This is my mother. She died one day short of the day she was hoping to reach. Her 85th birthday. She may mean nothing to you, but she meant the world to me. How could she not? She was my mother. The first face I saw. The first person I smiled for.

She died from COVID-19. What’s that you say? She was already old and it was her time to go? No. She was enjoying her life. It might have seemed a simple life to you, but she finally, after a lifetime of struggle, had settled in. She was well taken care of and enjoying her friends. Her body may have been failing her, but her mind was still sharp.

Mom was a real spitfire in her younger years. She accomplished what a lot of women didn’t in her era. Just because she was old now doesn’t mean her life didn’t have value.

She died because someone was careless. Possibly by their behavior, or where they were hanging out, or maybe simply because they didn’t think it was important to wear a mask. Or even worse, put on a mask because they had to but didn’t wear it properly. They could have been silent spreaders, those without symptoms yet still transmitting the virus to others. So that evil virus invaded them and then someone else and a few more people and so on down the line.

And the next thing you know, it got passed to Mom. One of the vulnerable ones in long term care. A sitting duck dependent on others to care enough to protect her.

She didn’t leave this world easily, though she gave a good fight. She struggled to breathe and struggled to live. Soon all she could do was breathe. No talking. No eating or drinking. It took everything out of her to try to stay alive.

My mother died in an icu room by herself, with the exception of her nurse, a kind stranger. I wasn’t afforded the opportunity to be next to her. I couldn’t explain to her what she had and what that meant. Yes, she knew about covid. I had warned her many times about washing her hands and not touching her face or picking at things.

But once she was transferred to that icu room, I don’t know if she was clear enough of mind to understand that having covid meant we couldn’t come in. We were allowed one at a time into the building to visit. This meant looking through the glass from the hallway. Instead of her daughter being there to see her out of this world with love, I felt like the grim reaper lurking at the window, waiting for her to die.

It was horrible.

I sobbed for days. I couldn’t erase that view through the window from my mind. I wanted to go outside and shout to the universe, “MY MOTHER IS GONE,  WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO NOW?” I did say it out loud. Alone. In my home.

Once she was gone, I had to retrieve her belongings from the nursing home. Though they had disinfected her room there, and let her belongings sit, I was still wary. In transporting her things, I felt like part of a hazmat team.

Mom’s life was reduced to several bags and a couple of boxes.  Belongings I was afraid to touch. Instead of donating her clothing, I wound up throwing it all out, afraid to pass them along. The items I kept, I sprayed with disinfectant and put back in bags to let sit a while longer. I couldn’t even find comfort in those few things that were dear to me.

We keep hearing about the “new normal”. New normal for me now means a life without my mother. My children lost their grandmother. Nothing feels normal anymore. I can’t pick up the phone to say hi or ask her a question. I can’t visit her. I will never see her again on this earth.

It wasn’t easy growing up as the daughter of my mother. There were demons in her past that kept her from being all she could have been. Long ago, I reconciled myself to the belief that she did the best she could with what she was given and who she was.

We enjoyed a less complicated relationship during my visits at the nursing home. We had simple conversations, and often played card games (she got mad once when I didn’t let her win). But in amongst that there would be a memory spoken of,  a bit of family history, a story that only she could tell. Those were the moments I craved.

And now they are gone. Stolen away.

I had given her a book to fill out. It had questions to answer, so her past could be recorded for me, my siblings and her grandchildren to read, to learn more about her and her past. She began it enthusiastically. She was only partway into it and now it sits unfinished. That history is lost forever.

And so I’ll go on. Life goes on. Yet I am shaken to my core. Even though there was no family home to return to, Mom felt like home base. The place you go, the voice you want to hear, the one who represents “home” in your heart. Your mother.

This virus will steal your loved one without warning. No. Let me correct that. There have been plenty of warnings. Heed them.

Wear your mask. Wear it properly, pulled up over both mouth and nose. Don’t tell me you can’t breathe. You can. My mother couldn’t breathe. Her death was neither easy nor with dignity. She suffocated as her lungs were taken over by COVID-19 pneumonia.

So wear your mask with purpose. Wear it willingly, not grudgingly. Wear it to save a life. Wear it to protect yourself, to protect your loved ones, to protect your friends and your community. If you’re not sure if you need to wear it, then wear it anyway. Wash your hands. Distance yourself from others.

The life you save may be your own. Or your mother’s.

                                               In loving memory of Mary Piccola

“Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit. Rather, in humility value others above yourselves, not looking to your own interests but each of you to the interests of the others.” Philippians 2:3,4 (NIV)

~Carolyn

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