off I-75 in certain places and use US 41 in Georgia and US 11 in Tennessee.  I can also remember a handmade sign on the side of the road marking the exit to Plains, Georgia, the hometown of Jimmy Carter.  These days, there is no missing the exit to Plains. 

My cousin Susie used her iPhone to keep track of where I was.  When I stopped in Knoxville for lunch, I saw her message that "I think you might be lost."  I said, "I'm not lost.  This is the way we always came on road trips."  She said, thank God because my map shows you heading to Nashville!

I drove up State Road 33, up through Manyardville, New Tazewell, and Tazewell, over the Clinch River and near Norris Lake, where we've gone with our cousins on our mother's side, where they've waterskied (and I've tried and failed), where we've gone swimming, picked blackberries, and camped out. 

In Harrogate, I made a pit stop (after a previous stop for gas in Tazewell and at a Walmart across the street for three pots of flowers).  That pit stop was the Scott Cemetery, where my mother's maternal grandparents are buried.  I left flowers, which was not the easiest thing to do because a) the cemetery is a small rural one which is maintained by donations and is "cataloged" online by volunteers, and b) my mother's grandparents are not buried together.  My great-grandmother is buried next to a baby.  There was no room for my great-grandfather.  So he's buried apart from her.  He was easy to find.  She was not.  Just as I feared that I would have to leave both sets of flowers at my great-grandfather's grave, I came around the side of a gravestone and found the woman I was looking for.  One pot of flowers sits on top of my great-grandmother's grave.  The other pot sits on top of my great-grandfather's. 

I drove through the Cumberland Gap Tunnel, which wasn't there during the years when we made our road trips.  We had to climb 25E through Virginia, past Cudjo's Cavern, then past a large sign announcing, "Welcome To Kentucky" with a picture of a horse on it. 

When I got to my hotel in Harlan, I dropped off my stuff and then drove out to Rosspoint, about 10 minutes or so from where I was staying.  I went looking for the cemetery where my grandfather was buried, and I found it almost by accident.  This is not the first time I've ever been to my grandfather's grave.  I had visited at least once before, back in 1989; but I also remembered going there as a very young child.  I don't recall anyone telling me that "we're going to where your grandfather is buried", and since I would have been about four in this particular memory, I doubt if it would have registered.  My maternal grandfather died in October of 1962.  I was born in October of 1963, so I never knew my maternal grandfather. 

Rose Lawn Cemetery, where my grandfather is buried, is another small, rural cemetery with no formal upkeep.  The area around it has changed over the years, but the two landmarks that have not changed there are the two statues of Jesus.  One is at the front of the cemetery, Jesus standing with his arms at his sides, his hands spread out.  The other is in the middle of the cemetery, and it's Jesus praying in the Garden of Gethsemane.  Engraved underneath are the words "Not my will but Thine be done."  I remember playing on that statue while my mother and grandmother were over at my grandfather's grave.  (My grandmother's brother and sister, along with their spouses, are also buried here.) 

When I saw the statues of Jesus, I knew I'd found the right place.

So I pulled down a dirt and gravel road, parked, took my mother's ashes, the third pot of flowers I'd bought at the Walmart in Tazewell, and a copy of her eulogy (posted here), and went to my grandfather's gravestone. 

I put the flowerpot right above the gravestone, and then, opened the bottle with my mother's ashes and scattered them on the grass. 

Then I took Mom's eulogy and read it aloud. 

I sat and I listened to the buzzing of a bee, felt the warmth of an April afternoon.  The weather cooperated with me nicely.  The forecast had called for rain during the days I planned to be there, and then the forecast changed.  I got warm, dry weather.   

And then I left my mother's ashes behind and went back to the car. 

There were other things I did in Kentucky this past week, but none as important to me as this was.

I don't know if my mother ever wanted to come back to Kentucky.  She didn't have as much of a tie to Harlan as my father did, because her sister lived first in Ohio and then in Florida, very near us, and her brother also lived in Ohio.

But for me, I thought that at least part of her needed to come home. 

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Room 34 Magnolia

My mother will die in Room 34 Magnolia. 

This is her room in the Suncoast Hospice Center in Pinellas Park, Florida, where she is being cared for during her last days.

On Friday and Saturday, I saw her for the last time.

My sister prepared me well for how she would look.  She's no longer wearing her wig.  Her hair is gray and wispy.  She's lost weight.  And the leg that has given her so much trouble is discolored.

She can no longer speak.  But she will turn her head towards voices.

I played some Roger Williams music for her.  He is a pianist that she enjoyed listening to.  I showed her Matthew's graduation picture.  And I read some of my past blog entries to her.  (Whether she enjoyed those or not, I can't say. :-) ) 

Saturday I fed her applesauce and gave her water.  I watched as two nurses' aides repositioned her, and listened as she moaned in pain afterward.  There's no way you can move someone in her condition and not cause them pain.  She finally got some pain meds, and that helped her. 

I had dinner on Friday with my sister, her husband, my niece, and her boyfriend.  (The boyfriend won me over when he asked me to let everyone know when I got back home.) 

Between seeing my mother and having dinner with my family, I went to the cemetery and told my father and grandmother that Mom would probably be joining them soon.

The next day, I had breakfast with my best friend, who drove all the way up from Sebring.  I was fed so well that the next meal I had was at the Chick-Fil-A at the Tampa International Airport.  We talked, and she assured me that the feelings I had were very normal. 

That Saturday, I also saw my uncle--my mother's brother-in-law, also the man that gave me away at my wedding in place of my deceased father--for a few moments.  I gave them some alone time. 

And then I went back in and told my mother that I had to leave.

I told her I loved her.  I told her thank you for everything she'd done for me.  And I told her that if she wanted to go see Daddy, she had my permission.

Then I had to leave.

I saw my sister and niece before I went to the airport.  My sister's still cleaning up after the hurricane (dealing with some property damage) and when I got there, I found my brother-in-law operating an excavator. 

My sister, niece and I sat and talked. 

Then I headed for the airport, was whisked through the TSA pre-check (a nice surprise there!), ate dinner, recharged my electronics the best I was able to. 

At 7:25 p.m., I boarded a Spirit Air plane back to Atlanta. 

We took off at 8:14.

I landed about 9:20.

It was nearly 11:15 by the time I got in the door.  My husband had picked me up at the MARTA station, got me home, and made sure I got into bed. 

Now the waiting begins.

Mom could die today.  Or maybe next week.  We don't know.

I am glad I went, though.  I think I would have regretted it if I didn't take one final time to say good-bye.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.