Recently, my dad related a story to me of a special moment that happened for him at the end of Grammie's life. He promised to write it down for me, so here it is:
In her later years, my mother constantly tried to extract a promise from me that she could die in her own home. The best I could do was promise to try… In the end, we did keep her home, doubtless far longer than we should have, but eventually we had to move her to a nursing home. By that time I believe her awareness of her surroundings was minimal.
Mom's left arm was essentially locked in place; she had not been able to move it or use it for quite some time, but the nursing home put her through physical therapy sessions to try to restore some use to the arm. I was never sure the therapy made much sense; the physician's prognosis was that she would leave us within 6 months, and it was difficut to think of what use she would have for an arm that had failed her long ago. But the therapy continued.
Near the end, about the only way I had to communicate with Mom was to arrive at meal time and offer to feed her while the nurse attended to some other patient. I fed her a meal only a week or so before she decided to stop eating altogether. I talked to her for a while, told her I loved her, and then proceeded to clean her up - her face, her shirt - but was surprised when she grabbed my hand with her left arm and gently raised it to her lips.
I sat and cried for half an hour. Until the day I die, I will believe - I do know - that that was a last kiss from my mother. Well worth the hours of therapy.
The picture above is my dad as a baby, being held by his mom.
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