My Fault? | Previous Challenge Entry

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TITLE: My Fault? | Previous Challenge Entry
By Barbara Culler
02/09/23
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Cooing woefully, a mourning dove outside the window accompanied my sadness that August morning. It foreshadowed what was to come: saying goodbye to my mother.

Mom, at age 88, lived independently in a nearby apartment, but after suffering a bad fall in June, she needed my help with shopping and laundry. Towards the end of July, I contracted an assumed sinus infection. And shared it with my frail mother. Too busy attending to her needs, I ignored my own increased coughing and frequent feelings of faintness.We both declined medical care. We did not think it was Covid since no fever or loss of smell. Besides, we did not have the energy to spend hours in the emergency room.

However, early Wednesday morning, Mom called from the hospital. She'd fallen and utilized her medical alert pendant to summon help. But she did not contact me. Her diagnosis — Covid. The hospital prohibited my sitting with her.

Presuming the same diagnosis for myself, I drove to my ER and given oxygen upon check-in. Then waited three hours outside, under a tent in 99-degree weather, until an indoor bed became available. Diagnosed with Covid pneumonia, I was discharged home with portable oxygen.

On Friday, Mom transferred to a rehab facility, but sickness and quarantine prevented my being with her. I lost communication after her cell phone quit working and had no idea what was happening. She was alone, seemingly abandoned.

Early Sunday morning, the care center informed me of Mom's rehospitalization with an altered state of consciousness. I still could not be with her. Given that it was the anniversary of Dad’s 90th heavenly birthday, I thought she would join him. But she did not die. Or regain consciousness. Mom had suffered a massive brain bleed. The prognosis poor, I decided on palliative care, knowing she would not want life support. She returned to the nursing home that night.

Early Monday morning, I drove alone to the facility to deal with the hospice paperwork. The program social worker ran two hours late for our appointment, forcing me to wait outside. Covid protocol denied me entry to Mom's bedside, but they allowed me to look at her through the window. She never knew I was there. Separated by glass, seeing my unresponsive mother slumped in a Geri chair was devastating. The day was hot, my oxygen tank — and energy level nearly spent, I sobbed the entire drive home.

Six days later, Mom’s condition significantly deteriorated, and the social worker permitted me bedside access to say goodbye. After donning Covid isolation gear, I walked into her curtained room and gasped. Mom's mouth contorted open with labored breathing. I knew death was imminent. Holding her cold limp hand, I whispered:

“I’m here now, It’s okay to let go.” Choking up, I had to pause. “Go be with Jesus and Dad. I will be okay.”

No response. Just heavy breathing. Tears flowing and heart breaking, I felt alone and abandoned.

That evening, I comforted myself by repeatedly listening to three favorite praise and worship songs and spending time with God. When the 7:00 pm call came that Mom was gone, I felt embraced in Jesus' arms.

Still recovering from pneumonia, with no close family, a memorial service was too much for me. Instead, I arranged with the mortuary to take the cremated remains and bury them with Dad at the Veterans' cemetery. They promised to take care of everything. I trusted them.

One year later, a letter from the mortuary informed me that they still had the remains and I would be charged with abandonment if not claimed within a week. The scab of guilt-laden grief tore off. After speaking with four persons, they realized their error in not following my directions. A few days later, I received notice that Mom’s remains were finally buried. Flinging the postcard across the room, I wept.

It’s been 18 months, and the grief ebbs and flows. It was my fault for Mom getting sick, but the stroke killed her. Still, I wonder what I could’ve done to prevent the events from happening in the first place. Even so, this was God’s plan for both our lives. Mom suffers no more. I envision her lifted out of her malfunctioning body, and carried to Jesus.

When the mourning dove takes flight, it makes a whirring sound like rustling angel wings, and I’m comforted. We will reunite some joyous morning, never again separated by a virus and emotional goodbyes.

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