Thursday 16 June 2005

Some people shave their heads to mark the passing of someone they love. I borrowed a Greek Orthodox Church ritual, and put a fresh glass of water on the windowsill each day. I imagine Mom's spirit comes for a drink for 40 days. It is strangely helpful to think of her each day in this small way.

Wednesday 15 June 2005

In one week, the boys will be done school and the packing and cleaning will begin. Aside from our clothing and my computer, I will have to fit my bass guitar in and several boxes of "sundries" — those material goods that keep coming to me, no matter what. Like the box above, and many other items that have assembled around me and I'd like to take home. Like one of the vases that came with a flower arrangement after Mom "stepped out," and her accordion! Yes, I am getting to keep her accordion! Not that I can play it. Not that it IS playable, as the keys stick. But I don't care. She kept it for many years in storage even after it couldn't be played anymore, so I figure it meant something to her. She didn't allow it to be thrown away. Maybe I can find someone to fix it, and who knows, maybe someone will learn to play it. At the very least if I have it, and it's working, one day a visitor will pick it up and squeeze out a tune. And won't that be great? I think so.

Meanwhile, back on the farm, my poor Scottie is looking around our little house, packed to the rafters, and wondering how on earth he is going to fit me back in there.

  Tuesday 14 June 2005

~ my $1 garage sale find ~

June 13, 2005
Best little dollar spent at a garage sale in ages.

  June 11, 2005, Sunday 10 a.m.

Thursday 9 June 2005
11 a.m.

Scott left yesterday. I would not have done so well through the end days, and afterward, if he had not been here. Now I will have the space to grapple with what has happened.

I thought I would be crying long into the nights, keening and snotting. Instead I have only short bouts of tears that, although deep and painful, are not as overwhelming as expected. I don't know if that's because Scott has been here to distract me along with all the other things that needed doing — the tea, sorting through Mom's closets, fabrics and sewing notions — or because I have done most of my grieving during the past year (my despair was over what Mom was suffering or might suffer, more than fear of losing her), or because Mom is here in spirit so it doesn't really seem like she's gone.

Karen and I both plan to head for home around the 27th; I will be stopping in Edmonton to leave the boys with Gord, visit Shelly overnight, and spend the Wild Women's Weekend (July long) with Cathy and Janie and the gals. Then home the Monday or Sunday before Mom's memorial on the 7th in Margo. Should you wish to attend, the boys' bunkbeds will be available and I have a big new tent that has never been used.

I am looking forward to getting back to the farm. It will be hard to leave our little Joanie, and I will worry about Dad for the next year even though he is strong and healthy, but I will not be sorry to say goodbye to the city or the mountains. They've treated me well, but the Saskatchewan sky and wildflowers and my walks give me peace and rest like no other place.

This morning I dropped Everett off at school and then went to Dad's for coffee. Spent a couple hours there and came home for breakfast; now to put in a few hours working. Scott will be driving through Saskatoon today; maybe he'll catch you at home.

I am doing fine. Maybe I am kidding myself and will yet be hit hard; surely there will be moments of intense emotion in the months to come. But right now I feel, though shaken to the core, also surprisingly strengthened.

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My beautiful mom, Grace Johnson, died at home on May 27, 2005 at 12:23 p.m. with Dad on one side, holding her hand, me on the other, and Aunt Reta and my brother and sisters all around her bed.

We will be forever grateful that Mom's beloved sister Reta was there for her and for us. What a difference that made to Mom's last days! She could not have been taken better care of or more lovingly sent off. Thank you, Reta. Thank you, thank you, and thank you again.

Monday 23 May 2005
11:06 pm

Dad buzzed me through the main gate last night. Bill Richardson was on CBC radio; there was talk of ice cream, so I parked my van and sat listening, because Mom loves ice cream. She has eaten it virtually every day for some years.

Queen Victoria was the person who popularized it, apparently. She liked ice cream so much, the dish became a favourite in England. There is a book coming out called Cool and it is all about ice cream.

More interesting stuff followed, and I was enjoying it so much I didn't want to go in, but to hear more. So I sat and listened until I saw Dad coming across the parking lot with a questioning look, wondering why I hadn't come up yet. I had forgotten he'd be expecting me immediately.

It was a great radio show (it's Bill Richardson, after all; one expects nothing less. That man is fabulously entertaining) but I didn't sit in my vehicle till the end. I listened until he played a song that included the words "hokey pokey man" and it did not keep my attention. Even though it was somehow connected to ice cream lore.

***

Gorgeous full moon out there tonight.

