1. My daughter.
2. My husband.
3. A black outfit.
4. Lavender oil.
5. Comfortable clothing to sit next to her in.
6. My camera.
7. A few photographs.
8. Phone numbers.
9. Surety of her release.
10. The calm of the oldest daughter about to become matriarch.

What I heard:

1. The raspy shallow breathes of my mother.
2. Incessant noise of the nursing home.
3. Sticky shoes padding along the hallway.
4. Other elders, once the pillars of this small town, moaning, calling out for help.
5. My aunts saying my mom’s name in just that Chicagoan way- “Joanne?”
6. Resolve in my stepfathers’ voice.
7. Wind whipping fall leaves past the single story building, wind on the roof, teasing leaves into small tornadoes in the parking lot outside the window.
8. My own strong heartbeat.
9. The silence of my husband’s calm presence.
10. All the songs we sang- from the “Weenie Man” to “What a Friend We Have in Jesus”, all the dear partings from the staff members as they came in to say farewell to Mom, and the absence of those who did not come for this moment of gray blue death swinging in to the room.

What I said:

1. What I wanted, which was to stay by her side as long as I could.
2. That it did not matter if I was not there for her last breath exactly.
3. That I needed a break, a rest and would sleep with my phone under my pillow.
4. Hello, I am here. I will be there in 5 minutes.
5. Will you come with me?
6. Do you want to sleep longer?
7. Mom is dying now.
8. She has gone.
9. No, she is still here.
10. Now, she is gone.

Written with the admiration & respect for Trisha Reid
by Kathi Russ April 2004

The years passed like a comet streaking across the sky and I found myself 40 years old and getting a divorce. My sister was ill with lupus, also divorced and living at home with mom. She wanted nothing more than to be treated normal and mom wanted her to take care of her. She hated being treated as if she were ill. So she moved in with me. Mother said it would last two weeks.

My sister, hmmm… how do I even begin to tell you about her. She never complained when she was sick. She worked so hard on being ‘normal’ and never asked anyone to do anything to make her life easier. She gave for today like there was no tomorrow. Everyone that met her, she touched. Not because she was mushy or sentimental seeming, she had a tough exterior. She would make snide comments and never let us see her cry. Yet, she had a way of finding out what you needed and doing that and a little more for you. She baked and she cleaned and she handled mine and all my friends disputes with everyone from comcast to verizonwireless. She made me look good and everyone who is close to me knows that I will never fill her shoes.

Ten years later… I sat beside her death bed… she was in a coma. Relatives clamored around telling me how wonderful it was that I had taken care of my sister all these years. I whispered to her that they have no idea that it was her that took care of me.

Its been two years now and I feel her presence in my life everyday. Almost a month ago, I buried my mother. When I am feeling like I think I am supposed to feel, I think that I am lucky to have had them both with me and that now they are together and with me in spirit. Ok…now for how I feel when I throw that garbage out the window… I feel alone and robbed of the two people who cared for me unconditionally. I miss them.

I remember when our mother died after many years with Alzheimer’s, and how shocked I was at the contrasting feelings I had: loss, relief, and actually a lot of confusion, because it felt as if she’d already been “gone” for so long…how do you “lose” someone who’s already “gone”?

As for the sweater, I think it will want to live with the matching pink one in your cupboard or closet or drawer, and perhaps someday you will want to wear it. I know that I cherish certain symbolic items of clothing, including a sweater from a departed friend and a scarf from I gave to my father one Christmas when I was a child, and there are some days in life when nothing else (no other article of clothing) will do.

Again, I thank you for coming here to speak of this. We are honored, and extend our sympathy to you.