What follows are a series of social media posts from the past several days relating to my mom’s hospitalization and death. The artwork I use may not match exactly what I used on social media, but it’s similar, and in one case there’s more.
From Facebook. Friday, December 12, 10:30 PM.
Saying goodbye to my mom, Leona Gibson.
78 years. She had good innings.
She’s off the respirator now and snoring. Now it’s just the waiting.
From Facebook. Friday, December 12, 11:52 PM.
I took this photo of my mom. That P. Buckley Moss print hangs now in my living room.
From Facebook. Saturday, December 13, 10:28 AM.
Christmas 1979.
From Instagram. Saturday, December 13, early afternoon. (This was written before the next entry.)
Santa Claus playing Christmas songs on a piano in the hospital. It’s a bit of joy I need on a day like today.
I was holding my mom’s hand. She was snoring, but she’s not asleep, nor is she going to wake. The Christmas music mix my sister was streaming played TSO’s “Christmas Canon.”
I stroked her hand. “You loved this song. I bought you the CD for Christmas, remember? You loved this song.” I want to say the words came out strongly, but they were wrenched from some deep place between sobs and tears. I put my head down on her blanket. “You loved this song so much. Melody walked down the aisle to Pachelbel, remember? You loved this song.”
Do not fear to weep, for not all tears are evil.
From Facebook. Saturday, December 13, 3:40 PM.
My mom has been moved out of the Neurological ICU into a regular room. This doesn’t mean that she’s out of danger and will recover. Rather, she doesn’t need the constant monitoring because we are waiting for the end.
To look at her, you would think she’s sleeping. She snores. She occasionally twitches. But she doesn’t dream. There’s no eye movement. Yet, I look at her, in the bed, and I see my mom, sleeping.
She would love the Christmas decorations. I keep taking pictures of them, because she would want to see them. The Santa Claus playing the piano in the lobby would have excited her so.
I brush her hair with my hand. It’s a good color. Three weeks ago, I took her to Target and Walmart for the afternoon. She bought hair dye — she needed some color in his white hair — and she wanted my opinion. “Strawberry blonde,” I said, when she was choosing between than and a blonde. “You need some more color.” She talked to several people in the store about the choice and solicited their opinions, even the cashier. It looks good. She’d be happy to know I think it looks good. But she won’t.
We wait. We wait.
From Facebook. Monday, December 15, 9:32 PM.
Several years ago I met Sherman. It was a Saturday, I was heading south to visit my parents, and this giant orange boy wandered up to me and expected some pets. “Oh my, who are you?!?” I exclaimed, and I proceeded to provide Sherman with the expected pets. Once he was satisfied that I provided suitable pets, he lost interest and wandered off to see if another customer could give pets.
I saw Sherman a few more times, but only from a distance.
In my childhood, the Book Fair was a place of wonder, essentially a Scholastic Book Fair for all ages in a barn, and it was something my family went to once or twice a year. I have many books in my collection that came from the Book Fair; the hardcover edition of Carl Sagan’s COSMOS my mom gave me for Christmas 1981 is on the bookshelf in my dining room.
On my trip home after my dad’s emergency heart ablation last month I stopped at the Book Fair. I didn’t buy much, but one thing I did buy was an illustrated Christmas storybook. The next week I was in Lynchburg to take my dad to a doctor’s appointment, and I gave my mom the book then. She squealed with delight and marveled at how beautiful the illustrations were. I wish I could say that I knew she would love the book that much, but I can’t. It was a spur of the moment purchase, at the moment I was ready to leave.
I told my mom about meeting Sherman. The Book Fair is no longer held in a tiny barn; now it’s in a warehouse, though the barn is still there.
I’m glad she loved the Christmas book.
From Instagram. Tuesday, December 16.
My mom, Leona Gibson, passed away on Sunday, a week after her 78th birthday.
She was always “Mommy” to me. Never “Mom,” never “Mother.” She was my Mommy.
She loved her children. She loved her granddaughter. She loved her husband, my father. Tomorrow, as I write this, would have been their 53rd wedding anniversary.
She loved and was loved.
I always loved her, and I was always proud of her, though there were some rough stretches on both sides from time to time.
She loved to quilt. I sat in her quilting room last night, surrounded by fabric and equipment boxes and books, and wished I’d paid more attention to her hobby because it brought her such joy.
She loved watching Hallmark Channel movies, and when I’d visit I’d watch one or two with her. She especially loved the Hallmark Christmas movies.
She loved Christmas. December was her month. She was born in December, my parents married in December, and now, unfortunately, she died in December.
Our last conversation was short, on her birthday, just ten minutes. She was in a wonderful mood.
We had a great outing in November. We went to Target, and she spent an hour in the Christmas shop. She had to look at everything and talk to everyone, and when she was done we went to Starbucks where I bought her coffee and a cranberry creme bar. (She wanted to split one, but they were small, and I didn’t mind buying two.)
She was my Mommy. I love her, I will always love her, and there will forever be a hole in my heart that only she could fill.