My mum and me... a complicated relationship [Part III] - a powerful restoration

Grief, is such a beautiful thing. How? Because it demonstrates that love, connection, happened. It happened. The more love, the more at stake, the more risk, the more pain. And all: worth it.

The cardiologist had tried to contact my sister Emma on the night of Wed Aug 14/2019 - to notify her that mum had requested for all medication draining fluid from her lungs be discontinued.  He finally got hold of her on Thursday afternoon, and with sensitivity and care he delivered some stunning news we could not have conceived: that without this medication mum had, at best; two weeks.  Turns out from this phone call that mum in fact had five hours. 

Reeling from the words ‘two weeks, maximum’ - I headed down down to Tauranga, incredulous. I had asked Emma questions like “was he serious?”, “was he even a real doctor?” It was too much to comprehend.  As I pulled into Cameron Rd, Tauranga; my phone rang. “Where are you? Hurry”, Emma urged in a low voice. “She’s not doing well”. Oh God.

I entered her hospital room at 5.20pm.  She squinted through her delirium to recognise me, and as I kissed her soft, warm face and said mum I love you over and over, she struggled but rasped ‘I love you’. 

We all sensed an urgency to leave nothing unsaid. Her husband asked her to forgive him for all/any wrongs.

– ‘akea am bure’ was her reply through her difficulty (you have no wrong-doings). These words were of great solace to me ‘experientially’ as I could see she was releasing everything, as we were. I told her again how I had forgiven her, and please; and would she accept it?  I know she heard the earnestness in my voice. 

I rubbed her precious feet and ankles - they were cooling down. This seemed significant, another step preparing me.

Witnessing mum’s travail; Emma - always perceptive and sensitive about others’ physical pain, requested for more morphine to be administered. Once mum had settled a bit, Emma called out clearly “Mum, we’re all here now, you can go now, you don’t have to hold on anymore”. She also spoke for both of us, thanking mum for being her, for shaping us in ways we are proud of. (thank you, Emma - I can be so useless at these times! xx)

Intense expressions of anguish came and went in waves and in turns among us - her husband, my sister, my brother, his partner and son in that last 80 minutes from when I arrived. 

During the last couple of minutes mum gasped several times.  We were all in close, a quiet was over us as we watched her intently. My brother urged his son - who was feeling alarmed - to help his Nani depart in peace ~ “e na mananga ma te rau” - she needs to leave with order/harmony/goodwill.

This type of passing was so much like childbirth, it was uncanny

~ Fresh in our minds as three weeks earlier we had supported one of our younger sisters through childbirth. This held so many parallels. A hospital. A person struggling, on a bed. Administering pain relief. Moistening her mouth. Support gathered around, feeling physically fine and able ourselves, but experiencing a torment of sorts as we witness our loved one battling. And encouraging that person to work towards an end. The climactic point, full release, and an entirely spiritual experience as one life leaves the place it knows for a new place it could never have foreseen. Can you see how it describes both birth and death?

In a single moment it occurred to us that she had gone – it took half a minute to confirm it amongst ourselves. Then this hysteria came over Emma and me.  Usually when one is weak the other is strong, but we both gave over to crying out primitively and passionately.  

“Mummy, mummy… mummy”…

My Dear Mummy ~ I hope sensing nothing but our deep love was your last impression of us.

This felt like a long time. Then exhaustion followed.  Then I needed to throw up.  Then the biggest headache I’d ever known.  Then quiet.

Friends of hers, including her pastor, who had come to visit believing mum was just unwell, were now filling the room. The pastor, a beautiful and gentle soul, read from her Kiribati bible, sharing from the bible; the book of John how Jesus said “In my Father’s house there are many rooms”, and how he goes to prepare a place for us.  It was the most appropriate and encapsulating visual.

For the first hour mum’s hands were relatively warm, soft, pliable, cooperative. We studied those hands, I never realised how well known they were to me. The colour, the shape, the finger nails. As an hour went to two - to three - I searched to find other places on her to sense warmth - evidence that she had been with us just a short while prior. “she’s still warm here”, “and feel her arm under there”. She felt within reach somehow; it was an accommodating and organic farewell.

Wheeling her out of that hospital through back doors to a hearse was bizarre experience. She was recently with us, she was still warm in places. It felt wrong to cover her face. To place her in one of those vehicles.

