Saying goodbye to mom. Columnist Irv Oslin has last visit via Ohio's back roads
Bear with me while I take you on a detour from my weekly outdoors column.
I awakened early on the morning of Sept. 8. Earlier than usual, which is 5 a.m. I had planned to drive to Westlake to visit my mother.
That had become a painful exercise of late. For more than two years she’s lingered, bedridden, increasingly unresponsive. It gnawed at me, the thought of such a hellish existence — endlessly drifting in and out of consciousness. Whatever that might have been.
Paddling with children:You can get a lot of mileage from a short trip
People would ask me, “How’s your mother?”
Sometimes I’d be brutally honest. But mostly I’d resort to humor to deflect the painful reality.
“She’s not exactly knocking at heaven’s door,” I’d say. “It’s more like she’s ringing the doorbell and hiding in the bushes.”
As I poured coffee from the pot into my travel mug, I imagined it would be like other recent visits. I’d drive the back roads to Westlake, sit at her bedside for a while, and hope for some sign of responsiveness — eye contact, mouthing words, feebly trying to lift her pale hand. Then I’d text my siblings to report on her condition. Usually the best news I could offer was that she appeared to be resting comfortably.
I was just about to leave the house when a text message popped up on my phone.
“Who the hell would be texting me this early in the morning?” I thought.
It was a post in the text thread my siblings and I have maintained for years, pretty much since my father died and my mother began her long slow slide into dementia.
“Get up here now,” it said in effect.
I drove to Westlake, mostly by way of state Route 83. Dreading what lie ahead, I took refuge in the scenery. The weathered barns, the small towns along the way, the state penal “campus” near Grafton. I channel-surfed on satellite radio — Beatles, Motown, Classic Vinyl, ’60s hits — quickly switching from anything sappy and sentimental to more upbeat songs.
Family gathers around mom's bedside, some crying, others holding back tears
When I arrived, my siblings were gathered around my mother’s bedside. It was the first time we’d been fully assembled since the COVID pandemic hit. We huddled in a group hug, stifling sobs, holding back tears, not holding back tears.
The labored breathing I’d noticed when I visited her in August had become a death rattle. Even with my impaired hearing and the annoying hum of machinery that helped her breathe, I clearly heard it.
By then it was late morning. My brother had to return to work and my older sister needed to go home for a while, leaving my younger sister and me. I napped for a bit while she stood watch.
By the time I awakened the rattle had grown noticeably louder, her breathing more irregular. Shortly after 6 p.m., my sister motioned for me to join her at the bedside. It was happening.
We stood side-by-side, one arm around each other. She touched mom’s hand and I gently stroked her forehead. I don’t know whether my mother had done that for me when I was a babe in her arms. But, deep inside, I’ve always carried a sensory memory of it — that and a tender kiss just above my temple.
As the rattle subsided to faint gasps, I was oddly comforted to realize that life was coming full circle. I did not feel sadness; I felt joy.
I returned home by way of state Route 301. The nearly full harvest moon was rising in the east, silhouetting barns and treetops at the edges of crop fields. I turned on a classic country station — Willie's (Nelson) Roadhouse. Mom and I had our ups and downs and, quite frankly, a rocky relationship. But we both enjoyed old time country music. Sometimes we’d listen to it together on her Sears stereo console.
One summer night when I was a teenager, after my mother and I had some sort of falling out, she tiptoed into the bedroom I shared with my brother. Thinking I was asleep, she bent down and gently kissed my forehead.
I cried myself to sleep.
This article originally appeared on Ashland Times Gazette: Columnist Irv Oslin says final goodbye to mom after long illness
