The End
when squirrel watching accompanies death
I gaze out the window at a black squirrel territorially flicking his tail to let everyone know these are his bird feeders. Chickadees and nuthatches flit back and forth from the feeders taking one seed at a time. Clouds form as I pour a dash of cream into yesterday’s coffee, clutching it tightly as I listen to the steady rise and fall of my mom’s breathing.
The dogs sleep on either side of the hospital bed for which we cleared space in the middle of the living room, my dad asleep on the couch after having been by her side all night.
These will be my last moments with her.
Seems fitting that even in her diminished state our last activity together will be watching squirrels. You never realize how much of your time it can occupy till you move to the middle of the woods. It feels good, almost normal. I’m grasping for those moments as so many things have felt completely outside of my control these past few weeks. I seize these moments while I can, like writing this note to myself while everyone slumbers around me, knowing that years from now I’ll want to remember them in more detail than my mind can muster.
A pocket woodpecker joins the festivities at the feeders. I make lists of all the logistics hanging in the balance. A gray squirrel joins the two black ones at the feeder as the black one gives chase, reminding everyone who’s in charge.
I keep expecting her to wake up from her heavy breathing with a chipper, “Hi Libs!” as she has done so many mornings. No such luck. Her speech shut down a day ago as the spark in her eyes began to fade.
Around 8:30 last night, I watched as her soul left her body, surrounded by all of our loved ones gathered to show her the way. She offered a quick reminder of, “Don’t forget to have fun!” a parting sentiment I’ve received almost every time I’ve walked out the door for forty years, followed by a quick, “Okay, bye!” as she darted away. It’s a comfort to know her soul has transitioned and isn’t enduring these final hours of pain. As I fell asleep last night, she came to me, having already figured out how to visit before her body even died, laid her hand on my cheek as she’s done a thousand times and told me that’s she’s okay.
That doesn’t stop the tears. They come in waves. I feel cheated, robbed of the time I get to spend with her when I’m not incapacitated. She’s been by my side for the past three years ensuring that I’m okay. I’ve woken her in the middle of the night countless times needing her support. Every time she’s bounced out of bed to help me. I’m left feeling like there should be more that I can do for her, but I’m doing it. There’s nothing more.
The phone rings. Spam. At least this time everyone slept through it, except for Doozer as he wanders over intent on sharing the couch with Dad. Reluctantly, he lies down next to him instead, poised to guard the hallway where we’ve just hung my mom’s wool appliqué sheep. I can see them from my perch by the window, glad we have so many of her creations adorning our walls. I’m determined to finish her fish so we can hang them in the living room. They were originally intended for my dad’s office, but things change. I need them in our home smiling at me every time I enter the room.
I sip on some more stale coffee, cold and only getting colder. It’s one of those dreary fall days where the morning damp lingers while the sun remembers to come out. All I can do is sit here and write, waiting. The squirrels square off again, each taking a corner of the deck railing. Two to one, the gray one leaves as the black ones hop back on the non-squirrel proof feeder. I can’t imagine doing this anywhere else. The backdrop of the woods filled with trees adds a calm to these heart wrenching moments.
In an effort to get comfortable, Mom has removed the ocean blue sheet from her chest, her body on display for all to see. I can’t help thinking, “Well, at least I know I’ll have great breasts in my 70s.” Not exactly the most appropriate thought for these circumstances, but who’s to say what’s appropriate anyway? She’s comfortable and that what matters.
Dad begins snoring, joined by Doozer’s old man grunts, a welcome sign that he’s finally resting after being by her side all night. She lets out a little breaths reminiscent of the air valve releasing on a freshly filled set of tires. “Hug your people,” rolls through my mind again and again. I’ve done just that. There isn’t an embrace I have missed. So many hugs have been exchanged these past three years while I’ve lived with them. Every opportunity to say, “My love you,” has been embraced too. She knows I love her with every fiber of my being. “Good thing,” as she would say.
I anticipated at least another ten to fifteen years before ending up here. Our deal was always that she had to quilt everything in her stash before she could leave. I figured that way she would live forever. No such luck. I’m left with a closet full of forty-five quilt tops that we had planned to finish together once I was able. She was going to teach me how to use the long-arm, always convinced that I would be much better at it than she. I’ll spend the next year finishing our quilts. I can’t think of a better way to honor her and process my grief. Quilts have always been an indicator of love in this family.
Oh! The sun! Perhaps it won’t be a dreary day after all. I’m met with glares from the black squirrel. He has a menacing way of staring in the window and making eye contact. We’ve joked about it many times.
One of the things I’ve realized these past few days is how much my mom loves knowing the time. The four clocks in her bedroom should have given it away, my favorite of which is a giant projection on the ceiling.
I need to remember to water the plants.
Our morning rotation of letting the dogs in and out begins as Doozer asks to go bark from the back deck. I would trade anything to have a few more days with her. It’s the mundane moments of sitting and talking in the morning while deciding who will open the sliding door as Doozer paws to come in.
The squirrels at the feeder have the bushiest tails…
