www.stephanieyoungrosen.com
When Dad and Mom moved to Tucson, I vowed to visit every month. Little did I know how short-lived this promise would be: on my fourth visit, Dad died, and on this, my sixth, Mom is following. So while the fourth and sixth visits (the “deathbed vigils”) will forever be anchored in my heart, it is the unsuspecting fifth visit that stands out as equally special. I plan it around the visit of my favorite cousin on Dad’s side, Gary, and his wife Jill. They are coming out to Tucson to visit Jill’s aging parents. Gary reminds me of Dad: incredibly kind, very funny, super smart, uber successful, and, like Dad, doesn’t talk a lot, but when he says something, you listen. I need Gary and Jill’s visit as something to look forward to: a rose among thorns, a port in this storm of grief. Observing Mom’s dramatic decline has been hard. In October, the Head Caregiver in the Memory Ward returns from a two-week vacation and tells me she is shocked to see how fast Mom has spiraled, both mentally and physically in the month since Dad’s death. Mom has trouble sitting upright, and will often talk about Dad as if he is living, or even more unsettling, talk to Dad, as if he is in the room. After 56 years of marriage, Mom does not want to live without him. So lunch with Gary and Jill is a spark of joy, a gift. With them living on Beacon Hill in Boston and me in the Northeast sector of Albuquerque, what are the odds that we should be meeting in Tucson? It feels like Dad should be with us, and just a few weeks earlier he would have been. This is an empty feeling I realize that will unexpectedly hit me for the rest of my life, one that I don’t think I’ll ever get over. Dad adored Gary, and Gary mentions twice how Dad was his favorite uncle. At the end of the lunch, I am oddly excited about Dad’s funeral mass in Hingham next summer, knowing that Gary and his brother Paul have committed to being there. I sense the way to navigate this lifelong void will be through strengthening connections, like those with Gary and Jill. I am grateful for this revelation: this beacon of light. The next day, I put a sunhat on Mom and take her outside. There is a tree-filled courtyard decorated with an archway of purple, orange and black balloons for Halloween. A man quietly strums his guitar in the corner. As the sun heats up, balloons start to pop. Then aids wheel out other residents. It is a concert, for which we unexpectedly have great seats. The weather is finally Arizona perfect, this being October 29th. A slight breeze caresses us, as the two-man band plays old hits. “Do you take requests?” I venture. “If I can,” he responds. “How about King of the Road?” It’s an old tune Mom and her brother Danny used to sing all the time when we were growing up, one of their favorites. Danny would play the guitar and he and Mom would harmonize. The man plays the tune and Mom, who cannot often remember words when speaking, sings along, word perfect. We sing together, an ode to carefree days, balloons popping in the sun, reminding us that nothing lasts forever. It is our last happy memory together. Mom and I had planned to join Pauline’s family on the Saturday after Thanksgiving for a turkey dinner, but the day after Thanksgiving, hospice puts Mom in the “active dying” category. I arrive Friday afternoon to find her in bed, eyes closed, mouth open. I never see her open her eyes or hear her speak again. Over the next few days, Pauline and I call loved ones to have them say their goodbyes. Although Mom cannot speak and her eyes stay shut, when she hears a familiar voice, sometimes her mouth moves as if she is talking to them, sometimes her face twitches in recognition. Her body confirms that hearing really is the last thing to go. We share with her loved ones many tears, a few laughs: a lifetime of love in these last messages. We say our goodbyes, sing, pray, and cry. Mom is leaving us. By Saturday night, Mom’s breathing is erratic and I agonize over whether to go back to the hotel. I don’t want her to die alone, but after a long and vigilant day, Pauline and I are both exhausted. I stay until 11, Pauline keeps a vigil with her until 2AM. Maybe Mom wants to die alone, not wanting to leave her kids with us there? By 5:30 am on Sunday, I am at her side. At noon, she stops breathing. Then takes a breath. I call Pauline and she rushes over. We notify Jake and he joins us on Facetime. We sob, reminisce, laugh hard. Jake buys a ticket for Tuesday, to come and see her body for the last time. At 3PM, an aide puts a monitor on her finger. Mom is too cold to register a pulse or oxygen level. She stops breathing, and the aide is prepared to call it. It appears that this is it. Try as I might, I don’t feel the presence of Dad, or her parents, or any who have gone before her. Things felt so different when Dad died. Then, Mom takes another breath. This continues until, exhausted, we leave her at 11pm. At 2:30 am on Monday, I awaken in my hotel, knowing it is the time they should be giving her morphine. I don’t want a call telling us she is dead, so I go over to see her. To my surprise, she is still breathing. I talk to her, do yoga, dance, sing, sit quietly. A few hours