A new revelation

The following morning.  We picked up my sister in law from mum’s house, we were off to the funeral home to dress mum in her favourite outfit.  I hadn’t visited mum’s current home – and as we entered I saw her hall display shelf with framed photos.  Many of them were of my children and me. I was speechless. I could see it, mum - carefully placing those framed photographs around her home and at her front door. It wrecked me. A fog lifted, that I didn’t know was there.  And I was hit with this clear message: Mum did love me.

All this time I had written it off:

‘Mum can’t seem to accept and receive my love’. 

‘Mum looks around the world with nobody-likes-me-glasses.’ 

It suddenly occurred to me as I saw my family’s and my photographs displayed.  That Mum did love me, and that I had been doing what I accused her of the whole time, viewing her through ‘she-doesn’t-like-me’-glasses.

I felt utterly grief-stricken as we drove to the funeral home. “Mum - I’m so sorry, I didn’t understand”

“Oh wretched woman that I am! Who will rescue me… thank God, He will” (Romans 7:24)

We dressed mum in her white church smock and shawl. It was a highly affectionate process. “she needs this thermal singlet, it’s so cold today”. “She would prefer this ‘ah-bra’, they’re so comfortable” We joked with mum, “you’re not being very helpful, mum!” Emma, in her hilarity: “look at this body, is this my future?” Tears and laughter and I know mum would’ve had so many quips and jokes had she been with us.

Later that afternoon she was delivered in the classic white casket and a fresh lavender satin valance we had picked out; and was placed in her lounge.

The celebration that followed for six days on end, was so, wholly: fitting!  Yes, times of solemnity, studying her face, stroking her arms, loving her and telling her things. Juxtaposed with hysterically funny moments. Dance items. So many songs. Such fun and SO MUM. All her grandchildren together. She would’ve been brimming with pride. Every song and dance she ever taught us, every cheeky saying rose up and came out boldly, to the delight of all the Kiribati folk there. Even five minutes of that occasion would’ve kept mum going for months. Could she see/hear - did she know? We kept checking her, surely that item would’ve brought a smirk to her face? She remained, unwavering.

(At one point I saw a picture in my mind - she was in heaven having the time of her life, she was aware of what we were doing, she shrugged and thought ‘ha, yeah, cool’… and carried on celebrating with the angels!)

Another gift and realisation: We had always felt ‘once mum goes, there’s our connection to that culture gone’. But I have never ever felt so ‘Kiribati’, something buried deep within me came forth. I have never felt closer to my mum as I did in her passing.

Apart from God, hers (and our) whole existence would’ve been a tragic tale... And in a worldly sense, it was a tragic tale.  But for God, no hope.  But for God, unending torment.

Consider these gifts He gave us at her burial:

As we pulled into Pye’s Pa Cemetery in convoy ~ I noticed three doves pecking at the grass nearby, two white and one beige.

As we held the service, and sang songs, a light rain fell. The thought must’ve momentarily crossed everyone’s minds, ‘do we run for cover’, ~ No, we resolved that: if we got soaked, we got soaked. The rain was felt, but it was so brief. And there didn’t seem any dampness on us after.

As we lowered her glossy white casket, those three doves circled over us, then flew off - now how about that.

Then with my eyes closed, I sensed brightness through my eyelids, the sun was diffused through thinner clouds for a moment, then it shone through a gap strongly.

So? Well, God knows me so well; and He knew how I would interpret this.

The rain - in Kiribati: ‘te karau’. Like weeping - (‘te tangi’) God weeping with us. Grief, is such a beautiful thing. How? Because it demonstrates that love and connection happened. It happened. The more love, the more at stake, the more risk, the more pain. And all: worth it.

The doves - and three of them. Wow. The Holy Trinity, including the Holy Spirit, also known as ‘The Comforter’, God extending compassionate comfort.

The sun - Hope.

Grief - Comfort - Hope

Mum - we missed the mark, so much, didn’t we? I’ll always shake my head about that. But! I’ll be smiling at the same time. And if it’s harder to stay here, and easier to go where you’ve gone, then I’m happy you were called first. I’m ok. And I’ll be ok. I understand now. And knowing that you are made right, is all I need to know about you.

It’s sad for my children, their beautiful grandmother with such depth and richness of character is not available now. It’s sad to think I won’t see you again during this lifetime. Maybe I’ll live my whole life over, without you? …I could never forget you.

And I know that a time will come when: ‘we shall see face to face, and know, as fully as we are known’.

Mum is complete now, made right and whole.  I know and see so much now, and she knows even more.  And the banner over it all is:

God knows.  He knows it from beginning to end.  He holds it all in his infinite hands. 

“You shall know the truth, and the truth shall set you free” John 8:32