Olivia Always

Chapter Twelve - Doing It Her Way

My mom made it clear to me from the beginning that she didn't want any fuss.

"Don't be one of those bringing over casseroles and suggesting the names of homeopathic healers or ancient ayurvedic cures. Can you believe someone else said she was a trained reiki healer? As if I'm going to let her give me her "positive life force." The only ones worse are the doctors with their bon mots about extending my time. Like I'm some kind of mattress that if you turn me 360 degrees it increases life."

And on and on... She was speaking in a loop and there was little chance of either interrupting or suggesting alternatives. My dad was right, all she wanted was to be left alone and to do her dying her way. And by her way I mean no interference from outside sources including my dad and/or me.

Well, disease has a mind of its own. My mom lasted much longer than all the doctors predicted. She said, "I'll show them." But no amount of stubborn or wishful thinking can withstand the rigours of disease.

Mom died at home with the help of a nurse who kept her pain under control. Dad and I were with her and watched her slip away. Now there's a euphemism for the ages. Slipping away suggests some smoothness and a sense of gradually letting go. We just looked at each other and said nothing at first. We were definitely waiting for something more momentous and less abrupt to happen than a deep inhalation and final release of breath.

An arrival in this world is often loud and full of happiness. There is elation and congratulations and tears of joy. The leaving, in contrast, is startling in its quietude. No trumpet calls, or bells. Just this heavy sense of disbelief. How can someone be there with us one moment and then they're not? No amount of pre-knowledge makes it any more believable. How do you move suddenly from one stage to the next.? It's time travel in reverse.

We both stood up, left the room, spoke to the nurse and she made the appropriate phone calls. Life is mostly mundane dailiness where we go about our business. It is occasionally punctuated by moments of joy and then, like today, there are these moments that occur just one painful time. You can't imagine it. You think you can't do it. But somehow you do. When your mother's body is covered in a white cloth and is wheeled out and into a waiting van is one of those moments made bearable only by the unreality of it all.

My dad spoke first, "Do you think we should call Marie?" Marie was mom's one close friend. They had grown up together and remained each other's confidantes throughout their lives.

"Yes, good idea dad. And..." I had so many questions but they wouldn't form properly and I wasn't even sure if I should ask them. "We can talk about all that stuff later dad. What do you want to do now?"

"I need to lie down Olivia," he sighed.

"Me too," I said.

The next morning sitting drinking coffee with my dad I said, "So what now dad?" He pushed an envelope towards me. "This is what she wanted, he said in a voice so soft I could hardly hear him.

It didn't surprise me that my mom had made all the decisions about what she wanted when she left. I turned the envelope over and over in my hands. Nothing was written on the outside it was just an ordinary white envelope. I finally ripped it open and thought about how my mom would have complained I didn't use a letter opener. Inside was one sheet of paper 8x11 folded into fours and neatly creased. I unfolded it and saw a bulleted list in her precise handwriting.

No salutation, no "dear" anyone. Just the list.

Bullet # 1 – I want an open casket. I read it three times and looked up at dad. "Did you know about this open casket request?"