A BEAUTIFUL DAY IN SPRING

The sun was beautiful today, and the sky a perfect blue laden with fluffy white clouds. Though the wind is changing and autumn's recent arrival grows more obvious each day with the changing leaves, the sky reminded me of a beautiful day in spring...the day my Mother died.

It was 5:30am when I arrived at the hospital on Monday, May 22nd. I had slept the night at Mom's house with my husband and children. I hadn't seen them for several weeks, having returned to Richmond again to be with Mom as she fought to recover. I had urged my husband to come down quickly the day before, having noticed a change in Mom. I wasn't sure how much longer she could hold on. She was fading and talking about moving on. At times she would lift her arms towards the ceiling in a motion of praise, reaching...reaching...her eyes closed.

"What do you see?", my brother Troy and I had asked her that Friday before.

"I see birds...trees...clouds...hairstyles," she told us.

She would later add, "I'm not worried anymore. God has been good to me. He made me and He knows what's best."

We hated to hear her talk like this. We would scold her gently, reminding her to fight, to hold on just a little while longer while her body fought off the infection she had contracted in the hospital; reminding her to hold on while her heart rate settled down, while her lungs cleared up, while her liver relieved itself of excess fluids. We were certain that she would make a turn-around if we could just make it through the next few days with no set-backs. She had, after all, shown small but promising signs of improvement. And though the odds were against her, she was a fighter. She'd always been a fighter. She had pulled through before.

Yet even in our desperate hoping, wishing, praying, expecting, we were deeply aware that Mom was fighting an uphill battle. And she was getting tired. Though our minds wanted to fight what our eyes could see and our hearts could feel, my brother and I began to summon family and friends early Sunday morning to say what we feared would be their last goodbyes.

It had hurt me deeply to leave her Sunday night. I had slept in her room for most of that last week, afraid to leave her side, afraid to take my eyes off of her vital signs, watching every second to ensure that she was getting enough oxygen; that her heart rate was stable, and to assure her that she wasn't alone. We held hands, fell asleep together, talked as much as her body would allow, smiled, and sat in silence at times satisfied just to be together. My brothers and I would exchange phone calls by the hour. They had to work and depended on my calls to assure them that she was o.k. until they could arrive to see for themselves. The thought of leaving her overnight, even just for one night; even to be with my children who had called daily to ask when I was coming home, was unbearable.

The nurses had tried all week to get me to go home, to get a good night's sleep in a comfortable bed. They insisted that Mom was fine in my absence and that they were doing everything to ensure her comfort. What they didn't understand was that there would be no comfort for me until the day she walked out of the hospital with my brothers and I, headed home to her own bed, her own house, her own food, and later on to Maryland with me to get back to living.

I gave in to the nurse's advice only because of my children. My youngest refused to leave the hospital without me. My eldest daughter had left a tearful message on my cell phone just days before. And my sons could not stop showering me with kisses and hugs urging me stay with them for one evening. I reluctantly succumbed to their pleadings. They had all seen Mom, bringing a smile to her face. She could not speak to them, but she could see them, touch them, hear them. We had to force them away from her bedside. They wanted Grandma to stay forever. I left with them, unsure of the decision I had made, stricken with worry. Would she awaken in search of me? Would she awake afraid and alone? Would she pass on suddenly in the night? I was a nervous wreck.

It was a sleepless night. I tossed and turned. I called the hospital every hour for an update. She was o.k. I would eventually fall asleep only to awake at 2am as I had for several nights in a row. I called again. She was ok. This was the time Mom would typically awaken each night. I would hear her stir, her legs moving in slow motion to reposition themselves under the weight of her sheets and blanket. She would whisper to the nurse, "Where is Lisa?"

"She's right there in the chair Ms. Peyton," the nurse would reply.

"I'm right here mom...I'm right here."

"Oh...ok," mom would whisper back.

"Where is Patrick?"

"He's at work. He'll be back tomorrow."

"Oh."

"Where's Troy?"

"He was just here a little while ago, remember? He'll be back in the morning."

"Alright."

She wanted nothing else than to know where her children were. She would soon drift back to sleep.

The extended stay in the hospital and the nature of her condition had interrupted Mom's sense of space and time. Her sleep was sporadic and she had no idea of the day or time. There were no windows in her room. She had been placed in isolation in the intensive care unit because of the infection. I'd tell her every hour what time it was and describe the weather outside. It had been unusually beautiful for several days. I would describe the blue sky, how bright the sun was, how beautiful her yard looked when I'd run home to take a shower. How Troy had mowed the lawn perfectly, and how the trees were blooming. Mom loved her yard.

"Really?", she would ask me with a gentle smile of such innocent amazement.

"Yes mama. It's beautiful. Wait 'til you see it."

"Hmmh", she would sigh back.
I made it through the night rising instinctively at 5am. I called the hospital to check on mom, and rushed to awaken my family. It was time to get back to the hospital. My brothers would be meeting me there no later than 6am. Mom had taken a turn in the early morning. Her heart rate was unstable, her breathing more belabored, and her white cell count rising--a sign that the infection was not responding to treatment. She was unable to breathe on her own. She was tired.

