Strength and honour are her clothing; and she shall rejoice in time to come. (Proverbs 31:25)
It was another hot and sticky evening toward the end of August. The dust lay thick on the stubborn weeds beside the road on Bowen Creek, a small, restful settlement twenty-three miles southeast of Huntington, West Virginia. Their leaves had begun to darken and curl around the edges from lack of rain. I had taken Andrew, my grandson, for a short walk, introducing him to touch-me-nots. In spite of their need for water, they were tender and grew thick in the shaded area of the ditch along the road. I’d just finished explaining the touch-me-not’s ability to curl the instant they are gingerly pinched between the thumb and index finger, so Andrew quickly depleted the handful I’d picked. Then, the second they were gone, he looked at me and whined, “Papaw, find me some more pinch-me-nots.” I love how three-year-olds get our language all tangled up. They somehow manage to take something that’s not the least bit amusing and innocently turn it into a story worth relating to others, by that, adding a ray of sunshine to our otherwise somber spirits. Like touch-me-nots, they burst forth with surprises, and they do it when we need it most.
Mother’s health had been declining the last four months or so, but she’d gotten worse since Sunday. Both immediate and extended family members and friends came to visit at my oldest sister, Pat’s—to be there at a time of need in the house Mother had called home since Daddy died. It was especially thoughtful of Aunt Emmy, Daddy’s only remaining sister, to be there. She’d lost Uncle Joe to cancer in May, and had called often to check on Mother since then.
Community and family members had brought in food and other items throughout the day—desserts, chips, casseroles, bread, beverages, paper products, plastic utensils, and more. When I carried in a large Tupperware bowl filled with freshly popped corn, everybody laughed. Donna, my sister-in-law, was the first to remark, “Well, I never saw anybody bring popcorn at a time like this,” shaking with laughter as she cupped her hand like a scoop for shoveling some out for herself.
I said, “Well, I see you’re not wastin’ any time gettin’ your share.” Donna laughed even louder, ignoring my sarcasm as she delved into the pile with her left hand while picking up some spilled morsels with her right.
Food and Thompson family gatherings belong in the same breath, and it’s been like that since I can remember. In fact, Mother started it all by inflicting everybody in the family with cravings to sample all the mouth-watering dishes she’d perfected over the years. We constantly bragged on her, instilling the desire in her to cook even better. She referred to her meals as rough grub, but in spite of what Mother called them, we had an obsession for her fried chicken, pork chops, mashed potatoes, green beans, sauerkraut, pickled corn, cobblers, cornbread, or anything else her hands prepared. And even though there was an air of sadness because of Mother’s pending departure, we coped for a while by our simple love for eating.
Suddenly, a wail from Nila Jean, my youngest sister, pierced the air, and I knew—Mother was gone. All the attention I was devoting to the ones seated in Pat’s kitchen vanished. Instead, I focused on the movement in the living room, hastening there to find Nila Jean and other family members embracing one another and weeping inaudibly because of what was occurring in the bedroom. For an instant, I closed my eyes and prayed for strength to face the inevitable. Then, I stepped into the bedroom. Pat was at the head of the hospital bed, caressing Mother’s forehead and crying softly. I moved to be beside Pat and to clasp Mother’s tender hand, knowing it would be the last time I would feel its warmth. My oldest brother, Kenneth, stood to my right, edging his way to the bedside, too. He placed his hand on Mother’s chest to see if she were breathing. Nila Jean came into the room, and the four of us remained with our mother until she took her final breath. It was all over in two or three minutes at the most. My brother, Philip, didn’t arrive until after Mother died. Neither was my sister, Margaret, there. She’d gone home for her insulin shot—was to return only minutes later. If Margaret had known Mother was that near death, she wouldn’t have left for any reason. As it was, our heavenly Father—all-knowing—spared both Philip and Margaret the heartbreak of seeing Mother leave us around five-thirty in the evening, August 31, 2000.
Mother had shown signs of heart problems earlier in the year. She would tire easily from bathing, walking across a room, or anything requiring the least exertion. During these episodes, she labored to breathe, and her fingernails and lips turned purplish. Too, we noticed a vein above her lip bulging during these moments of activity.
