Different at Night

She's different at night. 

The daytime people don't know her. When there is no one to smile at or sing to, she goes far away, stands on top of the world and looks down to feel the largeness of space and brevity of time. Her face tells the story even when words are far from her mouth.

When they do come, she confirms what you thought you heard her say... It's almost over. My heart is giving way. Jesus will take care of me and he will take great care of you too.

In an hour or so, she wants to brush her teeth, shave her whiskers, and yes to wiping her face. Her friends are coming in a few hours. 

She sinks back to sleep, right up until her friends walk through the door. 

She pinks up and smiles. 

Kisses and hugs and stories fill the room followed by more and more people with their own kisses and hugs and stories. Like a movie of her whole life where the characters from different chapters bump into each other for once and for all.

She performs her favorite song surrounded by an audience of a lifetime. Her head nods and she sports a knowing smile. Her hand taps and the words stumble out or go quiet when they get confused or don't match what that guy is singing so well.

In the middle of the night, I go walking in my sleep...

Chips and dip and margaritas, and they left as they came. Slumber returned before they made it to the end of the hall.

When she goes, she said we'll know she made it to heaven when we hear a big crack of thunder.

Her room is dark, except for the light escaping from the bathroom so we can see her face. She sleeps in her wheelchair, determined not to get back into bed. 

The rumble of a storm approaches with an occasional flash of light. She is laid back and covered and her breathing is slight.

She parties by day but she is different at night.

Don

Mom decided to turn around halfway to the restaurant. She wanted to sit in the shade and wait for me to bring her dinner. 

A good idea, really...

I placed my order at the bar and sat next to a disinterested guy wearing overalls - Just my type. 

I made my move.

Just waiting on his dinner, he said. 

Taking it home to someone or eating alone and just don't want to do it here?

His wife was in the car.

They were just on their way home from the emergency room. She fell between the toilet and the tub a few days ago and the pain continued to worsen.

Find out what's wrong? 

Found out what wasn't wrong...

Yeah, that's definitely how it goes sometimes.

She's 90 and he's 91. Been married 71 years.

Do you give marriage advice?

He laughed. You made a commitment - keep it. Life happens, and you adjust.

Person of faith? 

Not really. 

But his wife saw their 16-year-old son walk into and out of a room through a wall to let her know he was alright, some time after he was killed in a motorcycle accident.

And Don just sold his motor cycle last year. At age 90. Wife only minded it some.

We're made of trillions of parts, the universe goes beyond the stars, and their two other kids are sicker than they are.

Apparently, William Shatner has a show worth watching called Unexplained. And make sure it's the one with William Shatner. Either there is life after death or there isn't, and worrying about it isn't how he chooses to spend his time.

I thanked him for the visit and hoped I helped him pass the time, and said hello to his wife on the way out. 

It's taking too long, she said. 

I couldn't disagree as she waited-in-the-car-on-the-way-home-from-the-emergency- room. But, it kind of seemed like perfect timing to me.

The Haircut

The haircut. 

It came up again tonight at the dinner table. 

Nothing can make my eyes sting and shut down my ability to speak like the thought of it.

Ironic, because I wanted it to be cut so many times before now. 

But not now.

When that hair is cut, I will see the man we are sending off to bootcamp. Our Marine. Off he will go after he graduates high school. Less than two months from now.

The long-haired boy that lives in our home will leave with short hair. He will be a visitor in our home from then on.

I could feign surprise, but I've known it was coming. 

He handed me something when he was 12-years-old. "Here, you're going to need this." 

A Proud-parent-of-a-Marine sticker. I tried to explain all of the other options and he just looked at me with pity. 

He was only 12, but it was already years in the making. If there was an opportunity to dress up, he already knew what he would be wearing. I think he is 9 here...

As his mother, I can only support his decision, and try to soak up the early mornings and late nights -  when he is still of a mind to eat breakfast with his Mom, lay on my lap, and be tickled like the little boy he once was. I have countless pictures of these times, lest I forget...

When he was two-years-old, I came home from work to a little boy who had a haircut by his well-meaning Daddy. Little blond curls off and short hair on. 

I cried. It was a terrible surprise. I still have those locks in a ziplock baggie somewhere. Not sure if that is sentimental or just gross at this point. Probably both.

But I learned something. Surprise haircuts are bad (for me). 

Another haircut is coming and I have to face it head on. Probably need to watch it happen. And cry. 

But whenever it is, I hope not to be surprised. 

It occurs to me that I have never dreaded something for so long. I'm pretty sure that makes me one of the lucky ones. There are a lot worse things than haircuts, of course. 

God bless all who serve, their mothers, their fathers, their barbers, and all who love them. 

Dying Alone With a Tiny Rainbow in the Sky

My eyes are welling again and I was wondering if I could just tell you something? I don’t feel like I can get anything else done unless I get it out and separate it from the rest of life which will eventually blur together. 

I think I said goodbye to two friends yesterday. They came and went during the conversation, in and out of sleep or consciousness-it’s not always easy to tell. But they were there long enough to tell me I was a beautiful person and that I’ve been a wonderful friend, and I told them the same thing. 

For me, it’s a little easier to be with the dying when they are closer to death. When they can no longer look into your face and tell you that your eyes are beautiful and they love you. When they express their love and deep appreciation for knowing you, you can’t pretend it is one-sided or that it’s all just part of the job. But the hardest parts are also the best parts.

It was easier earlier in the week when I got to be alone with a dying woman I’d never met before. Her spirit felt far away and her body was trailing close behind. I sat at her bedside for a couple of hours—praying and singing and feeling as observant and objective about death as I’ve ever been. There was no conversation nor grief to distract me from bearing witness to the sacred act of dying—the rise and fall of peaceful breaths with space growing gently between them…

But there was a rainbow. 

And that little rainbow reminded me that sometimes I don’t believe dying alone is necessarily a bad thing. Because how alone are we? 

There is wonder and stillness which becomes the thin place where heaven and earth meet. Death is personal and private, no matter how many people are in the room.  When my time comes, I think it will be hard for me to let go if someone is holding my hand. I feel certain I will try to stay for them, even if I’m past ready and feeling impatient. I might have to wait until they go to Whataburger or the bathroom.

But it’s not my time to die. It’s my time to write and to let you know that it’s not your time either. But when the time comes, you should know that there might be a tiny rainbow in the sky, even if no one else is around to see it.