The Apposite Opposite

Dear Ruth,

The last seven weeks of my mother’s life, our blueberry barren summer, was the indecible and the indelible. I have notes of things she said, and we did, images of her and my father, images of sun soaked lawns and black-eyed susans, the encounter with the owner of the lands where where I helped myself to blueberries, a serious Mr. Jasper Wyman.

My father said something yesterday, « she didn’t stop trying to live ». I think that’s true. This move back to Maine made her believe that the illness was contained in Connecticut, related to events there, a hospital bed there, not home there. And that by coming to her home to her house in Maine, she would be restored. Which indeed she was; She didn’t give in to the hospital bed ever, we moved her in the last few days only because she had nothing left to give to sit up, much less stand.

She shined until she didn’t any longer. I found two postcards she started to write, one to her best friend from college, one to my sister’s Sarah’s husband. The scrawl is an artwork, almost undecipherable, and the one to her friend is simply addressed Anne Squier, Portland, Oregon. But she tried.

I am frankly amazed how easy all of this was in all of its difficulty. I suppose like taking care of a child, or making art, if you are 100% available to the scrying bowl, anything is easy. It just flows, and that is how it was.

She did say something in the last few days of her life, after the move to the hospital bed. She asked me if she was ill. I hesitated, looked at my father, not sure what to say. I said that I thought she was sick. It doesn’t feel like the right answer, because she asked me the next day, « Catharine, do you believe in illness? » This question haunts me. Do I believe in illness? Everything just is, isn’t it? Robert Thurman, an eminent Buddhist scholar who you likely know of, said once, « Cancer is perfectly healthy pink tissue, it just doesn’t get along with its neighbors. »

She died as we were singing new invented verses to « She’ll be coming around the mountain when she comes » . I still hear my Dad’s chuckle at one particularly funny verse that just showed up - « We’ll build an extra bedroom when she comes! » My mother fluttered a bit, reached for my sister Ragan’s hand and left. She dies around 6:30 Sunday evening, and at my insistence, we were able to keep her with us all night. I stayed with her, alternately sleeping, and vigiling, and in the morning, as if the most natural thing to do in modern America, in the year 2020, Ragan, Susannah and I washed her and prepared her for cremation. There was no distress. We then dressed her in new wild color pants Susi had given her, her favorite blue boatneck t shirt. She looked peaceful and lovely.

It was her birthday the day before her death, one year ago today, and we were all there. I just imagined what it would have been like if we were all celebrating, and had to go to a hospital to see her 14 miles ways, a sterile place where the walls can be washed with a hose. Being part of the whole life, being part of the whole experience, being part of the end, just being part, felt so right. Death no longer separate and feared, but part. part and parcel, I have always liked that expression. part and parcel. I am not even sure if that is exactly it, and where it comes from. Part. Parting. Parted.

Much love,
Catharine