She’d stopped her embroidery work, something she toiled at daily after Daddy died more than three years earlier—kept at it until more than a hundred sets of pillowcases had been meticulously embellished. She gave most of them away to her children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, nieces, nephews, friends, or anyone who showed interest. Mother doled them out, neatly ironed and folded, in the protection of Ziploc bags. Her only payment was a hug and a thank you from each recipient, and her delight in doing it was displayed by the smile that emerged from her soul. The day before her last Christmas, Mother sent Pat on a mission—to deliver pillowcases to some of the women in the community. When Pat gave Freda Lucas hers, she pressed them to her bosom saying, “Tell Marie I thank ’er ten thousand times.” To Mother, Freda’s words were like ten thousand thank-yous.
In April, despite Mother’s physical problems, I decided to take her South—to Durham, North Carolina—to visit my youngest son, Nathan, for a few days. I knew making the seven-hour trip was risky, but I’d been promising her this getaway for sometime. She later confessed that she’d been reluctant to make the journey, not knowing if she were able. Finally, she decided to go anyway, in spite of her near constant pain with osteoarthritis. Mother always said, “It’s not any worse settin’ in a car and hurtin’ than it is to set at the house and do the same thing. I don’t hurt nary bit more.”
On the way to Nathan’s, I stopped at a convenience mart for Mother to use the restroom. Easing the situation as best I could, I pulled the car within a few steps of the facility. Once she got back in the car, however, I noticed her lips were purple, and the vein above her lip was protruding. Immediately, I became worried but tried not letting it show. Still, Mother’s instinct detected my concern, so she assured me everything was okay. Soon, the natural color returned to her lips, enabling me to partially relax—at least for the remainder of our drive.
I’d picked her up at Pat’s fairly early. Yet by the time we reached Interstate 77, the sun was hypnotic and weighing heavily on my eyelids, causing them to close involuntarily for two or three seconds at a time. I caught Mother in my peripheral vision each time I jerked awake, feeling her tenseness with my driving, although she kept silent—kept quiet temporarily, that is. We continued down the highway several miles, neither driver nor passenger saying a word. Suddenly Mother shrieked, “Jack!” Instantly, my eyes popped open. We were in the left, southbound lane, gradually easing our way beneath a huge logging truck to our right. Somehow, I instinctively swerved left and out of harm’s way, then calmly said to Mother, “Did you hear what you called me?”
She replied, “I called you Jack, didn’t I?” my father’s nickname and only name he’d been called since I could remember.
We had ourselves a good laugh while continuing toward Nathan’s; however, when our conversation slowed, sleepiness would revisit me, and I would again become a menace on the highway. Mother tried persuading me to stop numerous times for a nap, but I’d quickly reassure her that I had the situation under control. Finally, Old Sol released his hold on me and moved on to mesmerize some unsuspecting driver to our west. With luck, we arrived at Nathan’s in one piece several hours before darkness set in.
Due to inclement weather, entertainment was limited during our visit. Heavy rains came, refusing to leave. Still, my heart was set on taking Mother to enjoy the flower gardens at Duke University. God surely wanted her to appreciate them, too, because He delivered the sun from behind the billowing clouds, allowed the temperature to climb to a comfortable level, and kept the rains at bay for us to see this popular tourist attraction. We got in the car and headed for Duke. After finding a parking spot and wrestling Mother’s overweight wheelchair out of the trunk, I helped in bundling her up in a coat and scarf then wheeled her toward the gardens. Since there was an apparent downhill grade along the passageway, I commented to Mother, “I may have a hard time gettin’ you back up this hill.”
With a quick comeback, she said, “If you can’t, then I guess I’ll just have to enroll at Duke.”
