Writers' Corner: End Notes
At 93, and experiencing many physical limitations, my mom’s world had gotten quite small. The end was closing in. So, in early October 2021, I took three weeks off from work, flying from Michigan to Longmont, Colorado.
I took turns staying with two of my sisters, while visiting our mom in her assisted living facility, for a portion of every day. Some visits lasted overnight, and I slept in my dad’s old power lift recliner, next to my mom’s, when she seemed reluctant for me to leave. It was a comforting sleepover.
I studied how she handled this late season of life, with all the frustrations and indignities that go along with losing the things that we think make us, “us.” Truthfully, it was depressing to me. I wanted a happy visit. I’ve always wanted “happy,” and really, who doesn’t?
I wanted distraction from this hard reality. I asked questions about her childhood: growing up on a farm in Hudson Wisconsin during the depression, hearing stories I didn’t know about. She recited a favorite poem. I ate candy she’d won playing Bingo. She took a lot of naps, and I looked through old, handwritten recipe cards in a tin box, remembering many, and wondering about the source of unfamiliar ones, evidence of adventuring beyond the tried and true. She used to say, “If I can’t have adventure, then what’s the sense of living?”
There seemed to me an urgency to make every conversation important, to cram into this short period of time every bit of wisdom I could glean from her lifetime of experiences.
My mom sensed this, saying emphatically, “You think you must have some deep conversations, and we can; or we can tell jokes, play gin rummy, or even take a nap. You’re here. And it’s okay to not be okay. This is life.”
I witnessed the compassion and humor of caregivers, hospice workers, and support staff, who made situations bearable, as they skillfully carried out awkward tasks with nonchalance, diffusing any embarrassment, allowing dignity to be maintained. These people were worth their weight in gold and deserve more recognition and better pay.
My mom had become mobility-challenged, but with her motorized scooter, we could get out into the courtyard and enjoy the remaining blooms of a summer garden and watch the crazy antics of the resident chickens.
One day I convinced her to take a “walk” with me to the end of the block, a small field trip to a local grocery store. It was like a vacation for her, scootering up and down the aisles, looking at everything, doing something that used to be so ordinary. I was struck by the simple joy it gave my mom. I bought a granola bar. She smiled at people and chatted. It was sweet. On the way home, we stopped frequently just to turn our faces to the sun, and my mom was able to make out the front range of her beloved Rocky Mountains through her blurry vision, which made her smile, and me cry. Still does.
One day in the courtyard, my mom was talking with another elderly woman, both pondering why in the heck they were living so long. After a moment my mom said, while looking at me and smiling, “Well one bonus is I get to see how my kids turned out as adults. I get to see more of the finished product. These are the benefits of growing old, it’s a release to know I’m not responsible for everyone anymore."
My mom passed a month later, joining my late dad. I am thankful for that last visit, although there will forever be more questions I wish I had asked. For now, though, I am smiling as I imagine what spectacular adventures she may be embarking on.
Writer’s Tip: Don’t get hung up thinking you have to stick with your original idea. Sometimes as the words come out, a different direction takes shape, creating a stronger piece. Let the words do their thing.
Bio: Rebecca Koetje lives in southwest Michigan and enjoys working at a small township library where she gets to handle great books and chat with many interesting people. She is constantly taking notes for future articles.
— The Sturgis Writers’ Mill exists to create a community of writers who constructively encourage, support, and challenge each other as they discover their unique voices. Any opinion expressed is solely that of the author.
This article originally appeared on The Holland Sentinel: Writers' Corner: End Notes
