The day I found my mother dead in bed
I thought I knew who I was
I thought I was a caring son
I thought I was the man of the house
        -stronger and truer than the one who slept by her side-
I thought I was doing what I must do
I thought I was ready, I thought I could handle anything
I thought the day would never end
I thought I would break and die of grief.

The day I found my mother dead in bed
I wanted to cry all the tears of an ocean
I wanted to say all of the good-byes as if to earth’s last rainbow
I wanted it all to stop, but not to begin again.
Yet, I wanted to try it over, to be a better son,
        to help in every way, to make the disease go away.
I wanted everything that could not be
The day I found my mother dead in bed.

The day I found my mother dead in bed
As fast as tears rolling down my cheeks
        Black clouds flooded my mind
                and the rainbow disappeared-
The crab-apple -most youthful of our trees and her favorite-
        In deepest winter, wilted –alone, against the birches
                standing still and stoic with their icy limbs-
                        and like an aching heart, it never bloomed again-

The gate I had known standing open slammed-
        Shut tight -now it would take a bigger force to crack it,
                -a new one from within,
                        and what would be there then?

The day I found my mother dead in bed
It was one year less three days
From the day I had returned from France,
        -and in three days time to the day -
        would be her funeral.

It would be one full cycle of the moons
From the moment I de-boarded; stepping off the plane,
        there they were, the two of them;
        Mom in her wheel chair, which I’d not yet seen,
        and John hanging by her side –not seeing me or hearing me,
        nor did I presume, from what he’d written me in France,
        that I was welcome in "his house" at all.

My girl friend, Anne, had driven them to meet me,
        but now was the time to shift responsibilities,
        for me to assume a primary role and function:

From that moment I made the inward promise to care
        for Mom.

From time to time and day to day I never thought I’d know
        the end, I never thought I’d see the day when
        I would live on without her.

From night to night and disturbing dream to unrelenting dream
        I never thought the cooking and the driving and the lifting
        (and the lifting was a heavy load for my young back)
        and the dressing and undressing and the bathing
        and the cleaning and the bedding would ever end.

From week to week and month to month I never understood
        how slow or fast this disease was progressing. One month
        there’d be a forbidding loss and the next would plateau,
        and we never knew how long a good day would last.

Once Hazel saw her birthday come and go (November 5) she
        thought she’d see another spring bloom in, so Christmas was a
        happy time –too good to believe, Mom seemed to be stabilizing.
        Summer had been a time of gloom, when her nearing end was
        certain to come soon. But miracle of miracles (and they
        happened more than you would think), Mom got her wish.
        Only, (unfairly, to my optimistic posture) it brought hope
        upon unrealistic hope, so when I found her dead in bed that
        morn, it was six months too soon for me to fathom.

But Mom (and God) had other plans and the sixth of January
        was right for her Epiphany.

The day I found my mother dead in bed
I wished I could run away. I wished I could face the cold and
        snow and ice instead of facing what I had to face; to trudge
        through it all for hours, ‘til reality had changed.

I wished I didn’t have to phone our friendly Doctor, and

I wished that when I’d called, I could have said the truth
        with courage: "My mom is dead" -instead of
        flubbering through the words and in response
        to hearing a human voice, sympathetic and kind,

I wished that I didn’t drown awash in tears
        (how fortunate for my grief back then, that there were no
        automated-phones, nor beepers that give us convenience
        with "courtesy" with their bodiless-soulless utterances).

I wished I could get some comfort –if only from my dog-
        the kind I got from Mom when I was small.

I wished that John were really gone away, farther than to work,
        for when he’d return I knew that I could not reach him deep
        inside and he would be for me a greater burden now to tend
        to. I wished that he could treat me with the experience of the
        greatest loving father, and that I could forgive him for being who
        he was, but that I knew was dreaming.

I wished I were the fierce Siddhartha I’d read about when they were
        gone and honeymooning three plus years before -the hero who
        surmounted all difficulties great and small- yet he too, left
        behind wife and child and I wondered what kind of adoration he
        received from them. Who had suffered most from his holy
        transcendence? I thought of Camus, the strangest "stranger"
        I’d ever known in books or in any of my own musings; he left
        his mother dead for days and weeks while he went driving?
        I read this book in France before returning to my duties,
        solidifying my conviction that I would not live life like him...

I wished I could understand it. I, her only son –who had died
        almost twice; once in the first days of living and then
        again at Camp Lake Geneva at age seven- I, who had lived
        through so much already and had seen Mom at her worst
        (long before this illness) and helped her to get better
        (during another illness) –now I wished I could understand
        how it was my turn again to be the helper
        -where was "Dad" (either one -blind or not!)?

I never could get used to it, the day I found my mother dead in bed.

I wished I didn’t have to be the strong and mature one ever again.

The day I found my mother dead in bed
I wished I would be sure never to forget the greatest times with her,
        the times of simplicity and love, the time we saw little birds light
        upon her blooming crab-apple, watching from the kitchen
        window -Mom’s perch when she could no longer get outside-
        and she said: "In all my forty-six years I’ve never seen birds
        procreate before this moment", or the time Mom said she was
        really happy, happier than ever in her life, as she sat simply
        -not moving- in her chair. Among her greatest joys were her
        flower and vegetable gardens and her senior class from Horlick
        High, the kids who’d raised the money for John and her to go to
        France -wheel chair and all.

I wished that I would always remember the way she’d helped me with
        my homework; and years before that, the way she’d read to me,
        me lying in her lap; the way she’d taught me to speak French
        and to love music and to be brave in the face of adversity;
        the way she’d taught me to help others -which I now knew more
        about than what I’d learned from all the stories at school;
        the time she had me read from Tom Sawyer into our brand new
        Woolensak, waiting not-so-patiently while I sounded out the
        words; and the way she laughed at laughter to make me laugh.