We didn't know what else to do but to pray and to hold on to each other. We surrounded Mom's bed that morning, clasping her hands for dear life, whispering words of love in her ear, praying prayers, reading her favorite scriptures and waiting for something, any small sign of hope; hoping for a miracle. Family members called; some, congregated in the waiting room breathlessly awaiting word. Any word. The hospital Chaplain was called by the Supervising Physician. We knew what this meant. We were paralyzed with fear and disbelief at the thought of losing Mom, holding on to hope.

The hours passed. The morning reached noonday. A perfect peace had overtaken Mom's room despite the agony that we were experiencing. I sensed that there were others present in the room; others that we could not see. I envisioned heavenly hosts that I had read of in the Bible, and my grandmother, and great-grandmother, and my Uncle Charles, Mom's beloved brother who had passed years before, were all present, and standing around us encircling her bed. I had felt this for several days, having seen Mom stare with eager prolonged glances into the corner of her room as though she had seen a familiar face.

"What do you see?", I had asked her only days before. She would continue to look, but did not answer me.

What would happen over the next 20 minutes would change me forever. I stood next to Mom in the stillness of her room holding her hand in mine. My brothers had left the room; my younger brother Patrick overtaken by grief; my older brother to go after him and to console my niece and sister-in-law who were overwhelmed with the thought of the inevitable.

All of the loud, invasive beeps and clicks of the various machines surrounding her bed seemed to fall silent. I had heard them for weeks, months, often to great frustration. But I could hear nothing now. Nothing but the sound of Mom's soft breathing. It was calmer today than it had been for weeks. Amazingly, she could still hear me, though unable to speak back, unable to open her eyes. It was as though she was suspended in a semi-conscious sleep, a dream state. I asked her if she could hear me. She moved her head ever so slightly to indicate yes.

I told her how much I loved her. How much Patrick & Troy loved her. How each of her sisters and brother loved her. I rubbed her arms and face. I kissed her forehead and cheeks. I told her everything was going to be all right. My brother walked in to say something...I cannot remember. He stayed for a few moments, and said that he would be right back. He went to find Patrick. We knew the end was near.

I leaned close to mom's ear and began to sing to her. She had begged me for years to join a church choir and sing again as I had as a child and teen in our home church. She loved two songs the most; "I'm Still Holding On", and "Amazing Grace"--her ultimate favorite. I sang the first. I noticed that her breathing slowed. I then began to sing Amazing Grace. The nurse entered when I was halfway through. She was saying something to me, with alarm in her eyes. I realized seconds later that she was asking if she should call my brothers back to the room. Mom was leaving us. I hadn't noticed the tumbling vital signs on the monitor over her bed. I kept singing. I said my last "I love you", and kissed my last kiss.

A moment later Mom released her last breath. I could almost see it--like a translucent ball--as it blew softly and squarely into my face like a sweet caress. I was startled at what I had seen, and immediately overcome by wells of tears and cries that I could no longer silence. I had tried hard not to cry loudly in Mom's presence in fear of upsetting or scaring her. But I had no more control. The sobs came, and came, and came as Troy ran into the room. We stood there beside her holding one another up--keeping the other from caving in. The pain was overwhelming, the sadness insurmountable.

My brothers and I stood there for a long while consoling one another, trying to grasp what had happened. Even in her lifelessness, she was our mother, our teacher, our protector, our source. We didn't want to leave her. We didn't want her to leave us. We didn't know what to do next but to stand and keep breathing.

My eldest sister Gisele joined us. She had come quickly after receiving my father's call just an hour earlier. We had exchanged calls and prayers daily. She had come by on several occasions to check on mom. We had all been hopeful together. Though she was Mom’s step-daughter, she too loved Mom deeply. Their relationship had grown over the years, and Mom would secretly tell her to look out for me, for Patrick, and to check in on Troy from time to time. Not one of us could believe that she was gone.

We stood there until the nurses made us leave. We uttered a few words...nurses handed us paperwork...the questions began to come about final arrangements. We were exhausted, but there were logistics to think of...plans to be made...people to call...things to do. We dispersed with plans to meet again later at Mom's house to grapple with what had happened and what needed to happen next.

When I left the hospital that day, I was amazed even in my grief. There was movement, sound, life all around. There were beautiful clouds in the crystal blue sky, the green leaves of beautiful trees rustling in the breeze, and birds singing in flight...perhaps like the ones Mom had seen and spoke of in the stillness of her room.I sat on a bench in silence for a while in my husband's embrace, our children surrounding me, aware of a beauty and a grace even in this moment of unbearable loss. I wondered if others could sense it. I wondered if others knew that a great woman had passed on; if they knew of the gift she had been to the world; if they knew that God had opened up heaven's gates to receive her beautiful soul. I wondered if they knew that she was responsible for the beauty of this day.

It had been dim in Mom's room in those last and final hours.But the sun was beautiful that afternoon--like today--and the sky a perfect blue laden with fluffy white clouds. This was the day my Mother died, and the day she breathed new life into me and into the lives of all she touched.