June, 2010

Sonoma, California

July 09 will mark nine months to the day that Vera Ushakova died at 4:45 p.m.  It was on a Friday, the day before my birthday and I remember saying to my mother 'I am so happy to be here to celebrate this anniversary with you.'  I could not have imagined being anywhere else on the eve of my birthday except in her room, in the nursing home that had become her world, where everything had been arranged just so and within her reach.   

There stood her tumbler of water, a short glass neatly placed nearby and a second short glass, this one filled with apple juice, so that if she could, she would only need to reach out and lift either glass on her own.  So that if she could, but she couldn't.

She had created an order in this spare space that had become her world and insisted -- when she still could -- that the box of tissues be placed here; her reading glasses there and the telephone positioned between the tissue box and the tumbler of water.  A place for everything and everything in its place....

On that Friday I was in and out of her room all day, talking to her, embracing her, beseeching her to take that little bit of Morphine so that the nurses could change the bandages on her wounds.  It would have been far too painful for her not to have taken the medicine.  I recall talking to her in the same voice she used when she needed my cooperation, when I was a little girl. 

I explained why it was she needed to take the medicine, knowing all the while she didn't want to.  I knew she was slipping away.  I knew that it probably no longer mattered as time was running out, because I could see that she was already en route from this world to the next.  I couldn't keep her from this departure....

She was still alive, though and there I was, with her, on the eve of my birthday.  I was so happy to be with her.  She finally opened her mouth just a little, just enough to be given a few drops of Morphine to lessen the pain.   And in my mind, I helped ease the pain in a small way, at the moment of need.  It was her final act of compliance.  She did it for me and I knew it.  Just as I had done it for her when I was a little girl and she needed to give me medicine I had not wanted to take....

I left her for just a little while to be with the nurses and when I was called back, Vera Ushakova had slipped away.  The thin veil that separates this world from that, wafted some, to let my mother pass through.  How can I explain to anyone that it is the most transparent of veils that separates this world from that?  The moment I understood this I knew that I would see her again.  I just knew it.  It had to be.  I believed it so.  I still believe it.

Oh, the stories I could tell of all the months and years leading up to that moment when the veil lifted to let my mother pass through.  The rich stories of a daughter's love for her mother.  When it came to my mother the boundaries between us were permeable.  There had never been a separation between my mother and me.  And none exists today.

In the end, when she was no longer in her logical mind, when I understood that she no longer knew me, when she said things that were so hurtful as she passed through the dark night of the soul journeying towards the light, I remained by her side.  I was where I always had been, by her side.

One time she had to tell me to leave, insisted that I leave, demanded my departure, simply wouldn't allow me to stay.  The nurses said she could not die with me in the room.  The nurses said that we must all be allowed our time to prepare for the leaving of this world on to the next:  the dignity of death, the grace of God calling us home by name, the Mystery that envelops us all, at the end of this world's voyage.  Even ships on round the world cruises must return to their docks, eventually. 

We all live in the Mystery.  We are all guided by the Mystery.  We need simply to accept the Mystery, because it is the vessel that brought us in and will one day take us out.

I learned about unconditional love from my mother.  In the weeks and days leading up to her death, I was the one she would share the darkness with...and when I asked the nurses why me, they said it was because she knew I could "take it."  How could I tell my mother that I really couldn't "take it?" 

I would leave her room and when I returned, time and time again, I knew of the probability that I would once again step into the darkness with her.  And I knew that even if the last time was to be the darkest time, I would still return.  She was my mother and I loved her no matter the state of her mind, no matter the condition of her body, no matter the depth of her darkness, before reaching the light. 

Unconditional love is a love that has permeable boundaries.  It is a love that forgives time and time again.  It is a love that when it goes away, there is nothing to replace it with except the experience of a greater amount of unconditional love.  It is the hardest love there is to give because we live our lives mostly fastened to a conditional state of mind:

"I will love you if you love me." 

"I will only love you if you love me as much as I love you."

"I will love you if you can take care of me."

"I will love you if you promise never to love anyone more than you love me."

The day of my birthday, the 10th of October, was spent at Nepenthe in Big Sur.  It is a place of beauty; a place of delicious comfort food and a soothing drink or two; a place where ocean meets sky; a cultural icon where the Bohemian style of artists, writers, actors, painters and dreamers infuses its atmosphere; a place my family has always loved because no celebration was complete without a bountiful table placed near the Pacific Ocean....

My mother loved Nepenthe, which overlooks the Pacific Ocean.  It is this body of water she had requested to be buried by.  It is this restaurant that reminded her of why she so loved this body of water.  From a perch on high, she could stare out onto the blues, aquas and greys of the Pacific Ocean, and sort through memories of a heartbreaking past.

In Greek, the word Nepenthe has two meanings:

Vera Ushakova

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