We both laughed as I fought against gravity pulling us down that well-defined descent to the gardens. It was, however, worth the difficulty I endured maneuvering the wheelchair just to hear Mother say, “I believe to my soul this is the prettiest place I’ve ever seen.” At that moment, all her stored memories were pushed to the dark recesses of her mind. She temporarily forgot the attraction she and Daddy had for the small, rustic bungalow we rented at the beach on Oak Island in North Carolina two summers in a row. She also momentarily forgot touring Orton Plantation near Wilmington, North Carolina, the road to its entrance lined by massive live oaks, their mighty limbs cascading to earth, where they had slumbered for decades. Neither did she recall experiencing the beauty of St. Augustine, Florida, the oldest city in the United States, on her way to spend a few days with Uncle Forrest and Aunt Pearl. Yes, Mother briefly dismissed these other events from memory altogether. Her eyes were focused instead on the present, tangible beauty of the flower gardens, not the loveliness of things or places hidden in her past.
I wheeled Mother into a picturesque gazebo, approximately twenty-five feet in diameter, containing benches along its entire circumference. The design looked Japanese, and its roof was adorned with wisterias, resembling lavender pods of grapes dangling about, intermingled with vines and other greenery. Beyond the gazebo was a gentle slope covered by an array of flowers delicately arranged on terraces along the hillside, and each species therein was tagged with both common and scientific names.
At the foot of the hill were ponds blanketed with water lilies. And standing near the edge of each pond and beyond were enormous magnolia trees, their branches bowing to the ground then standing semi-erect in their struggle to rise toward the heavens. Thick, waxen leaves and giant blossoms with cream-colored petals dotted each limb. As we leisurely passed them by, I secretly wished I had planted at least one magnolia tree when my boys were small so it could have grown up with the two of them. I would have enjoyed the stateliness of a magnolia to gaze upon in my golden years. And, too, it would have reminded me of my boys in their age of innocence and the precious time I spent with my mother on that crisp spring afternoon in the flower gardens at Duke University. But as it is with many circumstances in life, winter soon nips at our heels, we miss opportunities, and then it’s too late to plant magnolias and build Japanese gazebos.
After toiling to push Mother’s wheelchair back uphill, then securing her and the chair in the car, excitement welled inside me in anticipation of her seeing the chapel on campus, too. Unfortunately, there was a wedding, so we were unable to tour its ornate interior and hear the perfect acoustics as the pipe organ resounded within. The only alternative to exploring the awe-inspiring interior was to wheel Mother the entire perimeter of the chapel’s exterior. There, we watched from a distance as a photographer snapped pictures of the wedding party, each participant looking as if they’d just stepped off the cover of one of New York’s trendiest magazines. Afterwards, we headed back to Nathan’s because the sky had begun to darken, casting an imminent threat of rain again.
The following day—Sunday—it rained, and then it rained some more. Water rushed across the streets and parking lots in its race to find the city’s drainage tunnels. Next, it fought against itself for dominance in the smaller tributaries and rivers. Finally, it forced its way to the inlets, bays, and mighty Atlantic Ocean—to the place where it could roar and flex its muscles wide. Taking Mother out to do anything was impossible. Besides the rain, it was cold, and Nathan was working. Mother and I were trapped indoors, so I busied myself preparing Sunday dinner. Mother didn’t have a lot to say. She seemed sleepy and cold, sitting on the couch with Nathan’s green, fuzzy blanket wrapped around her—nothing but her silver head sticking out—resembling a turtle emerging from its shell. Her lips turned bluish, and I began to worry.
While we waited for Nathan, I spent some time on his computer. I’d messed things up earlier in the day, trying to install a camera so we could see Nathan as well as talk with him from our computer at home. As a result, I had to reinstall everything, so by the time he got home, I had a tension headache because I wasn’t very knowledgeable about computer operations. Each time I looked at Mother, she was wrapped in the blanket, asleep. Sometimes she would wake up, and I’d tell her, “Mother, I’m sorry for not payin’ more attention to you.” And I did feel guilty about it. Still, she’d flash her usual sweet smile and say, “That’s all right. Don’t worry about it.” Yet I did worry, and I’m still conscious-stricken. Those were precious moments I could’ve spent with Mother rather than squander my attention on some inanimate device that was totally incapable of loving me back.
