Miss Lillian Preps For Her Grand Departure

At about 1pm I got a call from the Sharon, the Director of Nurses (who has become a good and loving friend) that Miss Lillian's skin has begun to 'mottle' and that she was asking for me. Sharon's exact words were "you need to come now". These are bad signs. Skin mottling indicates that her system is no longer able to transport oxygen to the her extremities, and her blood kind of begins to 'pool' because its so sluggish. It generally happens when death is eminent (the given range would be: 24 to 48 hours to 1 week).

What amazes me is that she is very aware of what's taking place. She feels herself leaving, and I wish I could have some glimmer of understanding of what that's like; but that would be like flipping to the last page of a book.

So when I arrived here at 'the home', (which has become my second home) she was serene and quiet. This is NOT her normal state, as some of you may know. I always greet her with "what up?"...instead of her usual snarky and generally inappropriate Sassy Southern Lady reply
she said; "I'm dying... and I'm so tired." I asked her if there was anything on her mind...anything she wanted to take care of. She wanted to make phone calls. This I can do.

Today has been spent doing the thing that I consistenely harangue and annoy you folks to do...letting people know that they are loved; saying what matters to those who matter.

We called Mr. Newby, the man who has been her close friend for many years, and who (I found out about 10 years ago) has been in love with her since 1946, but was man enough to let it be. She said goodbye to my sister, who is unable to be here - that was a hard one to sit in on
- and made us promise to take care of each other. And then one by one, the relatives started to file in.

We are a loud and raucus bunch; with the exception of yours truly, the women all sound like Reba McIntyre, and the men tend to sound like Tommy Lee Jones (as Doolittle Lynn in "Coalminer's Daughter").  Mourning isn't their style - these people are ALL about the funny;
sharing memories and ridiculous impressions of those memories is how they roll.

And yes, I am taking notes and the book will be forthcoming.

Anyway, as we were caught up in the business and nonsense associated with Miss Lillian's signing off; not one of us had noticed or commented on the fact that the staff had quietly removed her roomate (bed and all) and rolled in a cart with cookies, snacks, cups, flatware, sodas and coffee. The recliner that I sleep in when I'm here had been moved to a more open area of the room and had been stocked with a fresh pillow and blanket. A few more chairs appeared.

Now, the whole time I've been here, I've made sure to keep my 'clinically competent person' hat on. It makes it much easier to deal with the awful parts, the sleep deprivation, and witnessing the indignity of aging. But when one of the nurses came to me and asked me if there was anything else she could do for us...my 'daughter' hat appeared and I promptly burst into tears. Kindness does that to me.

Then we celebrated.

I stood back and marveled at how easy it is to forget that in the end, all we have is each other. I also discovered that forgiveness is easier than you think - you just have to take a baby step. Baby steps feel really good. To say that ML and I have had a difficult relationship would be a gross understatement. But in the end, we are the sum of our experiences, and in dealing with others we would be well served to remind ourselves of that - and then take inventory of
how we let our experiences shape us. In the end, we experience fear, no matter how tough we think we are. That has to be met with compassion as well.

So...after all that yammering (and thanks for getting this far) what did I learn about death and dying?
It can create close bonds, as well as belly laughs, and can reveal strength you didn't think you were capable of. That as we leave this part of the journey in preparation for the next part, we are similar to the way we were when we arrived.

I also learned that I'd better get my shit together and let SOMEONE know what song I want played at my funeral!! ('In This Life' by Collin Raye, in the event someone is taking notes). This began as a serious discussion and degerated into 'if Lillian were a country song, what would her lyrics be?'... we were like a bunch of frat boys who'd had a bit too much moonshine. One of the staff came and "shhhh'd" us.

In the time it has taken to write this she has gone from labored breathing to barely visibly breathing. I'm thankful for my Blackberry, but my thumbs are tired. Most important, I'm thankful that this is nearly over for her, and for the gift of experience...even the scary parts.