***

You are waiting to hear about Mom.
From the foot of her bed, I gave her a huge bright smile, and she gave me one back.

***

She looks very ill; but when I am not with her, I am in my mind's eye seeing her face smiling and healthy. It is almost peculiar, as if ... well I don't know how to explain it. It is as sharp as a snapshot, yet not one I recall ever seeing.

Before I left (one of the three or more times I was there today), I leaned in and kissed her cheek and said "I sure love you, Mom."

"That I know," she said, and dipped into sleep.

***

Cameron has arrived from Edmonton.

***

I might go to Mom's bedside tomorrow, and not leave it unless she kicks me out. She has been doing that today; telling us she wants to be left alone to sleep. We obey.

Mom and Dad's house has been Grand Central Station for several days. It is busy, but feels as right as it is possible for anything to feel right, these days. Mom's children and grandchildren are coming and going; her brother and sister are there; nurses and home care aides are daily in and out; and of course, Dad.

Friends and family are phoning all day; my god, a lot of people care about Mom and Dad.

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Sunday 22 May 2005
11:27 pm

What I foolishly did not foresee when I arranged these vocal workshops for the ugly sisters is that now that we know some of the same songs, we have no excuse not to sing together when we are asked. And who would ask us? Our mother, of course, so we cannot say no.

A week ago she was here with Joan’s mother-in-law and Aunt Reta, and requested we sing.

“Oop, I’ll be going then!” Dad said, jumping up and heading for the kitchen door. We wondered why some of our menfolk want to run away when we commence singing. Is it that terrible to listen to? But Mom didn’t puzzle over it for more than a few moments.

“They must feel inferior,” she pronounced, perfectly serious.

Oh Mom -- you crack me up.

This Sunday, things are looking very different than they did one short week ago. Last night I looked at Mom laying in her bed, took her frail hand in mine, and for the first time since this ordeal began one year ago, thought -- knew -- "She is going to die; soon. It's really going to happen."

Today, she is even weaker than she was yesterday. I go over several times a day, talk to her a bit, but not a lot. I cover her, uncover her. Sit by her feet, with my hands on her shins, and look out the window, then back at her, then out the window again. Rub lotion into her swollen feet and the hand that is easy to get at; into her arm where the skin is so dry; gently smoothe cream onto her face; apply lip balm to her dry lips. Her response is barely noticeable, but she knows I am there and perhaps is comforted by my touch, as she has always been except for the times she had too much pain to stand it.

Her eyes flicker open when my aunt, here from Saskatchewan, walks up to Mom's bed. "Hi Rosie," she says, then her eyes close again. She was surprisingly responsive to the palliative-care nurse too; greeted her by name and answered all her questions. The rest of us, we are like constant fixtures I guess, so she doesn't wake up for us the same way. She did perk up, though was unable to speak, when Trinket was brought into the bedroom in her daddy's arms; how she loves that little girl.

My brother Cameron was to come on Saturday; he has been called to come sooner. Karen's husband and Scott are preparing to drive out as soon as they can organize to get away from their farming responsibilities ... which neither can really do without concern at the heavier workload they leave with their partners ... but they are both doing their damnedest. Fortunately they have partners willing to step up to the plate. But, I told Scott, take enough time to get ready to leave, and Karen and I will prop each other up if need be, till you get here. We'll manage.

Rivers of tears, that's all. In my case, anyway. When I'm alone; not so much when anyone is around. I manage to keep myself under control, sometimes with painful effort. Mostly. So far. It won't last.

I am avoiding going to bed, because that's where the tears start and don't stop. Can't put it off much longer though; might as well bite the bullet.

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* ~ ~ ~ ~ from the balcony, a beautiful storm ~ ~ ~ ~ *

Friday 20 May 2005
12:26 pm

Imagine, giving myself the entire day without going anywhere besides the school. I can get my work done and follow up on countless other details of daily life: bill payments, kitchen cleanup, and so forth. They all require time, time! Then, later in the day when I usually feel like going out I’ll drive over to Mom and Dad’s and make them some baking powder biscuits. Mom always likes those and so do we all. And it’s something I can DO instead of just wishing there was something I could do.

*%*%*%*%*

Skaterina is a woman who lives in Utah. I have never met her, so it must be her mind that I like. She knows a lot of interesting stuff.

I'm not sure she mentions it in her journal, but she is in her seventies and lives in a round adobe house. She must be a fabulous cook, to hear her talk about food and its preparation. She is the Georgia O'Keefe of food images in my mind.

Skaterina's entries are short and sweet; I can jump over to her journal when I have "only one more minute" before moving toward my daily demands.

Read her for yourself.

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