later, my cousin Jill calls. I hadn’t called Jill because I had been calling Mom’s side of the family, but I am so happy she called. Knowing we had discussed Mom’s decline the month before, I launch into a report of how hospice tells us Mom is breathing only six times a minute at this point, still without a pulse or oxygen reading. She could go momentarily. Jill listens quietly and responds, “I’m sorry to give you more bad news.” I freeze. “Gary died yesterday.” What??!?! No. No. No. No. Even on the heels of Dad’s death, I’ve been bracing myself for Mom to go: “circle of life”, “she had a good run”, “they are together” sort of thing. But Gary??? He was 65. I am reeling: Mom’s life has drained out of her like a leaky bucket from the beach; Gary’s unexpected death is a lightning bolt that hits me so hard I cannot breathe. I am a candle facing a tsunami of grief. This will take me under; wipe me out. When I emerge, whenever and however that is, I know I will be changed. So much has changed. So much loss in this pandemic, even without all the many deaths. Last September, when we moved from Los Angeles because we could no longer afford to live there, we left behind beloved friends and traditions, the ocean, my lifelong dream to write for television. My writing career has been the Red Sox of the 20th century: so close to getting produced so many times, but the timing was off, my manager retired to have kids, the studio that greenlit the show I was on was bought out, the boutique agency that repped me was acquired and my agent jumped ship, the “right” person retired, my writing was optioned but never made, my second agent left the industry….I was unlucky. Upon arriving in New Mexico, I thought of writing a book, except I had kids underfoot at all times, trying to attend virtual school. But really, underneath all the busyness, I realize I am beaten and bruised. I lack the confidence to tackle a book. So what now? I heard, “Baby steps – what baby step can I take?” A blog. With what focus? Wonder, the dust that renders life magical. I google quotes about wonder, and one by E.B. White resonates with me. I will use that as my sign-off to remind myself to stay open to the wonder in life. I write a few entries, and send the blog out to everyone on my email list, asking them to subscribe. Very few do. I get it: we are saturated by news and media and communication. Who has the time? My cousin Gary. Gary, one of Boston’s top financial analysts in biotech, makes the time. Gary, intentional about everything, not only subscribes, but emails me: “White’s one of my favorites. Have you read his essays? You are doing similar things here.” Gary is the only one to comment on E.B. White. No, I tell him, I didn’t know E.B. White wrote essays. I make a mental note to track them down. But I must prep for book groups, and help get kids back online, and do laundry, dishes, dinners, parent-teacher conferences, and further blog posts. Then three weeks later, a book arrives in the mail: “The Essays of E.B. White”. Gary has enclosed a note (customarily short): “Hope you enjoy this. He is such a good writer. You will appreciate it as another good writer.” To be called “a good writer” in the same sentence as E.B. White is simultaneously one of the greatest compliments and challenges I have ever received. I keep the book by my bedside and study it: how does E.B. White describe things? “Good” writing now has a specific lens. Gary continues to respond to every blog I post: short but, thanks to our shared lens, incisive comments. “Another ‘good’ one” or “You really captured the moment in time so nicely.” The moment in time…Through tears that won’t stop, I now study Mom, waxy and grey, but still somehow breathing. Hospice tells me that that there is no biological reason for her to be alive at this point, that she must be hanging on for someone. Who does she need to hear from? We have contacted all of her closest family and friends. We have reminded her that Dad is waiting for her, (and even mention that he never liked to be kept waiting long.) We are exhausted. Yet she lingers on. Then it comes to me: “Jake. She wants Jake here to hug her goodbye. Facetime wasn’t enough.” Jake is still 24 hours away from being here, and it’s unlikely, not to mention inexplicable, that she would still be alive. But I feel certain that she is waiting for her boy to hug her one last time. Against all odds, she perseveres and perseveres. And finally, Jake arrives. And when he is by her side, he hugs her with all his heart. Later that night, her two daughters and son recite the prayers she taught them 50 years ago, when they were babies and she was young and vibrant. For good measure, her kids pause and repeat, “If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take”. She does die before she wakes, not too long after her son’s arrival. But she does not die alone. The text comes in at 4:47 that she slipped away at 4:44. The aids had come in, and finding her still breathing at 4:30, gave her morphine. They start to change her when her arm goes limp, and they know that her spirit has gone. The next day, as we prepare to see her body for the last time, my sister’s dog collapses and must be