I drove from Peoria to Pittsfield IL on a sunny Saturday morning in January of 1979 to visit my mother for the last time. Her cancer was relentless. Mom was well into the acceptance phase; she had never wasted time in a denial or an anger stage. However, she had carried on a bargaining relationship with God until my Dad had died 5 months earlier that past August. For over a year she had taken chemotherapy treatments to stave off the cancer and maintain enough strength so she could sit daily at Dad’s side in the nursing home, combing his hair and holding his hand, before driving back to their bed and wait for another morning to come. After his death she had said “No more treatments; I’m OK now.”
The 3hour trip was under a bright January sun, all light and no heat. Pittsfield was the typical small rural town, where a substantial part of the population was retired farm couples who found “moving to town” the prudent and necessary strategy when their farming days were over and the time came to relinquish the land to the next generation. The small house on South Memorial where Mom and Dad had moved about 10 years earlier was like all the others; they housed people in that passage between the farm and the grave, but their houses would never be “home”.
I had assured my family in Peoria it was OK to stay behind; we’d be going back soon enough. Somehow this was something I wanted to do alone, and my wife Jan sensed that. My brother Lawrence and sister Rose Anne, the two of the six children who lived in the vicinity and were with her daily, had scheduled an ambulance to transport Mom to the Pittsfield hospital at noon. The 70s were a time before a death at home was to be turned into the spiritual event by the devoted ministry of the hospice care people that we are blessed with today. At least not in communities like Pittsfield. So being transported to the hospital for care in those last days was the conventional practice of the day.
As I parked in the driveway I realized I had arrived ahead of Lawrence. Rose Anne had been there, but no doubt had errands to run. As I opened the front door Mom somehow knew it was me! I heard her greeting in a faint voice from the bedroom, “Donnie, come in; I’m glad you’re here.” Our words of greeting were slow and soft; few were needed. I removed my coat and entered the bedroom where she rested in the bed she had shared with Dad for 46 years.
She said proudly, “Donnie, I fixed you a meal so you won’t have to stop to eat going home.” I said, “Mom, how did you do that? You’re not supposed to be getting out of bed and moving around by yourself!” I had a little energy this morning”; she said with a smile, “go ahead.”
I walked back to the dining area that held our old farm family table. With the leaves removed it just fit into the corner between the kitchen and the front room! A sandwich containing lunchmeat and cheese slices, divided in two pieces by an angled cut from corner to corner, rested on a kitchen plate. Two carrot sticks and a radish shared space on the plate, and an empty glass for a drink stood beside it. Mom’s last meal was for me!
I stood and ran my hands along the side of the table and thought of all the grand meals that table had held! I remembered those abundant summer Sunday dinners when the table has heaped with fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, fresh beans and tomatoes and carrots and beets and all those marvelous garden prizes! Those dinners Mom prepared many years ago would compete with any described by people competing for remembrances of times past when such meals were common. Our best and most abundant meals were when our Uncle Edward (her brother) and family would visit us in the summertime back in the early 50’s.
We always ate supper together as a family. With the symmetry of three boys and three girls, we sat the same every night; Mom at one end, Dad at the other. On one side from Dad to Mom sat John Edward, then me in the middle, and Lawrence next to Mom. On the other side sat Margaret, Rose Anne in the middle, and Mary Jo next to Mom. This old table was the family alter of our life together. Mom spread out dress patterns on it, we did our homework around it, Dad worked his farm records on it. The number of birthday cakes that were placed on this table must have ran into the hundreds!
These pictures from the past floated on the soft breeze of my memory until my Mom’s call released me from them and brought me back to her side. People would be coming soon. What could I say? What should I do? Mom solved that. “Donnie, join me in the rosary I’ve been praying” she said. As I knelt beside her she continued “Hail Mary, full of grace, the lord is with thee; blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus…
I’m transported by her prayer back to our little farm home… the original one before we had electricity. This time of year we would pray the rosary nightly, with the winter wind outside somehow able to make the flame in the kerosene lamp on the kitchen table flicker. The Warm Morning wood stove would warm the side of us facing it; our backsides away from the stove was several degrees cooler! The five decades of the rosary were always led by the same five of us in the same order. Dad went first; then Mom, John Edward, Me, with Margaret last. By the last decade Dad would be softly snoring into his hands resting on the seat of his rocker, but Mom would never wake him until we had finished…
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death amen... The phrase “hour of death” has relevance as never before. This prayer will be our good-by because I hear a sound at the door. Mom looked at me and then turned to look at the pillow beside her as we hear the sounds. I kiss her cheek and stand up.
Rose Anne and Lawrence escort two young men dressed in white coats rolling a gurney across the front room. Rose Anne went with them to help Mom; I stayed in the front room with Lawrence. I don’t remember what we said to each other. The next thing Mom was being transported through the door into the ambulance for the short trip to the Illini Hospital on West Washington Street. I tell Lawrence and Rose Anne that I’ll close up… meaning I’m not going with them, I guess. They drive off behind the ambulance.
I return to the bedroom and just stand there. My gaze takes in the dresser, the chest of drawers, and the old black cast iron framed Singer sewing machine that sits just inside the door. At last I look at the bed where Mom had slept with Dad for 46 years. The bed where I had been conceived. I turn and softly close the door.