A son and an idiot…

My mother passed away two years ago this week, and since today’s letter to Ellen and Reid won’t be posted until later, I was planning on a re-run (there’s not many of those in this space) of the final Sept. 2011 letter to mom. She could not read it and I doubt it was ever read to her but it was important to me to create and mail it.

But none of the letters to her – save a couple of Mother‘s Day notes – could be found. They were in a special folder, and that folder is gone. I feel like a complete idiot for letting this piece of my past slip away. In its stead, Ellen and Reid got one final, grandma-centric note the week before she passed away. Here it is.


September 26, 2011

Ellen/Reid: The phone was with me all weekend in the event the call would come about your grandmother.  Usually the phone is set to vibrate or silent, but this time the volume was turned up.  I find myself with this increasing sense that combines doom, inevitability and sadness.  Not a very good combination of three things.  I worry about your grandmother and what is going through her mind during these days.  What is she thinking (if she can think)?  What bothers me the most is that she is alone.  Your uncle is there often enough, but she’s still alone.  That is the big thing; she is there and I am here, leaving her to fend for herself, no one there to give her comfort as often as she needs it or could certainly use it.  It doesn’t give a very good feeling as a son to not be there with his mom.  For all these past weeks I’ve thought I would be pretty stoic about things but last night it just began to hit me that her end will come and I won’t be there to at least hold her hand.

I was not there at the end, but I was there shortly beforehand. It's been two years now since that final bit of comfort for my mother.

I was not there at the end, but I was there shortly beforehand. It’s been two years now since that final bit of comfort for my mother.

That must be the guilt part of it seeping through.  I’m not sure what she would vocalize about it.  She’s had a rough last few years and now I second guess myself about not getting out there more often, especially over the summer once I knew her condition was slipping very rapidly.  It just makes me feel pretty shitty about things.  Now, there’s no going back and trying to make amends all over again.  There is no time.  Instead I’m down here playing golf and lolling around when I could be up there to help her out in her final moments.  It just makes me angry to think about my negligence.  The final good byes from a few weeks ago just aren’t enough.  I’m just not handling it was well as could be done.  I told John about my misgivings and doubts, and he assured me there was no right or wrong way to handle such situations, especially if the person (your grandmother) has a diminished capacity to recognize us or anyone else.  That was comforting to some degree.

The obituary is my responsibility and there’s been almost no progress on it.  In fact it hasn’t even been started.  There’s been not a lot of thinking put toward it.  It most certainly won’t be as long as your grandfather’s but when the time comes I’ll put my full creative juices into it.  Usually there’s no problem in at least mentally piecing together items like this but now there’s a big case of writer’s block.  I don’t know how to start it out and what the middle and ending parts will be.  What do you say about your mother that you haven’t already thought about on your own?  We’re about to find out.  Ralph and Gayle will most certainly edit it so I have to take that into account.  Obituaries aren’t for the family but for the circle of friends.  I’ve been looking at some in the paper here in Charlotte but there’s just no feel for how it should come together.

Someone mentioned a few days ago that when his mother passed away, he told his sister that now the two of them, both in their 60s, were orphans.  That was an interesting way to look at things even at their age.  There’s some truth to it.  Not that it applies to either of you because you’ve been on your own for quite a while and have made you own ways, admirably so, but when your grandmother passes there won’t be a final lifeline for advice and counsel any more.  That will all be gone, just as it does for every generation.  Not to be morbid about it, but these are just the things you think about, it seems to me, when the torch is passed.  The flame doesn’t go out but it’s instead just handed off to whomever comes next.

The phone will remain on high volume for however much time it takes for this unhappy predicament to pass.  You might stay on alert for at least a text message that a call is about to come your way.  The rest of the planning is already underway, but the call will be your sign that the plan is being put to use.


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Filed under Writing to adult children

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