The 41st Day

I’ve been too busy to blog over the past month; however it’s important to capture some poignant moments before I forget them.

Some of you may be familiar with the phenomenon of interacting with a dead person after they’re gone. The spirit hangs around for 40 days and 40 nights, making odd appearances, and sure enough, my mother continued to hover. My father finally got his long delayed cataract surgery, and I could sense her watching over him in the recovery suite. She shared a few more heath scares to demonstrate she wasn’t quite ready for solo status, such as drug side effects and mild emphysema. When we went out to dinner, I think she changed the order so we would eat her preferred meal, not his.

We’ve been searching for Mom’s wedding and engagement rings for a while. They were not on her finger when she died, even though the organ donation company sent over a costume ring to the house by courier. No jewelry was in the safety deposit box at the bank, which was suspiciously empty. No rings in the 2 steel strongboxes with the important papers. Dad and I agreed to give up on the quest. But late on the 39th night after her death, I heard her voice – really, I did – telling me that there was a 3rd box hidden in Dad’s office closet. And of course, there was the prize – an amazing, gold, ornate box that belonged to my grandfather – locked. I woke up my father, I actually found the key. The rings were there, along with many other mystery items – buffalo head nickels, anyone? My father was thrilled. Indeed beautiful, the rings are now safely stored inside my local bank vault.

On the morning of October 1, the 41st day, all was quiet and Mom was silent. I drove my father to the retirement community where we all first visited 3 1/2 years ago and where he will now make his home. He aced his pseudo-interview, which was not easy. He had to walk all over the place, on his own power, with fuzzy vision, wobbly legs, and shortness of breath. He demonstrated his mental agility by informing the director that he would not tolerate smokers or Republicans. He offered to fix all the ladies’ broken jewelry. When he signed all the forms, he smiled. And then and finally then – I cried, mostly from relief. I suppose the stress had to leak out sooner or later. We went into the dining room for free lunch (Dad’s rating: “not so wonderful. The rye bread could be fresher”). I pulled myself together until Ida, the 97-year old powerhouse who still jogs, who has known my parents for decades, yelled across the table “where’s your mother?” When I responded that she died, the room went silent, and yes, I started crying again. Well, Ida would have none of that, she took me aside and told me to keep walking through life, one step at a time, and that was THAT. When I asked her to help my father get oriented, her response was “what, do I look like an official greeter? He’s fine. He’ll make friends. I’m busy.” I really started laughing at that point, and the whole room of nice elderly folks laughed with me.

My brother and I are now going back and forth on shifts -- cleaning, hiring movers, changing his accounts, buying a new recliner chair that doesn’t have broken springs and a laptop so Dad can leave his rusty dial-up modem behind. I’m tutoring my father to be patient with his healing. I keep reminding him that he’s a tough old bird; he’s gradually allowing himself to be happy again. I was granted a leave of absence from work – my job was one of life’s stovetop burners that will be put on simmer.

I hope to report a successful move coming up on October 22. I have my own building access card and I may just hide out there during Seattle’s rainy season. A sunny beach is 5 minutes away. And I’m not so picky about the rye bread.