The Silent Minutes Before Midnight
It’s no Hallmark Movie
I can’t believe it’s been five years since we all said goodbye. It feels so recent. But if I’m being fair to myself, and that surely seems appropriate, the past several years have been like no other, so time has traveled in new and strange ways.
Shortly after you left, there was a pandemic, where we learned the new phrase “shelter in place.” A lot of people died. Too many. It was almost unbelievable. It took months for something to replace it as the top story (although it’s gone on for years.) A man in my own neighborhood was killed by police, which sparked protests and riots here and across the country and the world. Then, a corrupt and very unlikely man became our president, which led to so many, many things, including a failed coup. I’m telling you, you’d have lost your mind with the way the 24-hour news channels were on every TV in your house all at once!
A big part of me is glad you were spared all that.
I often think of our final days together. It was a beautiful spring — the sun was shining, the wind was blowing. When I arrived at the hospital to help move you to hospice you perked up, you said “My baby’s here!” And you asked me, so emphatically, “How ARE you?” as if I were the one with pain. You know I only partly hated being called the baby of the family my whole life. Those were pretty much the last words you spoke to me. Mikey told me that was the most you’d said in a couple days. And all six of us kids were finally home.
I was glad we got you a spot in a good facility to help get your pain under control. That private room was very nice, with its door to the little patio area right outside.
We didn’t expect the attending doctor to tell us, shortly after we arrived, that you were “close.” That this could be the day.
That sent shockwaves. Phone calls. I settled in for the challenge.
The room was spacious, and we were able to bring in a couple of cots, and there was the couch. It was a bit like camping, all of us sleeping together in the same room. We’d never done that, had we?
Over those several days, you hardly opened your eyes, or talked, or moved. Someone might think you were sleeping, but you were mostly awake. We listened to music that day and there was lots of chatter. We’d take turns sitting at your side, holding your hand, brushing your hair, talking to you. Your sister came by and sat with you for hours. Her daughter came too, and she whispered a request for you to put in the good word for her when you get to heaven, and you laughed. You were never alone, not for a minute.
When Mikey put on the big band music you loved, I was at your side, holding your hand. I started tugging at your finger in time to the music, as if we were dancing, and the corner of your mouth curled up just a bit, like you were smiling. I knew you’d like that! They told us how you could still hear us, still knew we were present, so we just kept on that way. Talking to you, telling stories. Hoping to make you laugh or smile. A few times you groaned in response to things, and we knew what you were saying.
Did you notice the bird outside? There was a bird’s nest, up on that little wall outside your door. It must’ve had an egg or two in it, because that robin was always in it and screaming at us. Every time we went out there, she’d yell and flap her wings, for us to stay away.
I told her I wasn’t going to bother her, but I wasn’t going anywhere. She had hers to tend to, and I had mine. I wasn’t leaving your side.
The next day there was so much activity, so many comings and goings, it was rarely quiet. At one point, Tracy called me to ask how things were. She wanted to talk to you, or to at least have me put the phone up to your ear so you could hear from your granddaughter who was so far away. I had to tell her it wasn’t a good time. I had just walked in the room, and it was like something out of a movie.
There was a harp player set up in the middle of the room. The door was open to the outside and the wind was blowing in, the curtains moving with the breeze. Everyone was gathered around, still as could be, looking at you, when she started playing Ave Maria.
Ave Maria, harpsichord, blowing curtains, and sunshine. What was that — a Hallmark movie of the week?
It was surreal. I thought it was the most contrived moment I’d ever seen. You could’ve said goodbye right then. But you didn’t. That kind of drama was never your style, and besides, there were probably too many people around.
If I had really thought about it, I could’ve predicted when you’d leave. All the goodbyes had been said, some went home for the night, and the room quieted down as those of us there started to get a little sleep. Your eldest child sat quietly holding your hand and coaxed you once more to let go. I was drifting off but was right there at your side, too.
Something changed in the room, and I sat up. She told me she thought your breathing had changed, and I could tell that it had. I thought it went shallow or slow, so I reached out and put my hand on your bare back where the gown had opened, to see if I could feel your breath. You were still, all but for your heart, still pounding away. I said I didn’t think you were breathing and took my hand away for just a moment — only a moment — and when I touched you again, your heart was silent.
Our family’s journey, and all your pain, had come to an end in a very quiet, peaceful moment, minutes before midnight. Outside, the moon and stars shone bright and the crickets chirped, but the robin was silent in her nest.
That moment, that day, those weeks, will forever be etched in my heart and mind. They changed me, and they broke me. I’ve healed into the person I am today, five years older, a little wiser, and certainly a little grayer. But I’m not alone. I often feel your presence and hear your voice. I only wish I could make you laugh and dance with you once again.
