Quest of the Goose

The days following my mother's death have been turbulent. I have struggled to keep my balance; it has not been easy and I've failed miserably sometimes.

But such is the way of it. Grief knows no bounds, it is very like the waves of Ocean that crash to the beach. Some waves are bigger than others, and they must be ridden out. During the first few days, the waves are usually large, dark and stormy, full of debris.

As time goes on, those waves grow slower, gentler...more accepting. And here is where I find some serenity, when my heart has ridden out those destructive first waves of grief.

Early this morning, before Sun had risen over the treetops, Goose flew over, at the head of a long V formation. Wings tipped with gold, from Sun that had not yet shown his face to the rest of us, Grandmother Goose led the flock to the West...the place of rebirth on the Medicine Wheel. The West direction tells me of my responsibility to all things...and to each other. West is the direction of Wisdom.

It is a week since my mother died. As I sat on my stoop, in the early Morning stillness, I sent blessings with Goose...and thanked her for her message.

Grandmother Goose teaches how to navigate great turbulence in life. She tells me it is time for an inner quest, one where I learn, once again, that I can change nothing in others, only in myself. It is a difficult lesson for me to learn, seemingly, since I am caught up in it consistently.

She tells me of loyalty and how sometimes, loyalty can blind me to the true facts. She's also telling me this is all part of the journey of life; that I have the tools and abilities to make it through.

And suddenly, my intuition tells me I do.

It is a blinding realization.

Have I ever entered any traumatic situation as well-balanced and with as many tools as I have been given in this one? Recognizable tools?

I think I am making progress. I think my studies of messages given from the Universe are bearing fruit. Fruit that is still in the ripening stage, granted; however, I have faced family disruption these last few days with relative calm.

Families that lose the last surviving parent can go into free fall, I was told by a nurse last week. Instead of pulling together, siblings tear each other apart. That is the situation that occurred in my family last week. But it was not just my mother's death that brought about the strife, which is not new...it has always been thus.

Will that last unfortunate blowout be the end of it? I don't think so. I think each member of my family still wants to be heard, wants to be validated. I think each sibling is still clamouring for Mom's attention. And I think my mother wanted it that way, during her convoluted life.

My mother and I grew close, during the last couple of years. We grew close because I would not get involved in the strife that fueled my Mom and her daughters; I would change the subject, talk about other things. In that way, I made a conscious decision to ignore the bad and embrace the good about my mother.

My mother gradually realized the error of her ways, when she entered the Care Residence. She then had contact with others who did not believe in stirring strife in family members, for attention and diversion. But for my mother, that epiphany came too late...after a lifetime of pushing painful buttons in each daughter, only distrust met her overtures of love and apology.

And it seems only distrust remains.

But it is early days yet. My eternal flame of optimism lets me fantasize that her daughters will see that Mom tried, towards the end of her life, to walk a loving, gentle path, instead of the torturous, mountainous route she had chosen most of her life. Unfortunately, she made a Will, in an angry state, that continues to fuel the fray...one that controls generations not yet born. One that pits children against parents, one that will continue to remind her family of a mother that used control and anger and manipulation to bring her daughters in line.

Hours before her death, she asked me to write a book about her...Make them understand, she said. It is an enormous request, one that will take me on a journey that will follow my mother's life, one that will take me into a tortured mind.

And at the end of it, perhaps I will understand.

Grandmother Goose, with her message of the great quest to come, tells me I will.

Creating a Home

When the word "home" flows through my mind these days, I am instantly flooded with warm, loving energy...I know that today, my home is a cozy and safe place to be.

It was not always thus; during my first marriage, there were times my home was not safe. Those were the chaotic years, where sometimes there was not enough money to pay the utilities.

Those were the years I became very creative with ingredients, because sometimes there was little in the pantry other than condiments and pasta.

I felt anxious when I thought of the word "home" in those days. Life was far from serene and peaceful on the home front; this unsettled energy transferred itself to the inhabitants and the very home, itself.

I have lived in at least twelve different homes, during my adult years. Each time I moved, I tried to infuse the new home with the comfortable feel of the last one, never quite succeeding because of the transient nature of my life at the time.

But I lived in my last home for 18 years... and I was able to transfer its homey feel, when I moved, to my new home with ease. I just transferred the love...and the rest fell into place.

However, what happens when a move is done where it will probably be for the last time? And you are aware of it?

This is what my mother faced last week, after she moved into a Care Facility. Brand new and swanky, this home has all the bells and whistles, and best of all, has caregivers who tend their patients with love and dignity.

