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death
October 2009 
Farewell Mum
Posted on Aug 8th, 2008
by 
Fearless
Fearless
I BURIED MY MOTHER YESTERDAY.
It was a lovely ceremony because people who loved her got up and spoke about their memories of her. My father still hasn't cried - maybe because he's a "bloke" in the very Australian sense of the word - but I think also because it hasn't entirely sunk in for him that she's gone.
Since I am sharing my life with you all here, I thought you might like to read what I said at her funeral:
"Today is all about mum. An opportunity for us all to share our stories and memories of a sweet and gentle soul. A day for her to be centre stage, although I'm sure dad will squeeze in a story or two about trucks. But we all know, mum wouldn't mind - she was used to dad being the star attraction. How many of us have listened to dad relating a story of one of his exploits and asking mum, "Isn't that right Evie?" and she would just smile and say, "Yes, Jack."
Whenever anyone dies, they're immediately regarded as a saint - all their bad points are swept away, but for mum there were no bad points! She really was a saint! She has a wall, full of certificates and medals for putting up with dad and that immediately qualifies her for sainthood!
My sister, brother and I are all extremely fortunate to have had her as our mother and I hope that I can honour her memory by becoming more like her.
Mum was "a lady" and if there is anything everyone agrees on, it was that she was "a lovely lady". I remember her telling me about a time when she was heavily pregnant with my sister and she fainted in the street, falling into the gutter. An old drunk came to her aid, saying, "Come on love, you'd better lay off the grog!" Mum was mortified, but she also saw the funny side.
Dad found the best possible partner he could have ever had, in mum. She was his first and only girlfriend. They met when she was holidaying in Albury. Dad came in to the cafe where she and a friend were having a milkshake and he liked the look of the "little chickie" he saw sitting in the booth and gave her a wink. There's a photo at home, taken later that day, when he was showing her around the town in his truck, with mum sitting on his knee!
And when he came a'calling on his next trip to Brunswick, my grandmother sent him off to the City Baths to clean up before she'd let him in the door. Dad had black curly hair in those days, and when he came back to their door, nan called out to mum, "There's a little Eyetalian here to see you."
When I think of mum, I think of softness and kindness and love. Nothing seemed to faze her. But she had a stubborn streak - especially when it came to her health. She had $5,000 hearing aids which she found "too noisy" and so she didn't wear them; tablets she was supposed to take that she decided, "I don't need them anymore."
After her first round of cardiac operations, she was meant to do rehabilitation exercises, but after one or two visits, she just dug her heels in and decided she wasn't going to do it anymore. I tried to get her to to walk around the local lake, but we'd only gone a short distance before she said, "It's too far, I can't do it" and yet, when we went to the shopping centre, she was off! I honestly couldn't keep up with her, she set such a cracking pace!
I haven't always been the most attentive of daughters, and it was so important to me (and my sister) to have been able to spend this past week with mum. It's a lonely vigil in intensive care - holding your breath, waiting for the best possible outcome, but dreading that your mother is slipping away.
The vigil that we maintained over her, felt to me, like a warm cloak, protecting her. It was heart breaking to hear dad saying to her, "Come on Evie, wake up, we need you back at home." But it wasn't to be.
My sister and I have our own lives, but mum has provided the fulcrum on which my father's and brother's lives are based. Life for them will never be the same, now she's gone. For some strange reason though, I feel mum's presence even stronger now. And I think that may be because I was with her when she died and I firmly believe her soul touched mine as it left this life.
The world already seems a much colder and lonelier place without her. It could certainly do with more people like my mother.
Mum was always very philosophical about life and her last words to me were, "What will be, will be."
Ironically, the only time I broke up was when we played Doris Day's "Que Sera, Sera". But then I heard my father beside me, quietly singing along and gently swaying, so I joined in with him. I looked across at my uncles and aunties and saw that they too were quietly singing and swaying as well. I smiled ... mum would like this I thought.
Because we had the funeral service at the same location as the actual burial, we all walked behind the hearse to the graveside. It was a sunny day fortunately and dad's indominitable spirit shone through as he even cracked a joke about us all expiring from car fumes.
I actually enjoyed the experience - the sentimentality of the service; the goodwill of those present; the sunny day; the good-natured walk behind the hearse and the gentle sprinkling of rose petals over mum's coffin at the graveside.