So...I've said it before, and I'm fully aware that I sound like a broken record, so let the eyeballing commence.

Say the words. Express gratitude. Hug a stranger (if you're in Tennessee it's a requirement. If you're in LA a pat on the arm will do). Write a letter (not an email) to someone you miss. Tell them that you miss them; that you just want to know they're ok. Love the unloveable. Like those baby steps I mentioned - it feels really good.

I've had my rant...now I get to have my rave.

"Home, sings to me of sweet things..." That's a line from a Bonnie Raitt song called "Home", and whenever I hear it, I get a visual of the road that led to our house in Abingdon, VA.

My father was raised there (his family having moved from Bluefield, VA shortly after his birth in 1910), and it was where I spent every summer - until he passed away when I was 19 - in the house where he grew up. He is buried there on Taylor's Hill next to his parents, and I'll bury my mom there when this is all over.

I've been really ill for the past week, so yesterday was the first time I was able to venture out of the house, and I woke up thinking - or more like hearing - "you need to go see Daddy, you gotta go to Abingdon" ...and so I did. And yes, 50 year old semi-Southern women still refer to our fathers as "Daddy". I just have to share with you what has always been so special to me.

A little history about Abingdon can be found here. It was always clear to my sister and I that our summers were special, I just never really understood how cool it was to be a barefoot kid, free to run around with my sister and my friends, in a town that is literally steeped in Civil War history. Let me show you around!

If you click on the map, it'll open in another window, and will certainly be clearer. But the green dot at the end of Leonard St. is our house. The orange dot across town is where I spent my formative years learning about the wily ways of boys...and I do mean ALL between A and B Streets! The Piggly Wiggly was at the end of Main St. as you head out of town; so was the Dairy Queen, which is still there.

Everything else was our own personal stomping ground. I was fascinated at a very early age by the Sinking Spring Cemetery, had many a ghostly experience there; some (in my poinion) real, others made up by boys for the sole purpose of...well, you know. And "The Tavern"...the oldest building in Abingdon...I crossed the street to avoid it when I was a kid, and found myself doing it again yesterday. Some things just carry what is imprinted upon them. Abingdon is a veritable playground for those who have crossed over, but just can't seem to stay there.

Abingdon always had a sort of "To Kill A Mockingbird" kind of groove to it, because gentrification hadn't set in yet. Because the town is so small, anywhere you walked was the 100th time you'd done it, which is probably why it's burned into my memory. The days were hot, the streets were dusty, and yes - you could ride your horse down any street you chose, including Main Street.

Whenever I walked past the Martha Washington Inn, where my grandmother and my father worked in the kitchen (she as a cook, she took him with her as a toddler and he would peel potatoes), I would tell myself that one day I would stay there. That one day I would sit on that huge porch in one of the wicker rockers, and I would watch the world go by...and seven years ago I did. I sat there on the veranda under the soft glow of the porch lights, watched the mountain mist settle over Main Street, and read in until I nearly fell asleep; it was that sublime an experience.

Across the Street is the Barter Theatre, where I believe (and there's no one around to tell me anymore) either my grandmother or grandfather worked. My sister and I used to crack each other up with the idea of people using sacks of potatoes and bushels of carrots to pay to see plays; but that's exactly how it got its name. We would crane our necks to try to get a glimpse of the Hollywood folk who came to perform in the summer...never did see one.

But that was what it was like in town. There was a clear separation of people by class and economic status.

My memories of the area near our house have become sepia toned versions of this...

and this...

and this

My purpose for going there was to have a long conversation with my dad. Just the two of us the way we used to; to apologize for staying away so long, and to ask him to help Miss Lillian acclimate, because she'll be joining him soon. There's no way to know for sure, but I felt that he heard me; that he understood about my long absence...and that he rolled his eyes because he knows he won't get a minute of peace with that woman there... and eternity is a mighty long time to listen to her yammering.