(Written Fall 2012)

We had an informal viewing line. One sister and I stood closest to the casket. My other sister needed to sit most of the time. My brother was the first one in the line. We were spread out. We visited with Mom’s older brother and his wife, both in their nineties. I recognized almost all the people who I knew when I lived in Bountiful and most of mom’s new friends from Ogden.  I remembered some of the people I had met for the first time at Dad’s viewing.

The line was longer than all of us but one brother-in-law had expected.  Mom had not lived in Bountiful for two and one-half years and several of her friends had died.  We did not expect that their children, plus people who met Mom while she was in the assisted living center in Ogden, would drive to Bountiful for the viewing and funeral.

My brother-in-law had been in the bishopric, served as bishop, and was a high councilman for years. He had attended and presided over many funerals.  He said people would drive miles for the viewing and funeral of someone like Mom, who was sweet and well-loved.  We had added thirty minutes to the viewing time on his recommendation, but it still was not enough.

I saw a cousin wheel in his mother near the end of the time of the viewing, the aunt who I had been closest to for over fifty years.  She was two years older than Mom and was Mom’s best friend.  Aging had not been fair to her and she was having a very difficult time in assisted living.

I could see that my cousin and aunt were not going to be able to get through the line.  We had already gone over the scheduled time for the viewing.  I stepped out of line and walked over to greet my aunt and her son.  He and I shook hands and I thanked him for bringing my aunt to the service.  I knew it was hard given her health and the distance they traveled.

I knelt in front of my aunt and said, “It is so good to see you.”

She looked at me and said, “I am sorry, but I don’t remember who you are.”

I said, “I am Dean, the youngest son.”

She started crying and said, “Oh, Dean, I am so embarrassed. How could I not recognize you?”

People who were in the foyer at the church started filing into the chapel rather than trying to pass through the viewing line.  A break appeared in the line to the Relief Society room, where the viewing was held.  One of the employees of the funeral home closed the door to the room.  Another one said it was time for the family prayer.

My cousin wheeled my aunt – Mom’s best friend – up to the casket.  My sisters stood close by.  I stood off to the side, with my son.  I watched tears silently fill my aunt’s eyes.  My aunt stopped crying and bowed her head in prayer.  My cousin wheeled her back far enough for the bishop to step forward.

We stepped forward one last time to see Mom.  I kissed her on the forehead and stepped back with my son.  My sisters (I think - perhaps my nieces – I don’t recall) did the final placement of Mom’s temple veil.  After the family members had all stepped back the casket was closed.  The family prayer was offered by my brother-in-law, a beautiful prayer by one of Mom’s extra sons through marriage.

We filed into the chapel.  It was full and people were sitting in the overflow area behind the chapel, even though it was the stake center and a weekday morning. We walked in order of age with the children and grandchildren accompanying their parents, except I walked behind my son.  My former sister-in-law sat next to my nephew and my son. I sat on the end.  The cousin my age who had lost her mobility was wheeled next to me at the end of the bench.  She reached over and held my hand – two divorced people with children but no spouses.

The bishop began the service.  The chorister was my Sunday School teacher my senior year of high school.  Her husband was my Priest Quorum advisor.  She spoke at my missionary farewell.

A nephew, an active married Mormon, gave the invocation. My youngest nephew read the obituary.  My sister gave a tribute.  My other sister gave the family eulogy at Dad’s funeral.  She opted out of speaking at Mom’s service, so her husband, children, and grandchildren sang “Together Forever Someday” and “I Know That My Redeemer Lives.”

My oldest nephew gave a tribute, spoke of his trips with his grandma to Temple Square and the ZCMI Tiffin Room, and how special he felt on one ZCMI trip when she wanted to buy an accessory for a new dress, something that had a splash of red.  How many grandsons, he asked, had a grandma who wore “a splash of red?”

My son stepped to the podium.  This is not his blog and he prefers to communicate through his tattoo art, so I will not transcribe his brief comments.  They were to the point.  She loved him.  He loved her. Their love was perfect, and perfect was the best word he knew to describe her.

Our eyes met as we passed, he back to his seat in the congregation and me on my walk to the podium.  I placed my written remarks on the stand. I looked across the audience and realized that several hundred people were in the chapel.  I could not talk to that many people, so I spoke to Mom.

My Tribute

On a spring morning in 19xx, my grandma awoke with a special announcement – she was pregnant. It was not a new experience – she had five children – but it was unexpected news. She would be forty-two, and her husband would be fifty-four when this baby was born.