Monday, we headed back to West Virginia. Mother had slept well, as she did each night, in Nathan’s upstairs bedroom. On the way home, we pulled in at a Subway for lunch, but she only picked at the ham sandwich I bought her. Even before we went to Nathan’s, she’d had bouts of nausea, and her appetite had begun to dwindle. Pat had been telling us, “She’s got so she won’t eat anything.” My sister was worried. She prepared a variety of foods daily, hoping to find something Mother would like. Anthony, my oldest son, said to me, “When old people don’t wanna eat, it’s usually a sign that somethin’s wrong.” He had seen it often in the intensive care unit at the hospital where he works. Still, Mother remained alert on her diet of mostly fruits she nibbled at daily. Pat kept plenty of cantaloupe, watermelon, and grapes around—all the refreshing fruits she knew Mother liked. Sometimes she sampled a few bites of mashed potatoes and maybe a little cornbread or something else, but for the most part, she practically self-eliminated meats and vegetables from her diet.
On May 4, Mother was admitted to the hospital. Her cardiologist was blunt: He asked for nobody’s permission but sat on the edge of Mother’s bed and said, “You have a bad valve in your heart, Mrs. Thompson. You’re too old for surgery, and you’d probably die on the operating table.” He further informed her, “You will more than likely die in your sleep.” When I heard about what he’d said to her, I was furious. I could’ve put my hands to his throat and choked him until he himself gasped from being oxygen-deprived. How could a doctor display such lack of compassion? Surely he’d been properly trained in Bedside Manners 101 during medical school. How difficult would it have been to clasp her delicate hand and say, “Mrs. Thompson, there’s not a lot we can do with the condition you have, but you can count on one thing for sure: We’ll do everything in our power to help you all we can.”
In turn, Mother would’ve smiled and said, “That’s all a person can ask.” It would’ve been that simple. It takes no longer to display compassion than it does to leave a patient with a cloud of impending doom.
Yet because of the way the doctor handled the situation, I think—no, I’m sure—she just gave up. Oh, he did prescribe oxygen on a continuous basis; however, Medicare wouldn’t approve coverage unless her intake was below normal. If she were lying in bed, her oxygen level remained above what Medicare would approve. One nurse whispered to Pat, “Now I know your mother needs oxygen, and you know she needs it, so what we have to do is walk her up and down the hall ’til it drops to the level for Medicare authorization.”
She was discharged from the hospital on May 9, and was delivered an oxygen concentrator from Huntington—a machine that manufactured its own oxygen. A supply cord of ample length was attached, enabling her to move freely from her bedroom to the living room, kitchen, and bathroom for as long as she could walk.
One day she asked me, “Do you reckon I’ll ever be any better?”
To avoid giving a straight answer, I said, “Maybe you oughta start embroiderin’ again.”
She replied, “I might, if I feel up to it. Seems like I’m not much interested in doin’ it anymore.”
“How many pillowcases have you made so far?”
“Last time I counted, I’d made way more’n a hundred sets.”
But she never took it up again. Mother grew weaker as time passed and ate even less than she’d been eating. She suffered often with nausea, and we all speculated it was because of her medication.
On May 27, I had a retirement party for Janet, but Mother was too sick to go. Everybody seemed to have a great time, but my disappointment over Mother not being there was almost more than I could bear. She’d attended all our major functions before, was present at all family gatherings. Nevertheless, this time was different: She was confined at home on oxygen. Pat had asked a friend to stay with Mother so she herself could attend the celebration. I’d thought it was impossible for her to be able to go, but when I escorted Janet inside, there she stood, grinning from ear to ear. I was pleased and could tell she was happy to be there, too.
It was late when we left the party that evening. Once we got home, Janet had presents to open, and neither of us could unwind enough for bed until around twelve o’clock. A few minutes after four a.m., the phone rang. It was Pat. She said Ronnie, her son, had called for an ambulance. Mother needed to go to the hospital. After a short stay, she was released. Before the doctor sent her home, though, he arranged for Hospice to help with her care at home. Nobody in the family really came out and said anything. We didn’t have to. Everyone knew the word Hospice meant Mother’s condition was terminal.
July 16, she went back in the hospital for the last time. Hospice arranged for her to be transported there by ambulance. This time she was vomiting blood and passing it from her bowels. Tests revealed that Mother had three bleeding ulcers. Once they sealed these off, they gave her five units of blood. By July 20, the doctors determined that Mother showed adequate improvement, so they sent her home. One Hospice nurse told Pat, “It’s a miracle your mother survived, losing so much blood.”
