by Lisa Samson
“Does she want us to?” Brian.
“I think she wants to explain.”
Brett. “Then we’ll go.” She faces my brother. “Right, Bri? Can you do this for her?”
He nods, turns white.
“Thanks, you guys.”
Brian wipes his eyes. Poor little Peter Pan. “Do you think we’ll ever really need to use it?”
How can I lie to him? “Yeah, unfortunately I do.”
Mom’s eyes glisten. “I have so little control over my life as it is, kids. I just want to be able to say that I don’t want heroics. I want God to take me when He wants to take me. If my heart stops, then I’m counting that as His will.”
“But what about us?” Brian’s words don’t surprise me. And surprisingly, they don’t anger me. He has a right to speak his mind at a time like this.
“You’re all doing well. Brian, you have Dani. Rusty’s home. And Brett, you’ve become your own girl, something I’ve been waiting years for.”
Brett touches her arm. “Thanks, Mom.”
“Oh no. It’s true. I’m just glad I stayed alive long enough to see it.”
“You sound like you’re going to die tomorrow.” Brian.
“If God wills it, I wouldn’t complain.”
It’s scary when your mother starts “getting her house in order.” Because we all have a clock within us, a windup variety, and we all feel in our souls when our springs are loosening whether our brains realize it or not.
“So you all understand why I’m doing this?”
We do.
“Then hand me the pen, Ivy.”
I hand it over, its battleship weight slowing my hand.
Her signature is shaky and scrawly, and I remember the days when she laid it down in turgid boldness upon the back of my report card or my permission slip to the zoo.
“Here. It’s all set.”
I take the paper from her.
She sets both hands upon her knees. “Now. I would like to watch White Christmas together even though it’s only October. Do you all have the time?”
And of course we do.
It’s been a year since Rusty started losing the pounds, and he’s down to his fighting weight, if he was a fighter, that is. Which he’s not. He’s a lover. Oh, baby. He’s even got biceps these days. Okay, he’s always had biceps. Even I have biceps. You can just see and feel them now, and when he holds me, or rocks me in his love, I steal a look at those arms and the warmth in my stomach grows.
I’ve got to say, the man has really been proving himself in every way possible.
Now we Christian women get a bad rap when it comes to sexual reputation. But most of those sex studies usually reveal that we are the most active, satisfied group of women out there. And believe me, after years of getting in bed and crossing my fingers in hopes Rust was really asleep, I’m glad to desire him again. That’s really a gift from God. I know it sounds almost freaky, but, well, I’m right. And that’s that.
Now, if I would just pray harder about being so darn opinionated, who knows how far God would take me?
Covenant Presbyterian School loves him. The teachers, the administration, the staff, the parents, and especially the kids. A little tow-headed first-grader named Henry calls him Mitter Wusty Neider. We called him that for weeks.
“Mitter Wusty Neider! Time to eat!”
“Wake up, Mitter Wusty Neider, it’s time to get ready for school.”
“Hey, Mitter Wusty Neider, can you take us out for ice cream?”
My favorite: “Come over here, Mitter Wusty Neider, and give your mother-in-law a buss on the cheek!”
One night as Rusty sat on the edge of the bed taking his socks off, he said, “I thought I was adored out on the road. It’s nothing compared to the love I feel from these kids.”
“And you get to love them back.”
“Yeah. That’s exactly right.”
I thank him once again for coming home.
He thanks me for drawing a line in the sand.
And we’ll continue to have this conversation as long as we need to.
Tonight, everyone but Rusty and the little kids are sitting in the audience in the school auditorium. Even Dani and Brian, who looks decidedly better these days after another stint in rehab—his idea this time. Thank You, Jesus, the courts took his license away so he can’t get into more trouble that way. Some people just need their options reduced.
The students file into the gym and step up onto the semicircle of risers.
Rusty holds up his hands for quiet, lifts them higher, and the children begin to recite Psalm 8.
“O Lord, our Lord, how excellent is thy name in aaalllll the earth.”
Trixie’s little singsong soars above the others, her pink face earnest, believing every word. Persy’s lips are moving too, which is a miracle. He used to just stand there with this blank look on his face at his old school.
For the rest of the evening, Rusty coaxes song and scripture from their innocent lips. “From the mouths of infants you have ordained praise.”
On the way home, Mom stares out the window, then turns to me. “You’re doing a wonderful job raising your children, honey.”
“Well, thanks, Mom.”
“I mean it, Ivy. You’re a fine mother.”
One more weed picked from her garden. My heart is sore.
And so it was that while watching her favorite sitcom, Becker, Dorothy Starling breathed her last. It had been a great day. I made shrimp salad for dinner, homemade rolls, and coleslaw. She ate better than she had in months. The Christmas tree winked in the corner, and she said, “You know, Ivy, I love those old-fashioned lights you used this year. They cheer a person right up, don’t they?”
“And kids really like colored lights, don’t they, Mom?”
She nodded. “You know, I think I’d like a cup of tea.”
“I’ll make us both one.”
Becker came on in all his grumpy glory, and Mom laughed and sipped her tea. About twenty minutes in, she set down her cup, laid her head on a pillow against the armrest of the sofa and said, “That Becker sure is a jerk!”
We laughed together.
The television doctor showed his true stripes, however, and sat by the bedside of a woman in intense pain from bone cancer, or something. I have trouble remembering these days. I’m a little fuzzy now, and guess I will be for a while.
A strange raspy breath came from between Mom’s lips.
“Mom?”
I tried to rouse her, but she failed to respond. I checked the carotid artery in her neck—nothing. Shone a light in her open eyes. Achieved no pupil response. Held a mirror up to her mouth. No fog laid itself upon the shiny surface. I tried it all. I tried to find some sign of life. I tried.
I called 911 and dug the DNR out of the drawer.
“Rusty!” I called softly up the steps. “I need you.”
He hurried down.
“Mom just died.”
“Are you sure?”
I nodded.
“Oh, Dorothy.” His eyes filled up with tears, and he walked over to the couch, knelt down beside her, and kissed her cheek. He laid his head on her still chest. “Oh, dearest Dorothy.” He looked up and took my hand. “You okay?”
“I think so.”
And he held me in his arms, and we knelt down together on the living room floor and wept without a sound.
I wiped my nose with the back of my hand. “The paramedics will be here soon.”
“I’ll call Brian and Brett. Do you want me to wake up the kids?”
“Not yet. I think I’ll just go sit with her until the paramedics come.”
“You do that, hon.”
And so I gathered Mom into my arms for the last time, positioned her head upon my chest, held her cooling hand in mine and kissed her hair over and over again until the paramedics arrived and took her body away from us forever.
We were made to live forever. This I know. We were made to be reconciled with our Creator
. This I know. And so death is not the final battle, but rather, it is the beginning of the way life was always meant to be.
Are you looking down, Mom? Do you see me now? Do you know I’ll always miss you?
G’night, Mom. I love you.
I set my alarm, turn off the light, and wait for tomorrow to come and life to begin all over again.
About the Author
Lisa Samson lives in the Baltimore area with her husband Will and their three children. She’s presently homeschooling—an adventure in and of itself—and learning just how much she doesn’t know. To find out more, visit her Web site: www.lisasamson.com. And to learn more than you ever wanted to know about her life and times, check out her blog, www.lisasamson.typepad.com, or Will’s blog, www.willzhead.typepad.com.