Some fifty plus years later while chatting with my grandma, I asked what her first thoughts were when she discovered she was having my mom.  Her response shocked me – “(Husband), I will never forgive you for doing this to me.”

She immediately followed up with, “But as I look over my life, having your mom and my younger daughter and son in my later years has been my greatest blessing.  My older daughters are in their seventies and are not able to care for me between themselves.  Having the younger children has allowed me to spend time with my children without being a burden to any one child.”

We are here today to celebrate and honor the blessing of knowing, of loving, and of being loved by my mom.

Mom was born into an active, loving, diverse three generation family.  Her grandma, eighty-three at the time of mom’s birth, crossed the plains as a Mormon pioneer.  Mom’s father came to America, via Canada, as a sixteen-year-old looking for a better life than the one that was available to him in England.  Her mother was a lively, beautiful young woman who took on the challenges of raising her family and providing mutual support to her mother while mom’s father was away with his work as a mining engineer.

Mom’s older siblings married and moved away around the time Mom entered Stoker School.  The family soon grew to include grandchildren.  In particular, mom had closeness to her three nieces, who were more like sisters than nieces.  She loved her nephew who was always good for providing entertainment for the family.

The family was touched by the deaths of two grandsons, their grandma, mom’s father, and her oldest brother in a two-year period.  These experiences drew mom, who was always close to her mother, even closer.  They gave her the desire to enjoy the time she had with family and the hope of being reunited with loved ones after death.

In junior high mom became a talented seamstress.  One afternoon while my grandma was out, mom took apart a blouse so she could study the pieces of cloth, figure out how they were sewn together, and re-sewed the blouse to show grandma what she had learned.  She was a member of the yearbook staff at Davis High School.

Upon graduation she went to work at Morrison – Merrill Lumber Company.  She took the Civil Service exam and was hired on at Hill Air Force Base as the first secretary in the Engineering Department. When she left Hill Field a few years later she was one of only two secretaries at the base who held a GS 6 grade level.

Around the time Mom went to Hill Field, a young man entered her life.  He moved from Brigham City to Bountiful the previous summer to attend LDS Business College.  He lived with his uncle and aunt who were neighbors of Mom’s family.

To quote from Mom’s personal history:  “Two girls in our neighborhood asked me if I wanted to join with them to see who could get the first date with that good-looking young man who had just come to town.  I replied that I wouldn’t make a fool of myself for any boy.  That is the reason I had made myself scarce when he was around.  He thought I was stuck up, but I really wasn’t.”

For Dad’s perspective, I will now quote from his personal history:  “The (Mom’s) family lived in the house south of us.  She was a widow with a boy and two girls still at home.  I knew her son and one daughter quite well but thought the youngest daughter was a very stuck up person since she seldom if ever joined in any of our conversations.  I did take notice that she came out and sat on their front porch in her shorts when I was working in our yard.  She claims it was unintentional but I claim it was too often to be just accidental.”

And so, while our mom was a flirt, she was a selective flirt.

One day in August 19xx as my future parents passed each other on the sidewalk, they spoke to each other. Out of nowhere my future father asked my future mother if she would like to go to a show.  To his surprise she accepted. He had just asked for the first date in his life.

They went to a movie at the Center Theatre in Salt Lake, and to quote from dad’s personal history again, “It was not nearly as bad as I thought it was going to be. In fact it was quite enjoyable so in about a week I gave it another try.”

Continuing from dad’s history:  “We seemed to enjoy being together but the bravest I got for our first five dates was to hold her hand occasionally in a show and then hold her hand while walking her to the door when we got home.  On our next date we were parked in from of her house ….I casually put my arm across the back of the seat and then moved it down on her shoulder.  Before I knew what was happening she moved across the seat to my side and gave me a kiss that just about took my breath away…..It took me a couple of minutes to recover and I will admit that I returned the favor.”

Mom and dad married on (date) in the Salt Lake Temple.  Over the years she taught him how to be a husband, and later on how to be a father.

As a child I liked the fact that our names rhymed.  When I learned there was an older sister who died as a baby, I wanted to know more about her.  My oldest sister’s death was the greatest sorrow and challenge in mom’s life.

At this point I’d like to talk about some of mom’s traits and interests, and how they have been shared among family members.  Mom was a sweet person, much like her Grandma and her own mother. Each loved being a mother and being a grandmother was an especially wonderful experience.  That love of being a mom and a grandma is shared by my sisters. And my brother and I, though less prolific than our sisters, really enjoy being dads.