After most people had left the grave, the uncles and aunties conducted a short little religious service at the graveside, sprinkling holy water and reciting spiritual texts. Even though mum hadn't been to church for 35 years, they felt it was important that she was given a Catholic burial. I actually didn't mind them doing it in the way that they did, but the thought did cross my mind, "I would have liked them to have asked, rather than conduct (what seemed to me) a guerilla arcane ritual when everyone had gone."
Still, they felt it was needed and it was important to me that everyone farewelled mum in their own way.
Now is the hard part - going on with our lives without the beautiful, loving presence of my mother. This is going to be especially difficult for dad - she really was the fulcrum of his life.
I kept wondering to myself, "I wonder why I'm not all that sad?" And I honestly think it was because I was with mum when she died. Let me tell you briefly about that:
As soon as we got the news that my mother was critically ill, I rushed to the hospital and wrapped my arms around her, weeping without restraint. In the week that followed, our hopes were raised and then dashed several times - she seemed to be improving, then something else would go wrong; maybe she would survive; but then it was feared she had sustained brain damage from lack of oxygen.
Finally, it was decided to take her off all life support systems as she was showing signs of being able to breathe on her own - which she did - for a week.
My sister and I had been maintaining a steady vigil at her bedside as it was so important to me that mum didn't die alone. Dad has always hated being "cooped up" inside and is particularly squeamish about hospitals, so while he visited two or three times a day - it was usually only for 10-15 minutes or so.
Mum was taken out of intensive care and put into a private hospital room and my sister took the first 'shift' of being with mum because she was no longer under the constant care and supervision of nursing staff. Jen stayed with her until around 8pm, crocheting and reading and occasionally looking up to check on her breathing etc. When I arrived to spend the night with mum, my sister and I stayed at the bedside for half an hour or so chatting and tending mum.
After Jenny left, I settled down in a chair beside my mother's bed. The hospital staff had offered to set me up on a mattress in the corner, but I just didn't want to be that far away from mum in case her breathing changed during the night and I wasn't close enough to pick up on it. (We'd been told that towards the end of a person's life, their breathing changes to what is called 'chain-stoking' (I think). It becomes more laboured and has long pauses).
Throughout the week, mum had been sedated to keep her comfortable. At one point, the doctors took her off the sedation to bring her around, but it became apparent that at some point mum's brain had been starved of oxygen or she had suffered a stroke. While she opened her eyes, there was absolutely no recognition from her or response to the nurse's instructions to 'squeeze my hand' or 'wriggle your toes.
I held mum's hand and snuggled my head into her arm. Her breathing was slow and steady, pretty much the same as it had been for the past several days.
Something made me look up at her and I noticed that her eyes had started to open (she was still under sedation at this point). I pushed my chair back and stood up. Her eyes opened wide and her breathing just stopped - just like that!
"Mum!" I exclaimed, and then I realised she was gone. Instantly, her face took on a different look and I knew with great certainty that she was dead. Gone. Just like that.
I pressed the buzzer for the nurse and said, "I think she's gone" and immediately there was a flurry of nurses around her bed with machines and monitors, but all it took was one nurse to take her pulse and shake her head and I knew that my mother's awful journey from life to death had ended.
I phoned my sister to get her back to the hospital. She'd just arrived home to where she was staying with our father and I heard her go into his bedroom and tell him the news. "I'm coming back, I'm coming back," Jenny told me with a real sense of urgency in her voice.
For the next 15-20 minutes until my sister arrived, I stroked my mother's face and hair, cooing over her. She had been such a gentle soul and I felt such a powerful connection of pure love.
Later, as Jenny and I drove home from the hospital, still a bit in shock a thought occurred to me - a really powerful thought ...
"You know how they say the eyes are the windows to the soul?" I said to Jenny. "Well, I just realised that mum was sedated ... there was no way she could have opened her eyes. I do believe that when she opened her eyes, it was her soul leaving her body."
And in that moment, I realised that I had witnessed my mother's soul leaving her body and on its journey from this life, her soul had touched mine.
I don't want to waste this incredible experience. I want to strengthen the qualities in me that echo my mother's sweet and gentle nature. I want to make the world a better place by loving more generously and less judgementally.
What will be, will be.
(Photos above are of mum at the ages of 16, 18 and 21 and then how I like to remember her).
Access: PublicTagged with: Death, Mother's Funeral, Eulogy, Farewell, Eyes Are Windows To The Soul, Doris Day's Que Sera Sera
She was so, so beautiful. Thank you. Thank you for sharing this, and thank you to your incredible mum for what she inspired in you, and thank you for your own strength and courage and sweetness. This was such a gift to read.