The Loneliest Journey

It's one we all face, and one we will all accomplish by ourselves - no company even if they're holding our hand. It's intensely personal, unique, and must be done by ourselves, inside our deepest places.

MIL passed last Thursday morning - alone as we all are at that time, even when surrounded by loved ones, friends, family or caregivers. She went peacefully after being ill for a long time. We had a chance to say "I'm sorry" and "I love you", the closing things we all wish to say but sometimes don't get the chance to express. There were "I'm sorry" statements, too, which is as it should be since none of us are perfect and all of us trip over another's feelings from time-to-time.

Three times I've been through this immediately, and each has been different, unique.

First with my Dad, whose hand I held until he made it clear he wanted to be left to finish by himself. He was surrounded by family: my mom, his wife of just three weeks shy of fifty years, two daughters, grandchildren and a future son-in-law and a then daughter-in-law. He fought until he couldn't any more, but he was comfortable and assured by each of us, 'it's okay, you can let go'.

The second time was with my father-in-law, who died in the arms of my MIL of a massive heart attack - dead almost before he hit the floor. No one was there but the two of them. By the time I got there the EMTs had left, the Sheriff's deputies were still there, milling around while forensics made sure nothing unusual had happened. MIL was deeply shocked - pale-faced and watching in numb horror while they did what they had to.

When it was all over, I got her to bed and set to working out my frustration with the situation by scrubbing their house.

The third time was last Thursday.

For months, she couldn't get up on her own, walk on her own. Hubby waited on her, literally, hand and foot. Always at her beck and call, up at all hours of the night to check on her, help her, change her, wash her, feed her. Over time she lost interest. First the radio, then the television. Her appetite changed until she was barely eating and had to be hand fed. Finally, she stopped eating and resisted drinking.

In the end she slipped away peacefully, alone while I was on my way back from work where I had gone to pick up some things to do if the wait was longer than a few hours, and while hubby was outside, hanging laundry on the line. He came in and found her, then called me.

The requirements, the small necessary ceremonies of removal, the quiet moments while we absorbed the sudden change in our lives. Phone calls and e-mails to family and friends, closing those doors on a life. That led into the frenetic, almost manic release of anger and fear and grief.

For the past four days, from almost as soon as the funeral home took her body away until yesterday afternoon we cleaned. First, the living room that had been her bedroom for the past four years, then spreading out from there. The downstairs of our house hasn't been this clean since before we moved in, and there's still the upstairs to do. But that's for next weekend.

A chance to work out the anger and fear, a chance to purge ourselves of things she had brought that we never wanted. Along the way we discovered things we didn't even know we had - glassware and some appliances. Things were donated, others were tossed, none will be missed because they were never "ours". They belonged to Charlotte.

There, her name: Charlotte. Not MIL anymore since she has achieved the anonymity of death.

There is no true grieving for me. We weren't close. We lived together, ate meals together, spoke together for the better part of ten years, more than thirty-five as part of an in-law family, but we never bonded, even though we shared a house.

She was too private, too closed-in to let me get to know her inner-self. Conversation was question and answer - she asking and taking while I answered and gave. There was no back-and-forth, no meeting of the minds or expressions of self. After a time, I gave up, settling for doing for her as much as I could, as much as she would allow.

Hubby has mixed feelings. Sadness that released in wild bouts of grief before the fact, when he saw and knew what was coming. More grief and shock after she was gone. Then came a relief, a knowing she wasn't needing his help any more, that she is more comfortable now than she was just a few days ago. No more pain, no more blindness, no more waiting for what we all knew was coming.

Friday we visited the funeral home, another ceremony of signing off on her last wishes - a private ripple that won't include anyone not required. I don't even know what she wanted, except for cremation and not being on the shelf next to her hubby's box. Which we still need to figure out what to do with.

There were periods of quiet, peaceful moments, too. Times for hubby and me to sit and speak, to look around and sigh.

The medical equipment was picked up. Her bed and other furniture are in the garage until we decide what to do with them. More doors closing on what was.

We have our house back. It no longer contains all the things - big and small - that she "had" to have around her when she moved in. For ten years it looked like a Victorian parlour - overcrowded and cluttered. Now, for a change, we can decide for ourselves how we want things to be.

One of the first things we did was to restart the clocks - the grandfather clocks (two of them - one was hers and her husbands, one is ours), the pendulum clocks that give our house its heartbeat but that had been stilled because it was too loud at night for her to sleep. It's back, ticking and tocking, giving life to rooms that had been too still since Thursday morning.

For myself, I feel quiet, accepting. I think of Charlotte as a young woman, dancing, light and free of all that weighed her down on Earth. I wish that for her because it's her due.

Best~
Philippa

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