Death leaves a heartache no one can heal, love leaves a memory no one can steal.
Quote from an Irish tombstone

May 23, 2008

I’m sitting in room 506 of the local hospital. My mother is dying. She deserves to be released after ninety-five years of living, caring, and loving. She has been a great Mom! Even though she now goes through phases in which her real self disappears, she still is able to give the occasional smile and make an attempt at a humorous rejoinder. She still gives long hugs. There is the repetitive coughing as a result of congestive heart failure and pneumonia, but her true heart, the real essence of who she is, cannot be hidden by the mere passage of time or the interruption of decay.

Memories drift in and out of my consciousness as I observe her sleeping; glorious adventures with her and Dad in the car or train, sacred moments of worship as she passionately played the piano and sang hymns to Christ, being my biggest fan during high school basketball games…and most of all, always being there. I’m one of the lucky ones who have experienced the treasure of unconditional parental love.

I detest death. It’s the ultimate farewell and I’m not able to say mine gracefully. As a Christian, I affirm my belief that death is a transition to a much better place, and therefore the good-byes of life are truly temporal. As a son and as a frail human, however, I abhor the extremely rude intrusion of separation. Try as I might, I cannot spin it, even theologically, in such a way that it brings me solace. Having experienced my father’s sixteen-month death process, I know that grief will subside somewhat, at some time.

To run from grief by attempting to suppress the awkward discomfort of sorrow is not an option. Sorrow might be suppressed but never negated. It manifests itself in me as a heavy weight across the chest, along with tears that are always just below the surface. For me, it is not a purely dark place but more like a sensation of mist or shrouded dampness. Confusion lurks nearby. It is much easier to discuss what it is not; not a place of light, of relaxation, or satisfaction or clarity.

My one consolation at this point rests in the knowledge that our relationship has always been rock solid—full of forgiveness, compassion, and trust. There are no regrets or issues unresolved. No resentments. No thoughts of “I wish I could have told her…” Though full of anguish, this separation feels clean and concise, maybe even healthy. When my family members and I watch as the casket is lowered into the earth, it will be the end of an era. It has been a wonderful era. By her actions, she taught us how to love. With her words, she pointed us down a good path. Her life gave witness to Life.

Thanks, Mom.

Wilma M. Gunderson, born February 20, 1913

Died May 26, 2008