But my mother only sees a hospital room. It will be up to her family to decorate this skeleton of a room, which has only a bed, dresser, highboy, and her beloved recliner in it. Mom has no idea how to make it homey, because to her, this room is not something to love...this room is the last place where she will live. Because of this, her inclination is to ignore the whole idea of making this room attractive.

I want to make it into a place where she will find peace. I forget, though, that my mother's world grows smaller and smaller...the place of peace and comfort to her, now, is her bed and her recliner. I fight against recognizing this, because to do so would make me accept where she is on the path of life.

And so, I see a room filled with living things...plants and flowers. My mother, who was a brilliant gardener in her time, used to love plants and flowers. The real ones. Now she says they die, in these airless rooms. She cannot bear to watch them die.

She has impossibly bright red silk flowers, instead. They make a strong statement in an otherwise undecorated room.

I think this is how her room will evolve. She will add items that catch her eye and stir her soul. They will be mismatched; my vision of what her room should look like will be nothing like the room my mother will design, in this last part of her life.

With my mother's move, I have given myself a gift. Instead of fretting and worrying about my way, my vision...I will stand back and watch my mother, just sending peace and love to her each time I enter her room. No demands.

As she becomes more comfortable in her new way of life and her new environment, the things my mother will collect around her will touch a part of her soul I cannot know. She is traveling on, on a path I have not trodden as yet. Only she knows what tools to gather for her journey.

Last year, I was able to help Mom face Dad's death... becoming a teacher. This year, Mom will take her role back, as I watch her moving slowly and yet, so purposefully, away from me.

Creating the vision I have for her room is the last thing on her mind. She already knows this room is transient, and therefore difficult to infuse with her personality. She knows what she requires. I do not have to do it for her...

I'm learning to let her go.

Dignity

Many years ago, in my youth, I believed that when my time came to die, I would do it with dignity and grace.

In my death scenario, I thought I would lie quietly in my bed, giving my last thoughts to my family and friends. When it was time, I thought, in my idealistic youth, I would just drift off on the river current that would take me to the next step of my journey.

It seems I might have been wrong.

I am watching my mother's body husk breaking down. She has had so many heart attacks I have lost count; her lungs are filling with water. There are tubes suddenly sprouting out of her body, a new one each time I visit. Her organs are giving out.

What to me seems like terribly invasive procedures...is to the medical staff life-giving procedures. I understand their point of view...they have promised to save lives; not hasten death. But, to me, a daughter watching her mother...it seems inhumane.

So I let my mother speak. I hear her complaints; I would feel the same. I use much Reiki with my mother, as does Graham...Mom says Graham chases the anger and worry out the door. She has told me this many times, although she looks perplexed when she wonders about it. A long time ago, my mother agreed to receiving Reiki energy from us...she doesn't remember this now. And she says, at this point in her life, she's not about to learn.

She only knows it works.

I let Mom speak about her impending death. She tells me to be safe...that she doesn't want to have to worry about me after her death...she says she hopes it is time for peace then. We laugh, each of us understanding that a mother's worry about her children transcends time and space and probably, eternity.

We work on letting go of her dream (so like mine!) of falling asleep quietly, for the final time, in her own home, her family surrounding her. I tell her I was so proud of her immense courage over the last year, when she gathered herself together enough to find the independence she had never had in her lifetime. I tell her she did well; now it is time to let herself be taken care of. It is time to not worry about what to have for dinner that the caregivers would know how to prepare, to not worry about her money and where it was going...to not worry about how she was going to be able to answer the door, or go to the bathroom...when nobody was there.

She needs hospital care now...attacks against her body are appearing with regularity. Sadly, she agrees. But hope is required...I tell her of the walks we'll take in the beautiful gardens surrounding some of the care homes. I tell her of watching Koi in the gardens where my father in law spent his last days. I tell her of the peace we found there, of the long philosophical chats we had.

We may not have time, Mom and I, to have those lovely walks amongst fields of flowers, so we have them now...with beeping machinery, dinging bells, constant interruptions...surrounding us. We have had a year of constant conversations; I understand her as well as I am ever going to. I understand the face she shows me; Mom loves flowers and gardens and scenic views. So I take her there, to the garden where I grew up...to the old family home.

Frown lines disappear slightly, she is more at ease as she discusses the plants that I remember, the problems she had with them and how the flowers always made up for the care. She laughs and says, Like kids!

When it is time for me to go, she tells me to go quickly. My mother has given a No Resuscitation Order...each time I leave, it may be the last time I see her alive.

She points a shaky finger at me and attempts to use the gruff voice all her daughters recognize so well...Don't ever, ever forget I love you, she says...

And I point my finger right back at her...and say...Don't you ever forget I love you!

We stare at each other.

Standoff.

And I turn and leave...before Mom's tears overflow, leaving her with whatever dignity she can still muster...