put to sleep. So much loss. So much heartache. Later that day, too exhausted to drive back to New Mexico, I sit in the hotel room and try to write mom’s obituary. Nothing comes. How to sum up your mother’s life? I do my best, but once written, I sit on her obit for days. I have called those who were most in touch with Mom. I can bring myself to share her death; why can’t I send out her obituary? Then it dawns on me: I don’t want to send out Mom’s obituary on my blog, because the response I will most be looking for will never come. No matter how many blogs I send out, I will never again hear from Gary. I am learning to live with this paradox: it is the empty page, the email that never comes, that can be louder than any replies. This silence is what his amazing Jill and four incredible children must learn to live with, this silence so deafening, so heartbreaking . The day after Mom died, a friend in LA surprises me with a call, telling me she felt moved to send money to help us through this valley. I cannot bring myself yet to mention Gary. I think I am still in shock. I had already sent in my regrets for his funeral, unable to afford the flight. But miraculously, without knowing it, she sends enough money so that I can fly to Boston for Gary's funeral. This - this is love in action, a gift I will never forget. I hope to one day pay it forward. So it is that on a misty overcast day on Beacon Hill, a kilted bagpiper plays on the steps of St. Joseph’s Church. He is summoning together Gary’s clan, the clan of my father. We heed the call. We, who descended from Paisley Scotland in the 17th century to settle in Boston, come from Arizona, New Mexico, Pennsylvania, New York, Maine, New Hampshire. We have come to pay our respects to one of the finest members of our clan, the one we all adored, the one who left us with many golden memories, but left us far too soon. As if in mourning, Beacon Hill’s lampposts look solemn and dapper in their red bows and fir branches. Walking back through Boston Commons in the gathering gloom after the reception, the frog pond is appropriately frozen into a skating rink. The sorrow of winter has lodged in my bones as well. But it is up, it is skyward, it is the tree branches, ablaze in holiday lights, that remind me that most are merry and hopeful this time of year. My husband and three children decorated our house while I was at Mom’s deathbed. My five-year old is daily on his best behavior for the Guy in Red. My nine-year old wants to drive around and look at lights every night. My eleven-year-old is learning all kinds of Christmas tunes in the hopes of caroling around the neighborhood. Christmas was Mom’s favorite time of year, which yes, makes it harder, but also more imperative to rise. I must be true to the sorrow I am living, but mindful that neither Mom, nor Dad, nor Gary would want us mourners to be moping and glum. Life, after all, is the stories we tell ourselves. What stories should I carry home to my children? I will tell them the story about the mother whose heart was so full of love, that she defied scientific odds. That without a readable oxygen level or pulse, her heart beat on in her cold and waxy frame, minute after minute, hour after hour, day after day – until all of her children were gathered by her side. All kissed her, hugged her, and thanked her in person. And then she flew away. I will tell them the story about the cousin whose intelligence was exceeded only by his kindness, who through his quiet example taught what it means to really show up for someone. That through his consistency and insight, he transformed another’s confidence, and thus her life, before his gentle spirit unexpectedly slipped away. I will tell them about the friend who, in doing what she could to help, gave more comfort and healing than she knew was needed. I will tell them that we have no control over what happens; we only control how much we choose to love. That while love is scary and painful, just like life, that to love small and play it safe is to not really live at all. I will tell them that while it may not seem like it to them now, it turns out that life IS short, so they must summon all their courage to create the joy, and be open to the wonder. Because despite all the tremendous tremendous loss, there is great wonder and love and beauty still, if only we open ourselves up to it.
22 Comments
Jen Vetter
12/18/2021 04:17:48 pm
This is beautiful, Steph. Thank you for writing about all of these hard, sad moments. I am thinking of you with much love.
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Steph
12/21/2021 07:33:16 am
Thanks so much Jen. Your support at this time means more to me than I can fully express. The gift from you is under the tree - I will send you a photo on Christmas Day!! xoxo
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Carol Hesson
12/18/2021 04:31:25 pm
Stephanie, You did not play it safe with this writing. I am truly moved. You really have loved big.
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Steph
12/21/2021 07:34:17 am
Carol, staying with you after Gary's funeral was truly healing. Thank you for being such an incredible cousin and friend. I love you big!
