Christmas songs, lullabies and a requiem for our mom

“We’re orphans now,” my brother said, standing at her bedside.

This unexpected, unwelcome segment of midlife began two days after Christmas – and one week after filing my column about making new memories for a quiet, empty nest kind of Christmas.

December had arrived – the most wonderful time of the year. My husband and I had plans. He would use his remaining vacation hours by staying home. We’d listen to new CDs and watch whatever new movies were wrapped and waiting under the tree. Weather permitting, we’d work in the yard and clean out the attic, too.

But after a couple of phone calls with my sister, we packed up and drove through the night to a neighboring state, to say “goodbye” to my mom.

I breathed thanks for new tires mounted on our Subaru just two weeks prior. On the car radio we listened to bells jingling and Andy Williams singing about snowflakes and parties and loved ones gathering.

To Nana’s hospital room we go …

Yep, our loved ones gathered. Around a bed where an 80-year-old woman struggled for breath. In the lobby trees were decorated and garlands hung. Ham with glazed yams and pie were served in the cafeteria on Christmas Day, complimentary for hospital staff – and families of terminal patients.

“Lullaby” played over the sound system each time a baby was born. On Dec. 25 we heard the song four times. In one hospital wing life was given entrance with cries of celebration; in another wing life and death played tug of war. My mom’s earthly frame would lose the battle. Our tears flowed in silence.

My brother spent every day and night there for a week, sleeping in a vinyl-padded chair that reclined. He never complained – there was no place he’d rather be.

Outside, winter rain pounded the second-floor window before landing on the cold ground in great sheets.

If there was more I wanted or needed to say, that was the time. She could still hear us, even though she wouldn’t respond. Mostly we stroked her hands, kissed her forehead, checked her legs for signs of impaired circulation.

Once again strange terms entered our vocabulary: hospice, oxygen, palliative care, funeral arrangements, eulogy, obituary … words not typically used in everyday dialogue.

In March my mother-in-law had passed away – our kiddos lost both their grandmas in the same year.

But I don’t tell you this to gather sympathy. Although we do appreciate the prayers and support from so many who’ve reached out. I tell you because this is simply a part of most life journeys at one juncture or another. The passing out of this world and into the next. One-half of the pair of inescapable certainties.

So how do I deal with this? What to do with emotions warring inside me? How to justify random sobs for no apparent reason, and this unfulfilled longing for more time spent in mother-daughter conversation?

How glad I was for the trip we made in October to spend most of a week with her, enjoying dinner out, chatting about mundane, everyday things, smiling, listening, hugging. She was the last living relative in her family. Her sister passed away during the summer, and it hit her hard.

While all this time I was looking at life in the middle, thinking how sweet it is. Does losing both my parents make this part of the journey less sweet? Is bitterness a requisite, or do I have a choice when grief and loss walk alongside?

I’m the oldest of our parents’ three kids and now the oldest of our immediate family. During slow periods at the estate sale, my brother, sister and I talked in Mom’s kitchen. Remembering picnics and sightseeing in Germany, where our dad was stationed; discovering our shared love for mountains and walks along country roads and four distinct seasons; naming high school friends we’ve re-connected with on social media; discussing the origination of Fluffernutters and our differences in worldviews; laughing about words scrawled on the back of a photo, taken while our dad was overseas, and meant for her eyes only.

My siblings and I have a bond now – a greater reason for holding onto remaining family ties.

Last week I took one last look at her house in a neighborhood we’d no longer have a reason to visit, crying again as I whispered goodbye and drove away, wrapping up the end of one era, and embracing the prospect of another.

I think I’m over the biggest hurdle now. With trials come difficulties. But also reward. If I choose right.

This story was originally published January 20, 2017 at 12:19 PM with the headline "Christmas songs, lullabies and a requiem for our mom."