Resurrection

The Flowers of the Earth

- Resurrection -

My mother died at noon on the day before Mother’s Day. I had spent that Friday evening with her, arriving at the nursing home around six in the evening. She was sleeping, and hooked up to a ventilator across her face covering her nose. It was much later that it was explained to me that this machine was pushing shots of oxygen into the ventilator which helped her to breath. The noise of her breathing was the only sound in the room; it was a steady sound. Around nine on that Friday night, the contents of the feeding bag overflowed onto her nightdress and the sheets. There was a foul smell to it. I called for the nurse, who explained that my mother’s stomach just couldn’t take it in anymore. I left the room for the moment it took for the nurse to remove my mother’s feeding bag.

I nestled my fourth finger into her right hand, securing her fingers around mine with my other hand. Her hand felt a little cold, but I would keep it warm. I watched her. It appeared to me that my mother would not give up till she was certain her job was done. I told her that we were all fine. That she had nothing to worry about. It’s done. You did it all. So well, too. Let go, Mom.

Someone told me just the other day that it is not so much in the letting go, but recognizing that it’s already gone.

I left around midnight, and returned early the next morning to the same sound. Around nine my brothers and sisters started arriving, and by noon all seven of us were there. We gathered around her bed, and my brother Tom, his own mother’s doctor, removed the ventilator. I remember one last gasp for breath, and then her silence.

We recited the Our Father and three Hail Mary’s. We are Catholics.

I struggle with the resurrection. I do believe in what this man Jesus had to say: his message speaks to my heart. But when the story reaches the point about the empty tomb and the risen Lord, I smell fiction. It seems to me that the writers of this story made some stuff up. I can understand that they only wanted to help us by taking away the fear of death. But I often wonder if there is the need of a resurrection and the promise of an afterlife to dispel any fears we have of death.

The last time I took Mom out to lunch, when she could still go out to lunch, she was too quietly sitting next to me on the ride back to the nursing home. She was looking out the window, when she suddenly blurted out “Susie, never be afraid of anything. Once fear sets in, you may as well give it up.” My mother also told me, over lunch in the nursing home, that she was certain that when it was all over, you were just put back into the earth, and that was the end of things.

Someone somewhere once said that when a person dies, a whole world dies with them. I figure that their world slips back into the earth with them.

There was a geranium on the window sill of my mother’s room. I took it with me when I left the nursing home around three to drive the six hours back to my home in Virginia. I had trouble sleeping that night. I could still hear the steady sounds of her labored breathing.

Then next morning my husband took our two sons to nine o’clock mass. I stayed home, as I knew I could not face anyone just yet. Besides, I had a lot to do. On Monday we were leaving early for the eight hour drive to northern New Jersey for the wake that night and the funeral on Tuesday. I got the boys’ clothes together and packed, and then looked in my closet and realized I had no black. I had black and white stripes, but no black. Mom was always pleased when I had something new on that looked good on me. From a very early age, I had known that this gave her pleasure. I would go get something good and black for her funeral. Anyways, by then I thought it might be good to get out for a while.

There was a flower shop next to the first store that I went to. By now, it was around one in the afternoon. A little girl of about five emerged from the flower shop with her father. She wore an egg-shell blue dress that fell just below her knees and was softly gathered in the back with a string of lace. Her long, silky blonde hair hung down her back, and one hand was in her father’s while the other held a bouquet of flowers. She was having what looked like a serious conversation with her father about their next errand as they moved toward their car in the parking lot.

Then it hit me. My God, it’s Mother’s Day. I looked around and realized that the parking lot and sidewalk were full of men and children busily going about last minute shopping for their wives and their mothers. I took a deep breath, and kept walking.

There was nothing good and black there, so I returned to my car. As I drove to the next set of stores down the road about a mile or so, I thought perhaps I had lost it, and should not be out and about on my own. This was crazy. But no, I reasoned, I really had to do this. I had nothing to wear to my mother’s funeral. The next set of stores was also full of the same last minute shoppers, so I concentrated on the job at hand.

I spotted a black silk suit. I picked out my size in a jacket, blouse, and skirt, and walked toward the dressing room. The saleslady spotted me, and as it was an expensive suit, I guess she thought she could help me or should help me or ..maybe I looked as bad as I felt, and she was suspicious. I don’t know. I put the suit on to see if it fit. The saleslady asked if everything was ok., so I opened the door to show her that I was ok. She looked at me, and then she said “ And of course, you can tuck the blouse in, too, you know.”

I had not taken the time to do that, I just wanted to see if it fit. It did, so I told her I would take it.

After I paid for it, I watched as she put a plastic bag over the suit so I could carry it home on a hangar. At the cash register, she had been trying to make some small talk with me, but I was not responding. As she handed the hangar to me, she tried one more time. She said it was a lovely suit, and asked if it was a special gift for Mother’s Day. I managed a smile, and said no - no special occasion. I remarked that it was a shame she had to work on Mother’s Day, and she replied that when she got off work that evening at five, her husband would pick her up and then their children would have dinner ready for all of them. She was smiling by then at just the thought of it. I told to have a great evening, and walked out to my car.

