My mother's first brush with death was almost exactly 11 years ago, when she was hospitalized in critical condition. After that, she'd proclaim each impending birthday or Christmas her last. On the day after, snarkasaurus that I am, I would point out that she was still among the living. Then she obsessed about particular days or birthday, like the year she turned 67, which was her father's age when he died. She even started giving away family heirlooms to us. She was so sure that she'd die on that birthday that she seemed almost disappointed when she didn't. Of course, 2011 was, once again, the Last Christmas. This time, she was right. It wasn't only her last Christmas, but Bunny's, as well.
Of course, Bunny had reason to announce that 2011 would be his last Christmas. His oncologist had told us as much. Still, having been conditioned by my mother, I held out hope that maybe the doctors were wrong: maybe he could squeak by with just one more. But since it was most likely his last Christmas, I said I'd go anywhere he wanted. He picked Louisiana. I don't really know why he was so set on going there, other than to see family and friends one last time. The last Christmas we'd celebrated in Louisiana was when Joey was about eight. But going there was only part of the plan--he also wanted Joey, Corey, the kids and me to pile into a rented RV and DRIVE there. I told him I'd sooner slit my throat on the spot, and promptly booked airline tickets. Once we landed we'd have a nice minivan rented to tool around in. He was happy with that solution.
At the beginning of December, his health started declining. He was in the hospital three times before Christmas, coming out each time resolved to continue with his plans. Finally, his doctors started to discourage the plan, and after hospitalization #3, I did, as well. Even so, we had a nice Christmas with our immediate family--the noisy bunch that was initally supposed to have made a 12 hour drive together. I cooked his favorite holiday foods and did everything I could to make it as nice as I could. We enjoyed being together and playing with the kids. I thought it had been a good alternate Christmas.
My sister Julie came the next day to visit for a few days. Almost as soon as she arrived, I came down with a wicked stomach virus. I shut myself (head pounding and stomach churning) in the bedroom to try to recover. Just as I was about to drift off to sleep, I overheard Bunny telling Julie that it had been the worst Christmas ever. I was so angry and hurt, but also too ill to address his comment at the time. I never got the chance to, because by the time I was well, he was admitted to the hospital for the last time.
My mother was a crier. Happy occasions or sad, she'd cry. We all used to tease her about one particular outburst over a Hallmark commercial. We also had side bets going on whether she'd cry at my sister Jan's wedding. Jan was her baby, and she's similar to Mama in the crying department. I'm just the opposite: I hate to cry. My maternal grandmother was that way, as well. To us, crying was just so...messy. Unseemly. Weak. Even as a child, I was loathe to cry. During some family disaster I've long since fogotten, I once overheard Mama tell someone that we would all hold up unless I cried. "If Liz cries, we're done, for sure." She knew how much I hated to cry.
When Julie returned to Louisiana, it fell to her to break the news that Bunny's death was imminent. I couldn't
call her with that kind of news, because I knew I wouldn't be able to control my emotions, and I was certain she couldn't control hers. The day before he died was a Saturday. I always talked to Mama on Saturdays, but I told Julie and Todd (my brother-in-law) that I couldn't talk to Mama until she had cried it all out. They were going to keep her away from the phone until she was in a suitable state, then she would call me.
My cell phone rang during the mid-afternoon, and her name was on the caller ID. It had been several hours since she'd gotten the news, so I figured she'd passed the crying screen. In reality, she'd given Julie and Tood the slip and called without them knowing it.
"How are you doing?" she asked, voice even and calm.
"I'm okay," I lied. I had managed to hold myself together all day up to that point.
"No you're not!!!" she wailed. Then she was off to the races: she wanted to be with me, needed to be with me and she couldn't. Of course I understood, knowing the precarious state of her health. Nothing I said could calm her or ease the anguish in her voice. By the time I hung up, I was a sobbing, hot mess. Fortunately, Joey walked in just then and I fell into his arms, a soggy heap of his former Supermom.
I knew exactly how my mother felt--the need to be with a child who is suffering a loss is all-consuming. Three years ago, Joey and Corey lost a baby at birth--Peyton Skye--and as soon as he called to tell me, my first instinct was to get to him as quickly as I could. I felt sadness not just for myself, but for Joey and Corey and Trinity, who was so excited about getting a little sister. My heart broke in ways I had never before thought possible. Now here was my mother, feeling the same instincts and feelings I had felt, but powerless to act upon them.
Bunny died on New Year's night, which was a Sunday. My mother entered the hospital for her last time that Thursday. No one thought anything particularly alarming at the time, because she usually went into the hospital at least once during the winter. This time, though, she couldn't bounce back.
Now the fresh scars on my heart from Bunny's loss have been ripped open and torn in new directions. The sense of loss I feel is nearly overwhelming at times. My sadness is like a bottomless well. The title of an old Cyndi Lauper song describes my feelings right now pretty succinctly: There's a Hole in My Heart That Goes all the Way to China.
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