New Beginnings

I wish you could have all been there in the hours after our mother passed. Gwennie and I went downstairs to be engulfed by our family in a huge group hug. My mother had always said that her "perfect possibility" at the time of her death would have been to see all her siblings, her father, and have her brother-out-law Eric play the guitar. Sure enough, she saw every sibling yesterday (one via speaker phone, who she'd seen Wednesday), had a few hours of quiet time with her father, and a concert by Eric. Not a half hour before she passed away, the only sibling she hadn't seen yet that day sat at her bedside.

Yesterday feels surreal, almost as if one week was compressed into a day. I watched her breathing patterns change and maybe it was because I'm a nurse, maybe it's because I'm her daughter, or a combination of the two, but somehow I knew we wouldn't be spending another night in the family room. Gwennie took some time with her, just the two of them, while Matthew and I roamed the campus so I could fill my lungs with some cold fresh air. When I returned to my mother's room with one of her sisters, her breathing changed. Slower and deeper. We gave her morphine, we repositioned her, but somehow she was different. Not uneasy, but mechanical. Her spirit and soul had left her body, and with her sweet nurse Laurel, we prepared that this could be her time. Our wonderful Susan Eastman entered to visit at this time, but it was clear she was changing. It is a scary moment, because you just want to optimize her comfort and relieve any distressing symptoms. Laurel helped us turn her on her side and lay her flat to help promote easy breathing. I supported her head with my arm around her back and my other hand holding her face. Gwennie wrapped herself around her waist with her head in her lap, and Paul sat beside her on the bed saying words of encouragement and helping administer morphine as needed. It was amazing, because when we got her comfortable, her breathing immediately became slow, gentle, and almost inaudible. I'll never know if she really said to me, "I want to go," or if I just heard it in my head, but the next thing I knew I said, "you can. Breathe easy." And with support and words of encouragement whispered from all around her, she passed before Laurel even came back to the room. Just like that, she was gone.

The moments after are indescribable. The feeling of loss and sorrow cuts so deep and sharp, and yet you almost feel weightless because years and months of wondering, anticipation, and preparation have just come to an end.

Friends and family came, paid their respects, and sat with her. Gwennie crawled right up next to her and put her head right on her shoulder. Even after, she lent her girls support. To see Gwennie, comfortable, calm, soaking up this opportunity to be at peace with our mother's death, warmed my heart and I knew in an instant that we would be okay. My grandfather stood at the end of her bed and said, "Bon voyage, ma pousse," meaning, "good travels, little flee," which is a very common term of endearment.

When the funeral home came to pick her up an hour or two later, Gwennie, myself, my Aunt Coco, and Uncle Tommy walked with her to the elevators. As we crossed the balcony with all of our family below us, they let out cheers and applause. Just when you think, "oh maybe walking through the halls with my deceased mother might be a little scary," you're met with love, joy, and celebration. And it didn't end there...

Perhaps the most tender thing I witnessed yesterday was getting off the elevator and seeing my Uncle Peter and my 9 year old cousin Stephan standing there waiting for us. Mom was beautifully snuggled under a red, blue, and green quilt with only her flawless and peaceful face exposed. As we rolled by, Stephan just watched, and said, "I'm going to miss Aunt Babette." And slowly from around the corner the troops came marching in: her siblings Nicky, Peter, Claude, Natalie, Caroline, and Stephanie, along with our outlaws Tommy, Eric, and Kimberly, cousins Emily, Kip, Stephanie, and Stephan, our dear grandfather Bernard, precious friends Tom V., Lissa, and Matthew- the lined the way towards the door, giving kisses and good-byes. I couldn't help but sob, because Mom would have so loved that. She was the one who always set the example to us in times like these, that death doesn't have to be scary. It doesn't have to be frightening, or hidden, or protected from youth. It is natural and something we'll all be touched by at some point. She'd set such an example to us, and in turn we were able to thank her with the most flawless, spontaneous, and organic farewell ever imagined.

Gwennie and I walked her out and gave her final kisses once she was safely snuggled in the car. I've never been so proud to be part of my family as I was in that moment.

The night went on with a delicious dinner at Eric and Natalie's in to the early hours of the morning. Afterwards with full bellies, warms hearts, and swollen eyes, we got a good night's sleep. Today we'll have brunch with our family and then head back to McLean around change of shift, so we can pack up her room and say thank you to both the day and evening staff for all they've done for us.

A memorial is tentatively scheduled for a week from yesterday, Saturday, December 19th at The Universalist Church in West Hartford, Conn with a reception to follow for all. More details to come.

This is hardly the end of the blog. In many ways, our journey is just beginning.