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Linda Morton
12/18/2021 06:50:56 pm
Stephanie - I do not know you, but subscribed to your blog after seeing a post on Nextdoor several months ago. You have had a really, really tough year, and I am so sorry. Your tributes to your parents, and to Gary, are beautiful. You sound like an amazing woman, and all the family members you have written about sound like such wonderful people. The obituaries you wrote for your parents are beautiful. I wish for you a peaceful New Year, and a much more pleasant year, though there will be many bittersweet moments of “firsts” without your mom and dad.
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Steph
12/21/2021 07:35:57 am
Linda, thank you for subscribing to my blog - it says a lot about you and how open you are to life. I so appreciate your encouragement. It has indeed been a rough season, and writing it through has really helped me hang on. I am so grateful for your support. Happy holidays.
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Emma
12/19/2021 12:11:07 am
I am so sorry for all these losses. I am happy for your mom who was able tosse the 3 of you. And 444 seems like a great number to me.
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Steph
12/21/2021 07:37:10 am
Salut cherie - oui 444 is a number of the angels - something my mom really believed in...what are the odds?!?! Thanks for your support. xox
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Marian Flammio
12/19/2021 12:41:15 am
I love how you bring each person so much to life that I feel as if I know them. And your incredible wisdom: to love small and play it safe is not to have really lived at all.
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Steph
12/21/2021 07:38:44 am
thanks Marian. After years of playing small (especially my 20s, when we met), I feel I am finally coming in to my own. Thanks for your support all these many years later. Happy holidays - here's to big love, big life. xo
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Faith Rose
12/19/2021 05:14:51 am
xoxoxoxoxo
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Steph
12/21/2021 07:39:05 am
thanks dear Faith - oxoxox
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Jill
12/19/2021 08:44:47 am
Stephanie- I’m sorry this has been such a season of loss, but what a beautiful piece of writing you made from it. Thank you for sharing it with us. Sending you much love.
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Steph
12/21/2021 07:39:36 am
thanks so much Jill. Appreciate your support. xoxo
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Linda Curzon
12/19/2021 08:53:09 pm
Stephanie - You are a beautiful writer. Gary would be honored by your words...as would your Mom and Dad. You inspire me with the stories you share so vulnerably...so powerfully. Please don't give up on your dream of writing professionally. Though you may be experiencing what seems like "bad luck" believe in the limitless possibilities. I have experienced many mountains and valleys...it's the space in between where the growth happens. Sending so much love your way. You are so talented. Let me know what I can do to support you.
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Steph
12/21/2021 07:40:40 am
Thanks Linda for sharing my vision and reflecting it back to me. I think we can support each other in this time...we are both searching for new horizons. xoxo
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Lauri
12/20/2021 07:02:54 am
"Life, after all, is the stories we tell ourselves." You tell beautiful and compelling stories, Steph. We are all luckier for having read them. Your last bit reminds me of the movie "Strictly Ballroom" - have you seen it? A fine family film that I heartily recommend, if not! The message of that film is, "A life lived in fear is a life half-lived." You are fully living, and that is a gift your parents and Gary have given you. <3
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Lauri
12/21/2021 07:42:54 am
Oh Lauri - Sorry you couldn't have been part of that weekend in Boston, but so so grateful for all your support and love, We will watch Strictly Ballroom this break! Thanks for the rec!! I believe in the message!
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Mary Barton
12/20/2021 09:01:27 am
Stephanie, I am so sorry for all the losses you have experienced this year. Your post was a beautiful tribute to your Mom, Dad and Cousin Gary. Your loss and words are felt deeply and resonate. You are a true light in a storm. Like Gary, you are that intentional person who is kind, giving and so incredibly sharp. Your writing is heartfelt and so beautiful. I pray the Lord sends light and comfort to you, as you have been for so many. Though you have experienced loss, bad luck and setbacks, continue writing. The world needs more beauty! Love to you and your family.
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Steph
12/21/2021 07:44:38 am
Oh Mary thanks for your kind words. Saying that I have that same intentionality as Gary is probably the biggest compliment I could ever get - and I will hold on to it. Thanks so much for the encouragement. I mean to write yet!! So much love to you!! xoxo
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Cheryl Bailey Turner
12/20/2021 10:12:11 am
Steph, You poured your soul onto the page. So raw. So beautiful. Your writing is deeply touching and impactful. My heart is with you during this season of so much heartbreak.
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Steph
12/21/2021 07:45:10 am
Thanks so much Cheryl. My heart is with you too!! xoxo
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AuthorSteph: friend, writer, wife, mother, sister, daughter, lover of life, and of chocolate. Archives
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