My mom died on May 11.  The rose outside her window bloomed vibrantly when we brought her home from the hospital, but the spent petals were curling up a week later when she took her last breaths.  My parents planted the rose in that shady spot 13 years ago, but it's barely survived, putting out just one bloom a year for about ten days.  It bloomed for my mom, Rose Kessel Julian, who herself bloomed through 75 years sweet and exuberant with a big spirit.  She loved life and loved people; she was smart, gregarious, fun, and funny; a great communicator, a talented peacemaker.  She knew to be thankful and revel in the blessings of each day.  A chirping bird, a breeze, a shining sun or cloud bearing rain--any were sufficient to make her joyful.  She loved my father and us three kids from the depths of her soul.
         We brought her home with Hospice care, hoping to make her comfortable and create a peaceful space for us to be with her, hold her hand, and share our feelings with her and with each other.  We were all with her, and some dear friends and relatives and two deeply caring ministers from her church also came to see her.
         We were very fortunate that decisions leading to her coming home were clearcut.  After seven surgeries and lots of radiation over ten years, she was tired.  If not for surgery, she would have died in 1989.  She suffered terribly through two difficult neck surgeries this March, which again were necessary to save her life but left her this time in a wheelchair and with mostly paralyzed hands, stripping her of independence and her beloved sewing and needlepoint.  After the second neck operation, mom started saying she wanted no more surgery.  Within six weeks, major abdominal problems arose and the surgeon agreed it was pointless to put her through more pain for probably no benefit.  Her mild-mannered family doctor said he wouldn't want to face her after she woke up from another operation.  With deep feeling glistening moistly in his eyes, he told us she was very courageous and that with all she had been through, "she's never complained."
         Even after her doctor had made the hospice referral, getting mom released
promptly from the hospital was a struggle.  Once you're in that system, it can be hard to get out.  It was crucial to bring her home quickly though, because the first couple days she was still talking and was frequently awake.  Even after losing the strength to talk, she communicated with subtle expressions of her eyes or by raising her eyebrows.  Each day was different and very, very precious.
         The nurses and others from Hospice were fabulous--extremely competent,
sensitive, and caring.  My mother was not in pain; when she became unable to swallow pills, we gave her a few drops of pain medicine every couple hours, which were absorbed through the membranes of her mouth.  The nurses showed us how to moisten her lips and swab out her mouth with a small sponge on a lollipop stick.  Other major blessings included a urinary catheter which kept her dry, and a hospital bed with pressure relief mattress, which enabled us to position her comfortably.  We held her hand, hugged each other, and had an incredible week to say goodbye as her rose bloomed and her spirit began to soar.
 
         Nothing about mom's death was morbid--she was accepting, we came to be
accepting, and she was relatively comfortable.  It was entirely natural and somehow deeply fulfilling.  The whole mortuary/coffin/graveyard experience, in contrast, seemed excruciatingly morbid to me, and makes me wonder about our culture's attitude toward death.  These are entirely personal reactions; I won't object if anyone disagrees.  In nature, dead animal bodies are rarely seen--they are quickly taken up by the elements.  I'd like to be recycled myself; to be taken to the desert and left for coyote and vulture.  But this is illegal; even death is no escape from bureaucracy.  My survivors will need "death certificates" to complete my affairs; to get these my body will have to enter the system.  Even if I'm cremated, I'll have to be placed in at least a pine box first.  I don't see why I should have to take part of a pine tree with me, but this is certainly more appealing than being embalmed, dressed up, sealed in an expensive airtight steel or hardwood coffin, and put into a cement hole in the ground.  Could it be that the lengths we go to preserve the physical body represent our attempt to deny the reality of death?
         My mother consciously chose casket and cemetary, so I have no quarrel with it.  It's just not what I want myself.  The part of the funeral I liked and found beautiful was how the family and relatives came together to talk about my mother and give thanks for her life.

         During the first days of her last week, mom told me she was "totally content."  She gestured around the room (indicating she was home) and said "perfect."  My girlfriend Laura drove 12 hours to see her.  Knowing she wouldn't make it to our August wedding, mom gave Laura the ring that had come down from my great great grandmother, and said "let's have a wedding."  Mom officiated and we said vows right there on her bed--we'll always remember Cinco de Mayo as our "Ring Day" with mom.
         A few weeks before, she had told me that she accepted death in March, between her two neck surgeries:  "everybody's got to kick the bucket sometime," mom said, "what if George Washington was still around?"  She led on the path of acceptance; the week at home gave the rest of us a chance to begin accepting as well.  Not everyone has this luxury, so we should love our loved ones now, spend time with them now, and say what we need to say now, because we never truly know how long they'll be with us.
         I believe the week at home will prove to have given us a powerful head start in adjusting to this enormous change.  Since I've returned to my own home, a few people have implied that I must be terribly depressed.  Well, no, I'm not.  I don't plan to get any more "bummed out" than I need to be.  I've cried a lot already.  If we allow ourselves to feel our sadness in its full intensity as it arises, maybe we won't need to get stuck in it.  We can express our love through joy in living as well as through sadness.  I loved my mother, and I know she would want us to be happy.