I wished I could remember all of that at that moment. But at that
        moment I could only feel, and I felt the deep and whole misery
        of my fate. I felt and wished, selfishly or not, and I could not
        think or remember all that a Higher Being might have wanted
        for me.

The day I found my mother dead in bed
After I called the Doctor and he promised to come right away,
        I prayed to my mother, spending as much time with her
        as I could bare saying aloud how much I loved her
        remembering our last talks and our last days.

I remembered the time that Mom asked me how I was doing,
        a few weeks earlier, asking why I never showed my feelings and
        seemed so strong; never told her I was scared and talked about
        my future plans as if I did not care that she would die.
        Did I really want her to die? Was I so ready to move on?

I was crushed -she’d just run over any ounce of courage I had left
        and I was angry and I was hurt, but all I could do then was
        cry and cry and tell her I was scared and could not bare to think
        about her dead, but only about my life, beginning soon.

I didn’t dare tell her that at times like this, I thought I might be better
        off without her.

I remembered this, but did not include it in my
        prayers, for the day I found my mother dead in bed I prayed
        for only good things before the Doctor came to pronounce her
        dead.

The day I found my mother dead in bed
I wailed to her and to myself, -just like the child
        that I truly was- hanging as tight as ever to her
        fading apron strings, letting sob all nineteen years
        of life, not quite screaming:
"What will I do? How can you go? Don’t leave me her alone!"

But all that would be worked out later,
        through the years...in softer tears...

The day I found my mother dead in bed
I didn’t know the right way to sob, to talk, to pray, to mourn;
        to be...and then to go on. I was so relieved and torn
        and torn apart and still in a dense fog.

It was my first experience with death first-hand:
        I’d missed my uncle’s death –the one that foretold my
        mother’s (they shared the same diseased-genes) -and the
        one that brought to my fleeing heart a pain only Guilt could
        understand- for I was in France tending to my student’s eager
        mind for learning, musical ambitions and adolescent-wanna-be-
        care-free soul.

But Goodness knows the truth:
        His death was my saving, for then I came back to ground,
        and lit upon my duty with ferocity, set forth my task, trying
        to adhere to one ambition; to love and earn back love.
        (Forgiveness, for all involved was too hard to contemplate;
        it was saved for a later date.)

Still, how was I to know how to do this death-dirge alone?
        -it was my first experience with death first-hand.

The day I found my mother dead in bed
I smelled only the sweetest of perfumes,
        like dried-up roses coming back to life.

The tears that scattered on her face and arms
        gleamed like lilies on a pond.

The sun shone through the bedroom window
        recording dances of light all over the room
                as if it were a summer garden.

The softness of her hands now hardened -but never felt so pure-
        strengthened me with their scarcity of grip.

The power of fear and anger had dissolved in recent months
        and now was gone and only peace stood tall
        in her eyes and the melting gave way to

The Holy Spirit now surrounding the two of us,
        forgiving us what we could not forgive ourselves,
        settled and bestowed on us this gift as unselfish as air.

This perfumed scent, though gently offered, was alarming and new
        to me and hard to swallow; forgiveness has always been my
        struggle, but I was not given the choice to decline it,

And ever since that day I found my mother dead in bed,
        red roses have been my favorite flowers.

The day I found my mother dead in bed
Was horrific and great to endure, but it was left unfinished and
        its misery lingered until twelve and one-half years later
        when God gave me another opening to accept
        the gifts that I was not ready to accept before.

But it wasn’t ‘til –through the Grace of Heaven- the time my
        dearest friend lay dying and I sat at his side, holding his
        hand, cooling his burning skin and sang to him and prayed
        with him, thanked him and blessed him on his way -that I
        knew for sure that my good-byes to Mom were now received.

The day I found my mother dead in bed
I couldn’t foretell the life I’d lead,

I couldn’t foresee the great beauty of adventure ahead of me,
        the rebirth that began that day and continued through lonely
        mourning hours and years of search for love and knowledge.

I couldn’t have known the reasons why angels waited years to
        call again.

I couldn’t tell why it was so, but since the day I found my mother
        dead in bed, I knew that the angels hadn’t finished
        their song -circling in that glass of milk- until the day
        I sat with Danny dying, and at his side began to sing
        and Glory Be: the angels sang back to me.

I did not know that day I found my mother dead in bed -that
        Heaven would open its dazzling gates for me -not from
        my effort or for being good, not on my terms or in the
        time I wanted-

But Heaven opened its forgiving doors for me through its own Grace.
        And from the day I found my mother dead in bed,
        little by little Grace moved closer to my consciousness.
        I opened and walked right in -when I was ready and not
        before; when in me, faith and love had had a chance to grow.

But it took many years and the help of friends
        (from this world and the other)
        and losing more than Mom
        and loving more than Mom

        and knowing more than me
        and seeing more than grief
        and trusting more than what I felt or heard or saw or knew.

The gifts I cherish are still unfolding ,
        are still a mystery (but not a misery)
        are still returning from that day
        are still delighting me with surprise and beauty.

And now I know that the beginning of my new life;
        the start of glorious adventures;
        the path to faith and love, to peace and understanding;
        to the reworking of my own history;
        to keeping a trusting heart close to my breath;
        even to the frightful journey toward forgiveness;
        and to finding and accepting love,
        was all launched with many loving blessings
The day I found my mother dead in bed.

The day I found my mother dead in bed
I was going just to brew her coffee
        and gather some breakfast
I was going just to face the morning light
        -it was so bright and cheerful
I was going just to turn up the heat
        -it was so cold and snowy out
I was going just to do what I always did.
I was going just to start the beginning of my new life.