The phone rang this morning at 0220. "It's done," my husband said, his voice low and broken. "She's gone."
On Sunday morning, as Ma declined all her regular medications and any treats but ice chips and ginger ale, after I'd picked the dead flowers out of bouquets covering every surface and brought in new blooms from her garden to freshen up her night table, I started thinking about what we as a culture do for ritual in death and dying, and what I came up with was sorely lacking. I hate funerals and always have; I swore the wake I attended at age 19 for my friend Tree was the last funeral I would be present at- I had lost 15 people dear to me in less than 7 years, and after multiple funerals accompanied by wracking sobs, perfumed black clothing, and waxy corpses, found that modern religious (and secular) death rituals kind of suck.
So. I googled it. I knew that I would not be present for Ma's death, knew that she would last maybe to Tuesday, but I wanted to do something to recognize this work of dying, something to celebrate the passing of her. Being an atheist, the rituals of most Christian groups didn't appeal to me, but I loved the simplicity of the bathing and wrapping of the body after death that turned up again and again in so many religious customs. I had been massaging Ma's swollen feet and legs with lemon and lavender essential oils every day, anyway, and so when I read that pagans give baths to their dead and dying with rosemary to cleanse and protect the body on its journey, it seemed natural to add that to the others. This time, though, I worked every bit of Ma's bare skin I could find. I gave her an angel bath of oil and fragrance and love, and she watched me, eyes locked on mine, and I couldn't help but cry.
Like most rituals of dying--in which the ceremonies are more for the living than the dying--this bathing was more for me than for her, my way of saying thank you and goodbye to this woman I've loved for a few years but have just recently grown to admire for her stubbornness and tenacity, her optimism and her great love of family, her unwillingness to complain even in the midst of great pain, and her wide open, forgiving heart.
Sunday's sun tipped toward the west and it was time for me to leave, to get back to Bend and the work of living. I leaned in close to tell her goodbye-- that I was leaving and likely wouldn't see her again. She said, "No." And held me close, and I told her that I didn't think her Jesus would come for her while there was a heathen in the house. She laughed and said she'd like to see me in heaven. I told her I didn't think that was likely.
I was so happy just knowing her here.
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