Shadows In The Hall

Chapter 7 The Shadow of Death…. The loss of my mother.

Shortly after we moved from the boy’s camp, my birth Mother became quite ill, with extreme shortness of breath. Her condition became so exacerbated that she was admitted to Palo Alto Hospital. She was diagnosed with Mitral Valve Failure for which she received a Pig Valve replacement.

Receiving the news from my sister I told her with tears in my eyes, “Mom isn’t going to make it, she’ll be gone soon.”

Surprised at my reaction, “How do you know that Linda? She is in a good hospital, getting antibiotics, it could be just fine. You worry too much!”

Not understanding myself why I felt so strongly about it, “I don’t think so, Joan.

The feeling is so strong. I’ve never felt this way before.”

Little did I know that was the beginning of something I would live with the rest of my life, an unwanted gift. When I would talk to my husband about it, he would simply say, “You are a people person, you are in touch with people’s feelings.”

Within a few days, we got the dreadful news that she had passed away. She had been living in Duplex in Modesto for many years. When she died, our family was told she needed to be moved out of the house before the first of the month… no grace period whatsoever! Since my sister and I were the closest ones available to Modesto, we took it upon ourselves to begin getting things together for the move.

It was strange, walking into my mother’s home with her nowhere to be found. I felt like an intruder… my mom was protective about her belongings. Going through her bedside drawers felt like an invasion of her property…. It was a necessary action since she was no longer able to participate and give us any direction where she wanted it to go or whom she wanted to give things to. That night I had a dream. My mother came to me and told me she understood what we were doing and that it was OK. I felt much better.

A couple of days later, after we had several boxes filled, my two oldest sisters showed up along with my oldest sister’s husband. They immediately inspected the house wondering why things had been packed in boxes already. When we try to explain that we had to have the house cleaned out by the first, they became indignant wondering why we hadn’t waited for them to get there. How could we? No one ever said they were coming!

My brother and I lived with my mother until I was 13 years old. After we were placed in Foster Care, we stayed over the weekend once a month every month until I started the Nursing Program. During that whole time, I rarely saw any of my sisters or my other brother, nor had Mom told me they had been here. Now at her death, they are all showing up complaining about things being moved, that they wanted to see the rooms first!

If you had shown up Bitches and you would have seen it when she was alive!

Everything was not packed, we really had just gotten started, I reminded them of the fact. They began to walk around the house looking at everything and deciding among each other who would take what, not giving any notice to me or Joan, I could feel my anger growing at these selfish people I called family.

A few minutes later, my brother-in-law returned with my mother’s hand-written will, unsigned and undated. She had divided her belongings where she wanted them to go but we were all told that everything had to be sold to help pay for her funeral. I told everyone I didn’t care about the list, the only thing I wanted was my dolls for my two daughters. My older brother spoke up, “Linda can you identify your dolls?”

“Mom kept these dolls here for me when I visited. What are you talking about?” I questioned.

“Well,” I was told, “The dolls are property of the house now!”

I quickly left the room, tearful, called my foster mom, explaining to her how things were not being handled right. She asked me if I wanted to come home to visit her and Daddy. “Can I please?” I begged.

“I’ll be there in a little bit, get your things together OK?” Grateful for having this special family in my life, I quickly gathered my belongings. I said nothing to anyone when I left.

I called Dale to update him about the events, he had stayed home to care for the children. We didn’t feel a funeral was a good event for small children. Our oldest daughter is just five.

A few days later, Joan showed up to take me to the funeral home to get Mom ready for showing. Joan was a Beautician and wanted to do Mom’s hair and make-up. I wondered if she would be able to do that… I think really, I was wondering if I could have done it myself.

I waited in the outer room while Joan was with mom. She was not my first dead person of course, but she was my first real dead relative.

When my father died, I was just 6 years old. My mother brought me to the funeral, sitting me next to her. I listened and watched as my brother, sisters and Mother wailed. I sat there with dry eyes, feeling like I should be crying, after all, they were crying right? I couldn’t cry! The man was a stranger to me. I had no idea who he was really. I have only one memory of him. We had visited him on the ranch, he was cleaning a chicken and he handed me an almond.

The two of them spent 6 years apart before I was conceived, my sister Joan was seven years older than me. I was my father’s youngest child. His twelfth child. He had two sets of six children. Six by his first wife and six with my mother. Obviously a very prolific man…and… this was before Viagra!!

He was not a lazy man by any means, he owned the ranch and had been a farmer all his life as far I remember. He worked extremely hard and trained all his other children to farm. The oldest children from his first marriage, that I was able to meet and get to know mostly lived in the country on a farm. I only got to meet three of them, unfortunately.

All my older sisters and brother, from my own Mother, worked on the farm. I remember stories told to me, later in my life, by my oldest Sister, how she felt like she had been raised like a boy because Daddy depended on her so much.

Finally, Joan came to the door, telling me she was done with Mother. I walked into the room, over to the gurney. I looked at her and it felt like something was missing. I don’t care what anyone says, people do not look the same when they die, it’s because their life essence is gone, just a shell is left behind. No matter how well the makeup is done, no matter how wonderful the hair is done, no matter how beautiful the clothes, it feels like we are just dressing Manikins for show.

I was relieved and sad when we finally had the funeral and burial. I promised myself I would not do this to my family, just have me cremated, put me in an urn, and have a “Celebration of Life” for me …... please!!