the perfect angel

( circa 2013)

Thank goodness for the return of writing class yesterday. I started this piece there, after we read and discussed Gary Fincke’s essay entitled “All of It,” published in Brevity Magazine last May. What a precious way of processing the passing of my mother-in-law, especially since sadly I won’t be able to be there in person.

The Start of It

Mamaw has a cold. Because she’s been living with conjestive heart failure for many years, we know we can’t simply call it the “common cold,” easily remedied with extra vitamin C and a neti pot. Her rattly cough and a distinct shift from the always-jolly tone in her voice gives us pause, a sense of foreboding. Could this be the time she won’t be able to fight her way out of this? A “common cold” turns into breathing treatments. Breathing treatments turn into a trip to the emergency room. A trip to the emergency room turns into to an admission (both into the hospital, and within ourselves, as we begin to grapple with the reality of what’s happening), and a back and forth between bipap and heated, high-flow oxygen. Admission turns into not wanting to eat. Not wanting to eat turns into snippets of hope when she drinks an Ensure or eats a half a pancake. Snippets of hope turn into Deena’s sister holding up the phone to Mamaw’s ear, so that she can tell her that she loves her big bunches.

A Bit of It

Hospice is called. The hospice nurse says she doesn’t expect her to pass right away, because she has extra reserves. We wonder what that means. Oxygen in her blood? Fat around her body? A stubborn will to live until she’s 90?

A Glimpse of It

The oldest grandchild stands over her grandmother’s body that’s wheezing through the tube that winds around her nose. “You better remember to take off her wedding ring before you bury her,” she spits out. Jaws hit the floor and everyone is shocked into silence. I guess there are many ways to grieve, I remind myself when I hear about this.

Some of It

“She’s not going to pass any time soon” turns into “We don’t expect her to make it through the night.” All in the span of one day. Days and possibly weeks turn into hours, minutes, moments. “I love you big bunches” turns into “It’s okay to go.”

More of It

The phone rings. She’s gone. Gut-punches and heartbreaks mix with relief that she’s no longer suffering. Emotions are kept on a tight reign as we scurry to buy Deena a plane ticket and funeral shoes. Shit. Damn logistics. Deena’s trapped in an emotional paralysis. I cry for both of us. Another day passes and I kiss my love goodbye in the airport lobby. I coax her through a rental car debacle. I listen to her practice the Andrea Gibson poem she plans to read at the funeral. I wonder if I can stretch out of my profound exhaustion and beyond a snowy forecast to drive the nine hours to be there. It feels unconscionable to not be there. Can I forgive myself?

The Rest of It

Nancy, a.k.a. Mamaw, a.k.a. Ma Broglin taught the third grade for many years. She was loved by her students so much that two of them insisted on being her nurse in assisted living. She had dreams of becoming an opera singer. The closest she came was singing in the church choir and singing to her daughters. She was always thinking of others. Selfless to a fault even, spending her days in a log cabin in the boonies so that her husband could live out his dream, even if it led to bouts of her own depression. She lit up when they’d take their airstream on adventures to see the country and connect with friends and family. She lit up when her whole family would gather around her table for holiday meals comprised of brocolli and ritz cracker casserole and jello salad. She lit up with the birth of every grandchild and great grandchild. She had a knack for telling dirty jokes that left us in stitches and had us questioning, “Did that really just come out of her mouth?” When she laughed, it was like she was a giggling child, equal parts innocence and wisdom. She loved hummingbirds— the perfect reflection of the joy she embodied. She was a harbinger of forgiveness. She gave her heart completely to her family up until her very last breath, and always ended her nightly phone calls with Deena with “I love you big bunches.”

Sadly I haven’t seen Mamaw since this photo was taken (it’s complicated), but this is how I will always remember her.