In spite of that sweetness, mom had a less frequently manifested but humorous trait that could be defined as the “Let me yank your chain” gene.  This was demonstrated when mom was a toddler, learning to speak, and her sister was taking a high school typing class.  Each time mom’s sister made a mistake she would slam the typewriter carriage back and let out a few choice words.  Mom stood by her sister’s side saying, “Mate mitates – mate mitates.”

My brother probably inherited the largest share of the “Let me yank your chain” gene.  For example, when I was three the family got G, a beautiful Seal Point Siamese cat.  My brother, being the logical and mathematical seven-year old that he was, declared that since G was the family cat, we each owned one-sixth of G.

Furthermore, the part of G we owned was based on age, with Mom – a few months older than Dad – owning G’s head.  My brother carefully explained to me the parts that our parents, sisters, and he owned, and then informed me that, as the youngest member of the family, I owned G’s tail and rear end.

That made me mad and I ran crying to mom.  She asked what had happened and I explained my brother’s allocation of G according to age.  Mom comforted me for a few seconds and then said since she owned G’s head, she would give me her share of G.  I went back to my brother and announced that I now owned two-sixths of G – her head in addition to her tail and rear end.  That love of pets is a shared trait among our family.

Being raised during the Great Depression, mom and dad were both fiscally conservative.  As funds became more available, they did enjoy a few indulgences.  For example, mom loved shoes.  I’m not sure about my one sister, but I think my other sister shares that trait with Mom.

My brother, on the other hand, wears sandals when ever possible and on occasion has been caught in the snow with sandals.  My least favorite article of clothing to sell when I worked for Mac was shoes, and they are still my least favorite article of clothing to buy.

Mom and dad could be a bit humorous with their definition of fiscal conservatism.  They did not buy a set of fine china until they had been married around twenty-five years.  They felt it would be spending too much to buy sterling silver at the same time.

A few years later they went to ZCMI.  The item they were looking for was sold out so as they were leaving the store, dad said they needed to buy something so he would not have to pay for parking.  Mom walked over to the china and silver department and asked, “How about a set of sterling silver?”  It was one of their more expensive “free parking” validations.

On the few occasions when mom disagreed with dad, she referred to him as “your father.”  About fifteen years ago I received a letter from mom – typed on her PC – that had some unusual formatting problems.

Midway through the letter, she wrote, “Excuse the appearance, but ‘your father’ won’t support my word processing software any more and is making me learn a new program.”   Within three weeks Mom mastered the new software and “your father” once again became “Dad” in her letters.

Around the same time at work we were installing our first software that would load new accounts directly onto our main processing system.  During a meeting with one of our offices, a woman who was in her sixties said she did not think she could learn our new software.  I told her about my mom learning new software in her seventies and said that within three weeks Mom had it down pat.

My co-worker found encouragement in mom’s example and shared it with several other employees.  Without realizing it, mom became an inspiration to four or five women in central North Carolina who needed to learn some new programs.

Mom loved Bountiful and her homes and life with dad and their family, friends, and neighbors.  She had no desire to travel widely, but enjoyed some special trips with family.

The first was a trip California with her oldest sister and brother-in-law, who took her to visit another sister and brother-in-law.  The next was our family’s tour of the Eastern States before we returned home after our time in Ohio.  Mom and dad loved their trip to the northwest and into British Columbia with my youngest aunt and uncle. The two couples were more than relatives – they were great friends.  The other big trip was mom’s tour of Europe with my cousin, courtesy of dad and my cousin’s husband.

Next to my oldest sister’s passing, mom’s greatest challenges were her longing for dad after his death and having to move from her home.  Our visits and phone conversations could be both sweet and bittersweet.

Last December, while trying to decide what to give mom for Christmas, I concluded there was a limit to the number of trinkets or floral arrangements that could fit in her apartment, and that she would probably be happiest spending Christmas Day together.  It was one of our shortest but most enjoyable visits.  I returned home to North Carolina, grateful to have spent what would probably be my last Christmas and my last visit with mom.

When mom’s latest series of medical challenges began there were a series of phone calls and e-mails about Mom’s condition, her prognosis, her ups, and her downs.  One trait we four children share with mom and dad is that all of us are pragmatic – possibly too pragmatic.  With various issues back home in North Carolina, there were no suggestions or hints that I needed to come to Utah for this latest medical round.

