This is not a memorial for my Mom. I've already spoken of my Mom's beauty and grace, and my brothers both did her far more justice than I could have. On October 28th at 10:45 Beverly Rae Bragg, my mother, went to be with her blessed savior. I've written about my Mom's impending death on at least three or four occasions in this blog. Since my last blog, things went downhill rather quickly. I didn't know how it would affect me, and to be honest, I didn't really want to know. I've always tried to tie my thoughts into the sparrows that inhabit my yard, but I can't do it this time. I didn't realize how deeply her passing would affect me, and it has taken me a couple of weeks to get my breath. I've had lots of family members pass during my 66 years on this earth, but I'd been blessed to have my Mom and Dad with me well into my sixties. I hate it when we say we've lost someone in our lives, because I didn't lose my Mom. She went to be with Jesus, and her passing didn't happen alone.
It was a privilege to be with her as she passed this vale. Her long battle with dementia was difficult to watch, especially because she'd been the brightest light of all of us. Watching her light slowly fade to dementia was my greatest heartache. In the end, death seemed a welcome end to the pain she'd endured.
As I wrote in my last blog, my mother's condition resulted in her having to be put in a Rehab center at a local nursing home. I have nothing against Nursing Homes, but they aren't the answer for some people. Momma was one of those people. Because she'd always been a people person all of her life, we assumed that it would be a wonderful place for her to meet, and make new friends. Boy, were we wrong. Despite her dementia, she retained her pride, and need to be self sufficient. She refused to eat in the dining area, and slowly diminished before our eyes. At the end of her rehab, it was obvious that we'd done her a disservice. Our intentions were good, but you know what they say about good intentions.
We took her home at the end of her rehab,and to be honest, I didn't know what to expect when someone died. I'm reluctant to say I was spared that sorrow for most of my life, because being with my mother in her last moments was a privilege. Even though the stages of death are well documented, and explained on many websites, each person is different. My mother began stage 1 almost from the moment we took her out of the rehabilitation center on August 27th. A week later, her kidneys began to fail, eventually she lost her appetite. She wouldn't eat but a couple of bites of food at first, and then sometimes not at all. For the longest of time her favorite meal was a Snickers bar and an unending supply of Coca Cola. Go figure! We would do everything to coax her to eat to no avail. Both of my brothers came to visit her, and both times she drew upon some inner strength to be there for them. Still, she refused to eat. Her caregivers tried everything, but she had no interest in food. Then mystery upon mystery, she would get busy at night and we'd find her on the floor every morning. Next to her we'd find the empty wrappers of snickers bars she'd found in the night. Of the many things I learned about dying, I learned, you can't force your loved one to eat, and you can't keep them in the bed. Her kidneys were failing, and there was nothing we could do. That's when the Doctor put her into hospice care.
I'm glad we did it. Hospice allowed her to remain at home and finish her days with dignity. It is hard for me to talk about her last days without mentioning myself. It is my eyes that saw her waste away to 78 pounds. It was my ears that heard her ask the same questions over and over again. It was my heart that felt the intractable hand of death move me aside and take her away from me. I counted it a privilege to sit next to her and hold her hand as she moved back and forth in her tug of war with death. I wouldn't trade the last three months of her life for all the money in the world.
Every day I would walk the halls of her memories, feeling her joy at my birth, the love for my Dad, and understanding the amazing love she felt for my two brothers. Although the dementia had stolen her short term memory, her long term memories were intact. Most of all, I was able to ask forgiveness for all the pain I'd caused her through the years. There are things that are best left to follow us into the grave, and things that should be dealt with before we leave. If this blog does one thing, I hope it will encourage you to go to your loved ones, and let them know how much you love them and what you appreciate about them. In Mom's case, we laughed at some of the stupid things I'd done, and at some of the crazy antics she did when I was a little child. She never knew how much I loved some of her idiosyncrasies until I told her.
Sunday, October 23rd, she slipped into stage two of dying. She stopped eating altogether, and her voice became frail. She couldn't swallow, which meant she couldn't have her cokes. It was my turn to talk to her instead of with her.
Monday and Tuesday, On Monday morning, her hospice nurse stood outside with me and informed me that Mom was in stage two and it wouldn't be long. I heard my Mom on the other side of the door say "It's not nice to whisper." I went back inside and told her we were just discussing her condition. "I heard you." she said. Which busted me into tears. Of all the things that failed her, her hearing was not one of them. I called all of the close family and told them that she was not long for this earth. My daughter Amy, a registered nurse, had been her constant companion for over 3 months. She would drive all the way from Springfield, Missouri to spend the afternoons with her grandma. It wasn't as a nurse that she came to see her. Amy would sit and crochet an afghan blanket for her mother, while my Mom would ask every day who she was making it for. Amy would tell her she was making it for her Momma, but it was obvious that Mom was hoping it was going to be hers. Amy got to talk to her about things I didn't dare bring up. The two of them shared secrets I wouldn't dare ask about. When Mom began to fail, I could see my daughter's anger rise at the cruelty of death. It is one thing to be a nurse in a cardiac wing and quite another to let your beloved grandmother step into the waiting arms of her savior. By Tuesday night, everything was failing. Family were desperately trying to get away to hopefully make it there in time to say goodbye to her. Stage two can last for weeks, or hours, in Mom's case it only lasted for two days. Her Hospice doctor prescribed a Comfort pack. Which I won't explain, but it is a final step in the care of a dying loved one.
Wednesday! The day before she left will always be etched in my mind. When I arrived Wednesday morning I thought we'd been given a reprieve. A thin unforced smile worked it's way across her face. Everything was bright, and she giggled about the silliest things. My wife, and daughter, along with her home care provider, Susan, spent the entire morning laughing, and joking. Her voice was weak but her mind, and body had rallied one last time. It was the most lucid I'd seen her in a long time. In the face of 86 years of unconditional love, I saw her as Christ saw her. His lovely daughter, innocent, and full of life. About 2 pm, she slipped into stage three. We administered the first dose of pain reliever to take the edge off of her passing. My daughter Amanda arrived shortly after midnight Thursday morning, and took up residence by her head. I held her hand occasionally, but by that time her limbs were locking up.
Thursday! It was a dreary, wet morning. I thought of Psalm 116 where it says 'precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of His saints. O Lord, truly I am your servant, the child of your maidservant; you have freed me from my chains. She passed this vale with Amy playing her favorite hymns on her phone, while Amanda read Psalms to her. I'd stepped outside to help my son-in-law set up their travel trailer when Amanda came running outside to tell me that she thought Mom was passing. I ran in just after she'd taken her last breath. I'm told that she took two quick breaths, and left us. That picture of my two daughters sobbing over their beloved grandmother will forever be etched in my mind. She walked from love to love. I'm glad they were there.
Sparrows can't feel this depth of grief, and I can't expect science to make sense of it. I do know that I was unable to stop touching her lifeless hand. They were beautiful hands! These were the hands that bathed me as an infant, changed my diapers, held me up as I took my first steps, and often cradled my face as she declared her love and pride in me. I will be forever grateful to God for allowing me to be there as she went to Him. I will forever remember her beautiful hands that held my aching heart as tears splashed over them. She will always be that gentle sparrow to me. Gentle and kind, loving, and good.