Once she got home, Mother rarely got out of bed, except to be helped to the bathroom or to rest in her rocker in the living room. Hospice continued helping with bathing, dispensing medicines, and brief examinations. Her condition remained unchanged for the next five weeks or so, but Saturday, August 26, she began to not recognize any of us. Sunday, at midnight, Hospice workers started staying round the clock until Mother passed away Thursday, the last day of August.
The only time she showed any sign of rallying between Sunday and Thursday was Tuesday morning when she recited, alphabetically, the fifty-five counties of West Virginia. The Hospice nurse was stunned and laughed to herself as she wrote in the daily record log, “The ninety-year-old patient is now reciting the counties of West Virginia.” Even on her deathbed, Mother managed to make us proud of her ability to rattle them off without a flaw as far as I could tell. Pat asked, “Did she leave out Pocahontas? She always leaves that one out.” How was I to know if she left out Pocahontas when I couldn’t recite them myself, alphabetically, or spiraling clockwise from the center of our state to its perimeter?
Wallace Funeral Home was in charge of arrangements, something Mother had seen to after Daddy died. Everything was the same as it was for him—a solid copper casket and a next-to-best vault for burial. The visitation was Saturday evening from six to nine. Hundreds of people turned out. Mother would’ve been pleased with it all—the beautiful flower baskets, dried bouquet arrangements, potted plants, and the elegant spray of contrasting colors spread across the casket; her suit—its color caught between lavender and pink—brought out the beauty of her platinum hair; so many paying their respects, each describing what a wonderful lady she was and some commenting on the beauty of her complexion; scores of individuals remarking how Marie had touched their lives; and all who waited in line to catch a glimpse of a woman they admired, most pausing to hug each family member before moving on. In spite of all the gloomy details of death and dying, I’m certain it was an evening both Mother and Daddy cherished from above.
If Mother had died fifty years earlier, people would have scorned us for leaving her at the funeral home. Back then we would’ve had her wake in our house on Bowen Creek. The funeral home would have delivered a load of folding chairs and hung a wreath on the door to signify that death had come to our house. An overabundance of food would’ve been brought in from friends, family, and neighbors—enough to accommodate all who came to pay respects—with some left over to throw away. Most who came would have eaten something then gathered in groups throughout the house, on the porches, or in the yard to talk. Some would’ve congregated in the cars parked up and down the road, laughing until the wee hours of morning. Between nine and eleven o’clock, the crowd would have begun to thin out. Nearly all who stayed past eleven, however, would have stayed the remainder of the night, reminiscing about the way things used to be, how long it’d been since they’d seen so and so, wondering who’d be next to die, and so on. Those who spent the night in the room with Mother would have whispered their thoughts to one another since loudness was a sign of disrespect. Eventually, people developed the notion that leaving their loved ones at the funeral home was easier on the family. In fact, it could be done and still maintain respect for the one who’d passed on. Even Mother herself had embraced this modern-day practice.
At noon, Sunday, the day of the funeral, all sixteen grandsons and four granddaughters filed into the chapel of the funeral home and walked down the aisle together. Although it wasn’t planned, they all wore customary black. Each grandchild sat in reserved seating. All four granddaughters—Bobbi, Gloria Jean, June, and Joan—were in front. The firstborn son of Mother’s six children—Ronnie, Roger, Timmy, Jerry, Patrick, and Anthony—was situated behind them to serve as pallbearers. The remaining ten grandsons—Ricky, Stevie, Tommy, Mark, Matthew, Jimmy, Jeffy, Jody, Clifford, and Nathan—filed in last. The funeral home was filled to capacity.
Phyllis Ostby’s singing was exceptionally beautiful. She’d sung for Mother during each of her recent stays in the hospital, so Margaret thought it was befitting that Phyllis sing for the funeral as well. We all agreed, and it was the right decision. There was also unanimity with the idea of Kenneth’s son, Mark, singing “Amazing Grace.” It was his choice whether or not to use musical accompaniment, so Mark chose a cappella, no music, and it was perfect. His idol, John Denver, would’ve been proud. Ronnie read a poem he’d written not long after Daddy died—one entitled “The Door”—describing the memories he’d stored in his heart over the years on entering the front door of my parents’ home. Somehow, he was able to capture all our thoughts into this work of art:
The Door
Since I was a little boy I can remember the door.