I had decided that I would fly out for Mothers Day, which fit better into my schedule.  The morning of (date), after taking care of my dogs, I went into the bathroom to prepare for the work day.  As I splashed hot water on my face to shave, I looked in the mirror and thought – “Mothers Day might be too late.”  I dried my face and hands, walked into my study, and booked a flight to Utah.

It was a visit with some very nice highs – especially the evening of mom and dad’s anniversary – and a few of the hardest episodes that made me wonder why mom had to endure some of the things she was experiencing.  Our last visit was poignant.  I did not want it to end, and turned around three times and went back to mom before I finally left. She handled it better than I did and smiled with contentment while I cried and tried to regain my composure.

The final cycle began last Sunday with a call to let me know mom was being transferred to McKay Dee Hospital and that she was in a coma.  There were a series of phone calls with the siblings and spouses over the next few hours.

Mom was in a coma and the tests showed that her vital organs were shutting down.  The final call from a tearful brother told me that based on the medical results and mom’s lack of responsiveness, the decision had been made to let her go.

The next hour or two were a slow motion whirlwind as I wrote a version of this talk, searched out travel options, and spoke with my son who lives in Seattle.  After hearing no further word, I called my brother’s cell phone and asked for an update.

Mom’s life began as a shock and a blessing, and that is how it ended.  He said, “Mom is sitting up and we are reminiscing about pets.”

I said, “What?”

He said, “We’re talking about G. Let me put you on the speaker phone so you can join the conversation.”

What followed was a ten minute chat, much like the conversations we had years ago before age and illness afflicted Mom and Dad.  When I asked, “How are you doing, Mom?” she replied, “Well, I’ve been better and I’ve been worse.”

I called my son to let him know mom was suddenly conscious, coherent, and talking, and he called my brother’s cell phone and joined in the conversation.  Mom said how nice it was to have my siblings, their spouses, and my nephew there with her and to have spoken with my son and me on the phone.

Around 2:00 a.m. Monday morning I booked another flight to Utah.  As I finished packing a few hours later, my brother called and gave me the news.  Mom was gone.

It took me a while to process and comprehend that final chat with mom and the family, and I could not really put it into context until I arrived in Utah and was filled in on the details.  The more I thought about it, I felt a sense a peace that among the last conversations we had as a family with mom was about one of the subjects most dear to each of us – our cats and our dogs.

Throughout her life mom always stated her wishes, but then she would add, “Thy will be done.”  She did not want my oldest sister to die, but accepted that she did not get to raise my oldest sister on earth.  She did not want to die in a hospital, but in the end accepted that would be what happened.  I believe that once mom accepted “thy will be done,” the Lord gave mom and us a miracle in the form of a final, enjoyable, entertaining, last visit.

I’ve struggled with how to end this talk. Around 3:00 a.m. this morning, the thought came that I should conclude by sharing a few thoughts about my relationship with Mom.  I am the “bonus baby” – the one born after three miscarriages, one death, two near death’s, and one healthy but small baby.

In 19xx Mom received her Patriarchal Blessing which stated sons and daughters would be born to her.  After seven pregnancies resulting in two daughters to raise and one son, I feel it took a great deal of courage – and faith – to risk one more pregnancy in hopes of having a second son.

I think my son, my brother, sister, and their spouses were a bit concerned about me yesterday when we went to see mom at the funeral home.  She looked beautiful, but we each grieve in our own way and seeing her body did not bring me a lot of peace.

What brings me peace is reading her life story and the letters we exchanged over the years.  What brings me peace is looking at the photos and remembering our experiences over the years.  What brings me peace is listening to a voice mail she left after flowers and chocolates were delivered for Valentine’s Day, and hearing her end with her signature sign off – “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

The final thing that brings me peace is that mom – after sixty-five years – will finally spend Mother’s Day with my oldest sister.  My sister was born on (date). She died on (date), a Saturday, around midnight. The next morning – Mothers’ Day – Mom learned that her first baby had died.

To my oldest sister, “Thank you for letting us have these years with mom.  Please give her some extra hugs from each of us.”

And to Mom, “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

I say this in the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.

The Bishop and his daughter sang a beautiful rendition of “How Great Thou Art,” followed by the Bishop’s comments.  I felt at peace even though I cried at times during the service.  A nephew who is active in the church gave the benediction.

After the casket was carried by the pallbearers to the hearse we remained and spoke with some of the people in the foyer and outside the church.  I do not recall how long that lasted – probably twenty to thirty minutes.  I was still a bit overwhelmed by the number of people who had attended the service.

