God's Peace Revisited

Friday, February 1, 2019, Mom’s 90th birthday, my life began to unravel rapidly.

A distressed phone call from Dad, a flurry of activity afterwards--driving to my parents’ house (with youngest son, JohnPaul in tow, I needed his supportive presence), assessing Mom, phoning the ambulance....Mom was having some sort of health crisis.  She was telling Dad that she was afraid. This was like a dagger in my heart. I don’t think I had ever known my mother to say she was afraid entire life.  Oh, Dear God. 

The week prior, she had received the news that the meningioma (non cancerous tumor of the surface of the brain) had suddenly doubled in size, was pushing her brain to the side, and causing swelling.  She was showing signs of mild confusion, undoubtedly brought on by this recent event. The tumor had been present for decades, reliably unchanging throughout the years. Now this.

Add into the mix the fact that her kidneys were suffering; we never were able to determine the exact cause, other than the fact that she was on a lot of medication for heart--blood pressure--congestive heart failure.  Mom had a very complicated health history. She was also a “bleeder”. Doctors tested her PTT in the 1990s, and discovered that it was abnormally slow. She didn’t clot the way normal people do. She would bleed and bleed, and bleed.

At the hospital, I was witness to something I would never wish on anyone.  I watched my mom have a grand mal seizure--scary on its own--then cardiac arrest.  I watched Mom’s heart stop.  She turned gray, she slumped, the nurse was violently pounding her body.  Maaamaaa. Oh my Mama.

I was forced to step out and ushered to a waiting area, but I had the presence of mind to insist that a priest be called immediately.  If my mom was dying, she needed a priest. I paced for the next 15 minutes until a nurse told us that they got Mom’s heart beating and blood circulating again.

Mom was anointed during this time, not only by her pastor, Fr. Tom, but also by mine, Fr. Matt.  

The next 24 hours were the hardest I had ever lived through, including the difficulties of giving birth to a child with severely compromised health, and a walk through the dark valley of cancer with my husband.  Each moment, I was consumed with panic, fear, dread, exhaustion. I won’t document those moments for now. The purpose of my writing today is to proclaim the goodness of God.

Saturday night, February 2.

I went to bed, swallowed up in my fears.  I was physically and mentally drained. Dad was losing his balance each time we walked the long walk from the parking area to the hospital room.  I desperately wanted my brothers to be close to home so that I didn’t have to shoulder all the responsibility without their help. Mom was probably going to die, I had no idea how I was going to continue to hold up, and for how long. I wanted to run away.  I honestly did not want to face any of this. 

 How on Earth could I support Dad, keep myself standing upright, and continue to care for my own responsibilities?  I faced a cliff, from the bottom looking up. There was nary a ridge or bump to grip. How was I going to ascend this insurmountable wall?

I am a very fragile person.  When I think of who I am, I envision myself as an Autumn leaf, not fresh off the tree branch, but rather, as one that is long forgotten near the street’s gutter,  no longer a brilliant hue, but a dull, flat brown. One strong wind, and the leaf is blown, shattered into a dusty pile of leaf fragments. THAT IS ME. Dusty crumbs.  All it takes is a little “wind” in my day, to upset my normal routine, and turn me into a pile of pulverized flesh.

I slept soundly until the wee hours of Sunday morning, February 3.  My eyes opened to the dark room, where my mind quickly went to an even darker place.  I was screaming internally, “How can I do this?”. I began to sob. I sat up in my bed, clinging to my pillow, tears streaming down my face.  I decided to wake John. He gathered me into his arms, and I poured myself out. I didn’t know how I could do “this”.

He urged me to envision Christ in the Garden of Gethsemane, and then to give all my problems to Him.  I began to pray aloud. I have prayed with depth and sincerity previously, but this was so profound, I was amazed by my own sorrow.  I can’t remember most of what I said, but I remember telling him to take everything from me. I can honestly say I meant every word I prayed.  I joined into a sliver of the miseries that Jesus suffered the night he was betrayed.

Shortly thereafter, I felt as if I had been given a dose of sleeping medication.  I felt drowsy, and laid my head down. I fell into a deep sleep.

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Around dawn,  Sunday, February 3

I was sitting to Mom’s side, she in her favorite soft rocker, I on a stool.  She was comforting me with her motherly gaze, her tender words. Her hand patted my hair affectionately.  I just remember her eyes, so soft, so full of love and compassion. I came out of the dream, feeling her lingering presence, only to realize she was still over in Youngstown, in critical condition, in the intensive care.

I laid still, thanking God for the lovely dream, when suddenly, like a blast of wind, my soul was overcome with peace.  I was almost paralyzed by the presence of someone. I don’t know if it was an angel, the Holy Spirit, or a saint. I just know that I was incapacitated by a powerful being that was holding me in a spiritual embrace.  A balm anointed me, I could feel it; peace and joy washed over me, replacing all the fear, weakness, and negativity of the evening before.  

John was in the bathroom, but when he came back into our bedroom, I was lying there, in the midst of this “embrace”.  I was crying, and he looked concerned for me.

“I know I am crying, but it’s okay.  These are tears of overwhelming joy.”  I was smiling. “I’ll explain when I can.”

I continued to lie in my bed, and allowed the consolation to continue.  Finally, I realized I needed to arise to get ready for 9:30 Mass. I looked into my closet, and thought, “Get dressed up.  You have so much to be thankful for this morning!” I pulled out a nice sweater and pants, and proceeded to ready myself for The Eucharist.

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For the next five to six weeks, I was so strong, I knew that whatever or whoever that experience was, I had been endowed with a unique spiritual gift.  God gave me a powerful dose of miraculous strength. There is no way to explain it away; the leaf/dust that I have always been was replaced with a pillar of stone.  I became a pillar for my parents, my siblings, my family.  

As Mom underwent torturous procedures, setbacks, surgeries, I, with God, made decisions.  I held my father up, I let him lean on me. I encouraged him, as well as my brothers, to pray, to keep their faith in the Lord, to trust.  As I did these things, I must have seemed to be a tower of faith. Internally, I continuously thanked God, for I didn’t recognize this woman that I had suddenly become.  

How did I literally go from feeble to fortress in a few moment’s time?  The secret lies in Sacred Scripture: I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.  Philippians 4:13.

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Today, April 2, 2019

Mom died on March 11.  Ian, Dad, and I stayed with her as she passed from this world into Eternity.  We prayed over her, spoke to her, played hymns and sang to her. Dad and I gave her a sponge bath, I brushed her hair.  I know she would have wanted to be cleaned up nice for her Savior. She fought valiantly til the end. The doctor thought she would succumb in minutes, but after removing the ventilator, Mama struggled to breathe for another hour.  She finally closed her eyes when Daddy dabbed tears from them, then breathing slower, and slower, her soul was released into Paradise.

I have not really yet begun to mourn.  It is a strange and unexpected thing.  

 I have had pockets of grief, but as soon as they come, I release them.  I am not ready, yet, to permit myself to hurt. I just thank God for pouring out his balm onto my soul so that I could carry through and do all that He required of me.  I will continue on with His grace, to support my dad and brothers, as they step each day into a future without my mom’s presence.