Good morning…
Almost six years ago when Dad passed away, I wrote a poem for his eulogy. When I say “wrote,” I actually mean, “channeled” because the words seemed to come to me in complete phrases and word images. But after Mom’s passing, there was no poem forthcoming; I was beginning to feel a sense of panic. I kept wondering, “Why aren’t the words coming to me?” Then one of my cousins made a reference about being “on Casey time,” and I could hear my mother’s voice saying, “Wait for it.” The phrase “She took the long way home” came to mind and I realized Mom didn’t want a poem, she wanted a story.
As he got older, our father was troubled by the thought of a long, drawn-out decline and almost terrified at the idea of being dependent on someone (particularly one of us) for his care. He and Mom (mostly he) talked often about how they were making arrangements for their own care because they did not want to be a burden to their children. But Dad also wanted to pass in his own home and, although he did a lot the last year of his life, those plans never got finalized. He thought he had more time. Dad got his wish to depart like a supernova in a burst of glory, but for us, the shock of his passing was like an earthquake that forever altered the terrain upon which we navigated - and left Mom on her own, in the dark, to try to navigate the rest of her life.
As many of you know, we helped Mom sell our family home that she had shared with Dad for 45 years and move into a home with my husband and I in Gig Harbor so she could be closer to my brother, Tracy. Not long after we moved, Mom was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s Disease, the landscape shifted again, and we began that long journey home that lasted for 5 years. I would like to share just briefly about the privilege of sharing this time with my mother - and what it taught me.
I was feeling very anxious the night Mom moved into the house with us. I remember thinking, “What am I going to say to her? How am I even going to be with her? I haven’t lived with her since I was 18 years old.” Most of you, thankfully, don’t know that I was the “rebellious child” of the lot and my adolescent and young adult years gave my parents quite the challenge. But one of many Baumgartner traits that frequently appears is that of being a “Late Bloomer,” and I got a double dose of that genetic package! Over the years, I was blessed that I had a relationship with my parents that deepened - and it was from that relationship that I knew Ren and I had to share our home with Mom - because we could. And thankfully, my husband went along with it.
It was not an easy adjustment for Mom - or for me. Her deepest wish, besides being with Dad again, was to be able to take care of herself; to be independent; to live her own life. As she gradually lost that independence, she struggled to find meaning in life and sometimes she got depressed and angry. There were tough days, but in time, we developed a rhythm with each other and became companions. I said to her once, “Isn’t it rather ironic that the kid who was the biggest pain in the neck growing up is the one you’re living with now?” She gave me a look.
One time, she asked me why she was still alive, why was God punishing her? I responded that usually when people were still around, it wasn’t because they were being punished, but rather because they still had some task or lesson that had to be completed. She wondered what there could possibly be left for her to learn and asked what I thought. I said, “Well, Mom, if I had to guess, I would say that all your life you have taken care of someone else, maybe now the task is to allow yourself to be taken care of?”
I don’t think she liked that response at the time, but she stepped up to the challenge and showed us how to do it with grace, dignity and courage. She still used the “Burden” word a lot - which we took to calling “The B Word,” and threatened to charge her $1 every time she said it, but it lessened over time. I was walking with her to the bathroom last winter after she fell and she started in about being a burden. I said, “Mom, I know this was your worst nightmare to be living with one of your kids. You know what? It was my worst nightmare that you or Dad would need our care. And guess what? We’ve both experienced the worst and here we are - and I am actually getting pretty good at this!” We both laughed - and it was a good laugh.
It has been said that caring for the one who cared for you is a privilege. And it is. John O’Donohue wrote a beautiful book about the Celtic tradition of “Anam Cara.” Anam is Gaelic for “soul” and Cara is the word for “friend.” So an Anam Cara is a Soul Friend. He wrote that “in everyone’s life there is a great need for a soul friend, In this love, you are understood as you are without mask or pretension…Love allows understanding to dawn, and understanding is precious. Where you are understood, you are at home. Understanding nourishes belonging. When you really feel understood, you feel free to release yourself into the trust and shelter of another person’s soul.”
Dad had always been Mom’s Anam Cara until his death. I was blessed to have had the opportunity to step into that role of soul friend to my mother at the end of her life. She became that for me as well and I am forever changed by the experience. A colleague and dear friend told me that losing his father was hard, but the more difficult loss was that one person who knew you even before you took your first breath - your mother.
Our parents were bookends for each other. Dad was the sunrise and Mom was the sunset. Dad left suddenly and shook us awake and Mom’s willingness to take that long way back home gave us all time to be with her - and with each other - in a deeper way. My aunt said that Mom passed in the same dignified way that she lived her life. Hers was a life well lived and we got to walk her home. The morning after she passed, I was walking with my son, Jaime, and talking about Grandma. I looked up at a huge magnolia tree and saw at least 6 or 8 hummingbirds making figure 8’s about 15 feet over the top of this tree. Then I noticed a cluster of little birds that looked like a tumbleweed rolling across the street as they playfully chased each other. I looked over at Jaime and smiled through tears and said, “Grandma is letting us know she’s okay and she’s happy.” Rest well, Mama and kiss Daddy for me.