The drive to the cemetery seemed short.  My other brother-in-law, mom’s second son by marriage, dedicated the grave.  We spent more time visiting with family and friends before returning to the church for a filling, wonderful variety of food prepared by the Relief Society.

I felt exhausted by the time I sat down to eat. I mostly  listened to the different conversations. I felt love. I felt peace. I felt empty.  I missed my mom.

________________________________________
Written Spring 2011:  Recollections on Mom’s Passing – A Year Later

I took U.S. History in the late 1970s at the University of Utah. I was surprised there was little discussion of President Kennedy’s assassination in 1963, the Vietnam War and associated protests, or the Watergate Scandal and Richard Nixon’s resignation in 1974. Our professor said that historians needed more time to accurately assess those periods and events.

I found that was true after Mom’s death. I wrote about incidents and experiences during Mom’s last three years, but I did not understand how I felt until time put some distance between the events and me.  I wrote the following a year after my last visit with Mom.

Views from Adams Avenue Parkway

I have looked through the photos I took during my visits to Mom after she moved into assisted living. I saw on several trips that I took a few photos from the area around the toll booth on Adams Avenue Parkway, just down from her assisted living center..

The top photo looks like a typical country scene. What you may not realize is that Interstate 84 is a few blocks to the south and that Ogden, Utah’s second largest city, is just a few blocks to the north.

This ranch serves as a transition between rural Utah and urban Utah.

The area is a mix of farms, schools, homes, and golf courses. A few blocks to the north are a library, a hospital, several medical facilities, and shopping centers.

Mom spent most of the first half of her life looking at the Wasatch Mountains east of Bountiful, in Davis County. She spent the next forty plus years living on the mountain in Bountiful.

She spent the last few years looking at the Wasatch Mountains in Weber County, first from her apartment in the assisted living center and then from her room at the rehab center. She looked forward to waking up each morning, having the attendant open the curtains or blinds, and watching the sun rise over the Wasatch Mountains.

The building to the left of this photo is the toll booth on Adams Avenue Parkway. I don’t recall any toll roads when I grew up in Utah. I followed GPS directions the first time I visited Mom in her assisted living apartment. I was a bit surprised and annoyed when I exited Interstate 84, drove up the hill, and had to stop at the toll booth.

The toll wasn’t that much – just a dollar, I think – and the attendant was very friendly. I pulled away from the booth feeling better. Each time over the next two years when I drove through the toll booth, the attendants were happy. I enjoyed chatting briefly with them since most times this section of Adams Avenue Parkway was not busy. Some of the attendants even remembered I was from North Carolina, visiting my mom, and asked how she was doing.

The area by the toll booth became a transition zone for me. Mom had many ups and downs those last two years. Many times after leaving, I stopped in this area for a few minutes to collect my thoughts, and sometimes to cry.

I did not learn until a 2009 visit that there was a route I could take through Ogden to avoid the toll booth. My siblings thought I was crazy when they found out about all the tolls I had paid, when I could have driven a mile or two north and taken a route that bypassed the toll booth.

I took the alternate route a few times during my last visit with Mom. I found that I missed the beauty – the transition – of the route up Adams Parkway from the freeway. I went back to my old route.

Mom always had goals, even at the end. Her last goal was to build up her strength at the rehab center so she could return to her apartment in the assisted living center. She did not make that goal, but she gave it her best.

The day after her funeral, the family gathered at her assisted living apartment to pack up and make the space available for a new resident. What could have been a stressful time of sadness was full of joy as we worked together and recalled memories with each item we packed.

We each had our own cars. When the apartment was empty, I said that I wanted to stay behind for a few more minutes. I sat alone on the living room floor, stared at the bare walls, and then looked out the window towards the mountains. I thought of the almost 880 days that Mom lived in Ogden and looked at those peaks. I felt she was with me in that room.

After leaving Mom’s apartment, I stopped in the parking lot the short distance from the toll booth. I looked over the valley to the west and the mountains to the east. I thought of all the times I had stopped at this place. It was just a parking area along a road, but it became my sanctuary those two years.

I had a hard time climbing back in my car and driving through that toll booth for the last time. I wanted to turn left and go back to visit Mom in her apartment.

After someone dies there is a point when their loved ones finally realize they are gone. I’ve spoken with enough people to know that the realization comes at different times. For many people, it is when the coffin is closed or the ashes are spread. For me, it was the last time I pulled up to the booth on Adams Avenue Parkway, paid the toll, and drove down the hill.