February 12, 2006

• Syble Dee Wade, RIP–

  Goodbye, Mom!

   

  The last few weeks have been rough.  I came down with a nasty
  virus three days before my biggest show of the year.  
  Between that, which blunted my ability to interact with customers, and
  a delayed shipment of laser pointers, blowguns, and brass knuckles,
  sales were low.  I still haven’t shaken the virus
  completely.  Lately, my ME/CFIS has been worse than ever and I
  have been experiencing an extraordinary amount of pain and
  disability.  The other day, I had to use one of those little
  electric scooters while grocery shopping, since I couldn’t walk without
  screaming in pain.  Then a few days ago, my sister Alyce called
  from the East Coast to tell me that our mother was in hospital and not
  expected to live.

  This distressed me.  Not that she was dying–she has been
  depressed and in pain and wanting to die for years–but because,
  once more her wishes were being ignored.  She had made it plain
  that she wanted to die at home, in privacy and with a modicum of
  dignity and comfort.  Instead, she was carted off to hospital,
  where she will be plugged into machines and surrounded by noise and
  bright lights and bad smells and strangers.  I wouldn’t treat a
  dying dog that way.

  But that is the way it has been for her.  She lived for forty
  years in a house she hated, located in a small town she despised. 
  She wanted to live along the river–she loved nature–but that house by
  the river cost a few thousand dollars more than the one my father
  wanted.

  During the war (WWII)–despite her ninth-grade education–she did so
  well at the navy depot, she was promoted to supervisor, and had a dozen
  women working under her, some of whom were old enough to be her
  mother.  One of them became her mother-in-law.  She loved the
  work, but quit because she got married, and married women didn’t
  work.  Had she stayed on, she could have retired in luxury in the
  ‘sixties, instead of having to scrimp along on the widow’s pension and
  Social Security she got.

  I am not sentimental, however.  She had the parenting skills of
  a wolverine.  She did the best she knew how, but she had no good
  role models.  Her father was a clasic Southern redneck–his dogs
  came first, followed by his guns, then his whisky.  His family
  didn’t even finish in the money.  Her mother–we all called her
  Momma– had lots of children and baked a lot of biscuits. 
  When my mother’s dog Becky died, she got all weepy and prety much fell
  apart—even though when I visited her, never once did I see her show
  any affection for the critter, or be anything but cruel to it.  Go
  figure.  Anyway. . . .

  Last night when I went to bed, I left my cell phone turned on, for
  some odd reason.  It went off at five this morning, dragging me
  out of some much-needed sleep.  It was my sister again, calling to
  tell me that mom wasn’t expected to live out the day.   What
  was I supposed to do with news I was expecting and could do nothing
  about?  Could it not have waited a few hours?  I asked her,
  did she not realize it is five in the morning here?  She got
  defensive, and I hung up.  Stupidly, I left the phone on.

  Twenty minutes later, just as I was drifting off again, the phone
  rang again.  This time it was Mark, my other sister’s
  husband.  He was seething with indignation about how “ignorant” I
  was, didn’t I care about my own mother, yadda yadda yadda. 
  Anyway, we had some words, I invoked the f-word, and may have hung up
  on him. 

  By now, the whole bunch–except for Alyce’s husband, who is
  great– is probably loaded.  I imagine the real reason Alyce
  called me so early was so that she could start drinking right after the
  call.  They are most likely filled with self-righteous indignation
  at cold-blooded, nasty old Greyfox.  I don’t know.  Whatever
  they, or anyone else, may think of me is none of my business.

  I do know that Mom–who may still be hanging on, at least
  physically, as I write–will finally be at peace.  Soon, if not
  now, she will be with God, and reunited with Becky, and her own mother,
  and all her other friends who preceded her in death.  For that, I
  am happy and grateful.    So why am I crying?

  Maybe because, right now, there is a mom-shaped hole in my universe. 

  And a smaller, similar hole in my heart.

  • 12:05 am
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