A few nights ago I dreamt about my mother for the first time (that I can remember) since she passed away last September. We were sitting in a quiet room and the conversation was brief. It reminded me of our last few months together when much of our time was spent just sitting quietly and maybe making a little bit of small talk. All the really big things had been said many times, so there was not much left to say. We were just waiting together. It was like taking someone to the train station a day early before they are scheduled to depart. You can only hug and say "I love you" and "goodbye" so many times and then you get quiet.
Anyway, here's the conversation I remember from the dream...
~~~~~~~
Me: Hi mom
Mom: Hi doll
<long silence while we just look at each other>
Me: How is it ... you know ... where you are?
<long pause>
Mom: Kind of weird
<silence>
Me: Are you ok?
<long pause while she looks out the window>
Mom: Yes
Me: I'm glad you're not in pain
<silence, then she looks at me and whispers>
Mom: Me too
~~~~~~
That's all I can remember. I thought maybe the dream would pick up from there the next night or a few nights later, but it didn't happen.
Dear Mom, I've been resistant to sitting down and writing this letter to you because I know there is no way I can possibly capture in written words how I truly feel about you. Also, because I think writing this means that I have to say goodbye for the last time. I know that many times you wanted this to just be over for our sake, but speaking for Barb, it was a privilege and an honor to be able to care for you on the final leg of your journey these past 14 months. As Barb has said many times, we both knew that if the situation had been reversed you would have done the same for either of us -- without hesitation or complaint. It would be hard to describe just how much you went through during the past year; the multiple surgeries, the radiation, the chemotherapy, the endless pills, the IVs, the physical therapy and the many months of being bedridden and too weak to do much more than turn your head and lift your arms. But, through it all you maintained your dignity, your sense of destiny and your unfailing sense of humor. I never once saw you cry or wallow in self-pity. Even when the doctors delivered the worst possible news a person can receive, you accepted the hand you had been dealt and played your cards the very best that you could. You always seemed mindful that you were being watched by so many who were practicing with you for the inevitable day when we each take our turn in your place. And so today I say goodbye my sweet mama, my biggest fan and most faithful supporter. I look forward to hearing you once again say the most beautiful words you whispered to me every morning until you could no longer speak: "Hi, sweet lamb." We will always love you and carry you in our hearts. All my love, Mark
Today, my grandfather Leo suffered one of the worst experiences any parent can have -- saying goodbye to one of your children who passes before you do. It was physically painful to watch him suffer with grief.
After my mother's memorial service, he and my nephew Josh's brand new baby girl (Leo's great great granddaughter) had a bonding session that was one of the most beautiful scenes I have ever witnessed. It was as if my mother's vibrant spirit temporarily inhabited infant Macee's tiny figure and in an ever so brief session of affection and tenderness, brought peace and comfort to his aching heart.
My mother passed before she was able to meet Macee (her great granddaughter) who was battling for her life in the NICU while at the same time my mother was fighting for hers in the hospital with pneumonia in June.
Fortunately, Jessica captured this perfect picture of them -- two precious souls on the opposite ends of life's timeline sharing an irreplaceable moment that almost certainly will not and cannot ever be repeated.
Several people have asked if I could post a video of mom playing the piano.
Here at the Stream Pool, we aim to please, so I went on a hunt this morning to see what might fit the bill. Unfortunately, my old iPhone didn't record video well, so I ended up shooting stills most of the last year. So there was that. Plus, my mom did not appreciate being photographed in any way because the steroids she was given to control brain swelling caused her face and neck to swell (among many other unpleasant side effects). There were times when it seemed like the side effects of the steroids were more distressing to her (and us) than the actual cancer. (Someday, I may write about why people call Decadron, "the Devil".)
One of the best things we did all year was to move a little portable piano into her bedroom which she played for hours during the times that she felt well enough between treatments and hospitalizations. The only difference we noticed in her playing was that over time she couldn't remember the names of all her favorite songs. Radiation pretty much erased those.
Anyway, after her last long stint in the hospital for pneumonia in July, we brought her back to our house for the last time. For about a week, we were still able to get her out of bed and push her around the house in her walker/chair. I asked her several times if she felt like trying to play the piano, but she was just too weak to even hold her arms up.
Then one day she asked me to move her chair over to the piano and she started playing. I frantically ran to find something (anything) to record video with and quietly shot this from behind her. If she had seen me recording, I'm certain she would have stopped playing.
After she finished, I told her thank you for that sweet gift and put her back to bed. She was never able to play again.
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Tip: Don't click the big Play arrow in the middle of the screen unless you want to watch a commercial. Push the little one at the bottom of the video window. If the embedded video doesn't work for some reason, you can watch the video (with a commercial) on the Ustream site here.
Disclaimer: The quality of this video is pretty bad. You will probably want to turn your speakers up to hear. She was a stickler for keeping the volume low. When she gave us piano lessons as kids, she would always yell "soft pedal, soft pedal" when we played.
Other note: She is wearing her favorite robe backwards because it made it easy to put it on and take it off while she was in bed. I don't want anyone to think we put her in a straightjacket. =)
When I was in the fifth grade, my music teacher decided that it would round out our early education nicely if all the boys would listen to a Jackson Five record and attempt to emulate young Michael's angelic singing voice during mandatory choir practice. He was one year older than we were and our teacher was convinced that we could sound just like him if we tried hard enough.
Of course that was impossible....and deeply embarrassing for pre-adolescent boys doing our best to disguise squeeky high-pitched voices with chin-in-chest attempts to magnify what little bass could be coaxed from our hormonally-starved baby-thin vocal chords. Naturally, the girls just watched and giggled.
Later, we all grew up -- all of us except Michael that is -- who was seemingly trapped in some kind of horrible childhood nightmare from which he could not awaken, even with all his talent, success and fame.
Millvina Dean signs a Titanic movie poster at the Titanic Historical Society's convention in 1998.
Millvina Dean was about 2 months old when she sailed on the doomed ocean liner in 1912. She, her mother and brother were saved. Her father was among those who went down with the ship.
Millvina Dean, the last survivor of the legendary ocean liner Titanic, which sank on its maiden voyage in April 1912 after colliding with an iceberg in the North Atlantic, died today. She was 97.
She died at a nursing home near Southampton, England, the port where she and her family boarded the ship on its only voyage, according to Charles Haas, the president of the Titanic International Society. Her death came on the 98th anniversary of the launching of the Titanic on May 31, 1911.
"She was a remarkable, sparkling lady," Haas told the Times Sunday. "She knew her place in history and was always willing to share her story with others, especially children. She was the last living link to the story." Dean was about 8 weeks old when she and her family set sail, third class, on the luxury ocean liner on April 10, 1912. Five days later, she was among some 700 passengers and crew rescued off the coast of Newfoundland. She and her mother, Georgetta, 32, and her brother Bertram, 23 months old, were put into lifeboats. Her father, Bertram, 27, stayed on board the ship and was among more than 1,500 passengers and crew members who went down with the Titanic.