Then the thought occurred to me that what I had just done was a good thing. I could have said it was for my mother’s funeral, but then I may have ruined her Mother’s Day. No need for that. And then I realized that it was my mother who had taught me how to do that. What I’d just done. A good thing.

But that night I could still hear her breathing, and a week later I could still hear her breathing. Only now she was getting cold in that casket, and gasping for breath. I had trouble sleeping.

Recently a student was talking to me about his first reading of James Joyce’s Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. This young man had been introduced to the basic idea of the epiphany as the key to the element of structure in this novel. As young students often do, he started to explain to me something I already knew. But I sat and listened: he was so pleased with himself that it was a small joy that day just to watch him. He started with an explanation of the traditional linear structure of a novel where the story starts, the drama builds, there is a conflict, then resolution, the drama decreases, the story ends, and everyone lives happily ever after. Then he went on to contrast this with the structure of Portrait which presents life as a series of epiphanies. Instead of a straight line, he told me in great earnest, life is more a series of circles rising up from the continuous line. The top of each circle is the moment of epiphany. But then this young man said the most interesting thing. Whoever had lectured him on structure in Portrait had not told where in the text the five epiphanies occur - epiphanies that learned professors all over the world love to tell their eager students about. The student said, “And the first epiphany is when he wets his bed ….First it’s warm and then it’s cold. That is the first little epiphany, and they just get bigger.” With that, he was finished. I had never considered that as the first epiphany, but I think this young man could be right.

First we are warm, and then we are cold. And there is no resurrection.

Five years later, and that geranium still sits in my dining room window. Why are we mothers so concerned with the growing of flowers? Why do sweet little girls in egg-shell blue dresses bring bouquets to them every Mother’s Day? Could it possibly be that each spring, as the cold dirt of the earth is warmed by the spring sun, the flowers inch their way up and out for a breath of air? And could it possibly be that it is the world of our mothers in those flowers, that world that slipped into the grave with them, which comes back in those vivid blossoms for a few precious weeks of spring to remind us once again that we are here to do good things?

Could it possibly be there never is an end to things, Mom?

(Edited version)

“In the flowers of the earth, our mothers live on”

The Virginian-Pilot

Thursday, May 9, 2002

My mother died at noon on the day before Mother’s Day. I had spent that Friday evening with her, arriving at the nursing home . She was sleeping. The noise of her labored breathing, with the help of an oxygen mask, was the only sound in the room; it was a steady sound.

I nestled my fourth finger into her right hand, securing her fingers around mine with my other hand. Her hand felt a little cold, but I would keep it warm.

I watched her. It appeared to me that my mother would not give up till she was certain her job was done. I told her that we were all fine. That she had nothing to worry about. It’s done. You did it all. So well, too. Let go, Mom.

I left around midnight, and returned early the next morning to the same sound. Around nine my brothers and sisters started arriving, and by noon all seven of us were there. We gathered around her bed. I remember one last gasp for breath, and then her silence.

We recited the Our Father and three Hail Mary’s. We are Catholics.

In other words, I suspect that the writers made some stuff up. I can understand that they only wanted to help us by taking away the fear of death. But I often wonder if there is the need of a resurrection and the promise of an afterlife to dispel any fears we have of death.

My mother once told me that she was certain that when it was all over, you were just put back into the earth, and that was the end of things. She had figured that out.

I got the boys’ clothes together and packed, and then looked in my closet and realized I had no black. Mom was always pleased when I had something new on that looked good on me. From a very early age, I had known that this gave her pleasure. I would go get something good and black for her funeral. Anyways, by then I thought it might be good to get out for a while.

There was a flower shop next to the first store that I went to. A little girl of about five emerged from the flower shop with her father. She wore an egg-shell blue dress that fell just below her knees and was softly gathered in the back with a string of lace. Her long, silky blonde hair hung down her back, and one hand was in her father’s while the other held a bouquet of flowers.

There was nothing good and black there, so I returned to my car, and stopped at another.

I spotted a black silk suit. It fit, and I told the saleslady I would take it.

It’s was a lovely suit, she said, and asked if it was a special gift for Mother’s Day. I managed a smile, and said no - no special occasion. I remarked that it was a shame she had to work on Mother’s Day, and she replied that when she got off work that evening at five, her husband would pick her up and then their children would have dinner ready for all of them. She was smiling by then at just the thought of it.

It occurred to me that what I had just done was a good thing. I could have said it was for my mother’s funeral, but then I may have ruined her Mother’s Day. No need for that. And then I realized that it was my mother who had taught me how to do that. What I’d just done. A good thing.

It has been four years since my mother died. The geranium blossoms today in my dining room window. Why are we mothers so concerned with the growing of flowers? Why do sweet little girls in egg-shell blue dresses bring bouquets to them every Mother’s Day?

Could it possibly be that each spring, as the cold dirt of the earth is warmed by the spring sun, the flowers inch their way up and out for a breath of air? Could it possibly be that it is the world of our mothers in those flowers, that world that slipped into the grave with them, which comes back in those vivid blossoms for a few precious weeks of spring to remind us once again that we are here to do good things?

Could it possibly be there never is that end to things, Mom?