Beyond that door was a special place.
It was a place of love.
There were always two hugs and two kisses waiting for you.
The food there was great.
We called it the best restaurant in town.
The first words you heard when you entered the door were,
“Are you hungry? Want something to eat?”
This was my own special place, but I shared it with cousins,
my friends, their friends,
and many strangers I didn’t even know.
This place proved that love multiplies, not divides.
As the years went on,
the answer to the door got a little slower
but was still just as warm.
Everyone who entered that door
have their own special memories.
Mine are a hot biscuit, a hug, a kiss,
and a love that only grandparents can give.
It was a safe haven.
When you closed that door,
you could leave all your troubles and cares on the other side.
I wish I would have known how special that place was,
But as with other things, I didn’t realize it until it was gone.
Even though I know these things will never be again,
I still carry them with me.
Not only me, but my wife and sons enjoyed that place.
I miss my special place!
~To: Mamaw— 1998— From: Ronnie~
Rev. Carlos Gibson comforted us with prayer, and Rev. Bill Cassady delivered the eulogy. Those present were absorbed with the beauty of Preacher Bill’s delivery. I’d told him when I heard him speak at our good neighbor, Maida Nida’s funeral, “When the time comes, I want just as good a job done for Mother, if not better, than you did for Maida,” so he honored my request.
Once the service was over, the funeral directors took Mother down the aisle, followed by the four granddaughters, each carrying a long-stemmed red rose. It was something Mother had requested years before this moment. Delicate music filled the chapel to the tune of “Land of Forever,” composed, arranged, and performed by Pamela and Randy Copus. I felt Mother was enjoying it, too, because she loved music that touched her soul.
The procession of cars slowly snaked its way along the narrow road to Green Valley Cemetery on Bowen Creek, the place where we laid Mother to rest beside Daddy. We’d done all we could for her, and the grave was as far as we could go. She was now at peace and had rejoined our father—to be warmed in the sunshine of an early September afternoon. Mother had waited long enough. “For thus saith the Lord, Behold, I will extend peace to her like a river…”—Isaiah 66:12.
After leaving the cemetery, we all went to Salem United Baptist Church for a sumptuous feast prepared by the ladies of the church—a feast similar to one Mother herself might have prepared for some family in the community who’d just laid one of their loved ones to rest. I wonder if Mother smiled from above as she witnessed our appetites being satisfied once more.
We had our fill from the mouth-watering buffet, and then most of the family members headed a short distance down the road to Pat’s. A tent was set up for a season of reminiscing, singing hymns and country songs, and laughter. It was just like always whenever the family congregated in one place, for whatever reason. We knew Mother would’ve wanted it that way for she thoroughly enjoyed the family being together, having a good time.
Most of the flowers delivered to Pat’s after the funeral were given to those who had choice arrangements they wanted to take home. Near the end of the day, each individual family began making their way homeward, some heading up the road and some down. Each realized, without saying, that we had closed one of the most important chapters in our lives. Things would never again be the same for any of us, nor would we ever again meet in this same setting. Even if everyone got together after the burial of another family member, at least one of us present for this occasion would be missing from the next gathering.
For the first time, the full meaning of what Janet once said to me rang true : “When both your parents are gone, the two people who’ll stand by you through thick or thin are no longer there.” She could sympathize with me, because she lost both her parents when she was in her twenties—able to be with them only a brief interval. And it makes no difference how old an individual is—whether five or fifty—there’s a feeling of insecurity that accompanies the loss of both parents. It’s something we must all deal with on our own terms, in our own time, and to the best of our ability. This feeling of abandonment can’t be explained, only experienced. Yet all will know its sensation when it arrives. Death is strong enough to break the physical ties we have with our parents, but we continue being tethered to them emotionally for the remainder of our generation. For they—like the magnolia trees we never planted—endure in our hearts eternally.
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