In a Little While We'll Be Home Forever

My mom was the original Rocktomom.  From the time when I was a little girl, up until the day she died, and I'm sure even dating back to when she was a child, music had a very powerful influence in her life.  She always told me that she envied what I did on stage.  "It must be so fun! It must feel so good to rock like that!" she would tell me, anytime she came to see my show.  And she came to almost all of them.  She was by far my biggest supporter for being in a band, and wanting to perform in general.  I remember when I broke up with one particularly suppressive boyfriend, she asked me, "So does this mean you're going to focus on your music again?" She had noticed that I wasn't singing around the house as much, or involved in any performance outlet.  She had noticed the difference in me.  Anytime my life was steering off track, she would notice, and she would tell me about it. 

After all, when her life had veered too off course, she made a change for herself, with a little help from The Boss.  At the time of my mom and dad's separation, Bruce Springsteen was on the rise.  "Dancing in the Dark" was a huge hit, and Mom had already seen him in concert, and reveled at the fans who she first thought were booing the sex pot on stage (only to realize that they were actually calling his name: "Brooooooooce!")  I think Bruce really helped open Mom's eyes to the things in her life she thought were missing.  "You can't start a fire without a spark" was the lyric that literally sparked her into action.  Although it shook our family's foundation and caused problems in our childhood, Mom separated from Dad and made a change that would later result in both she and Dad finding their true soul mates.  She bought herself a red convertable Fiat and I will never forget the sound of her ring tapping against the stick shift as she bounced to whatever song she would blare on her radio when driving us to-and-fro.  Her thin blonde hair would shine and shimmy in the sun while the warm smell of her cigarettes would fill my lungs as it dissipated into the wind.  As even younger kids, we would ride around in her blue Pinto, playing roller coaster in the rear facing back seat while Mom rocked out to Rick Springfield, Hall and Oates, and CCR.  But when Mom traded it for the hot rod Fiat, it seemed to come with a bonus: Burt.  He was a mechanic, and he told Mom that "Fiat" was actually an acronym for "Fix It Again, Tony!"

Mom and Burt went to lots of concerts: Oingo Boingo, Heart, Eddie Money.. and I always wanted to come along.  When I was in the later half of high school they finally brought me along to Oingo Boingo, and I was instantly hooked.  When they brought me to see Heart they became my favorite band instantly.  And in the 6th grade, when Mom brought me to see Madonna at Angels Stadium, it changed my life forever.  I wanted to BE the next Madonna; I wanted to make people crazy just as she had demonstrated to me on stage that night, July 17, 1987.  Mom was right there by my side when that happened in my life.

I can't attempt to wrap Mom's life into a neat little package on my journal, pretending that it was all music and magnificence.  Nobody can be reduced into such a simple summary.  But I came here today wanting to express what happened in those final days of her life.  Mostly so I can get it out of my head, but oddly, so I can also remember.  I've often used my journal as a backup to my memory, which is only human and bound to fail me someday.  Memories can't be shared when they sit inside your head, untold, and I'm not sure how I would be able to share this, if not in writing. 

When Mom was in the hospital the week before she died, Lindsey brought in her iPad, and started playing songs for Mom that she thought might cheer her up.  She was too sedated to comprehend most of what was on the distant television in the upper corner of the room, and reading would have required far too great an effort.  Conversations often didn't make sense, and she was hallucinating frequently from the heavy drugs.  Music, we discovered, was one of the only ways to share a peaceful space with Mom, in those final days.  Lindsey was playing anything she could to occupy Mom's mind, as well as the dull quiet and sometimes alarming tones of the ICU.  We talked about Bruce, of course, and Mom told us that her favorite song from Bruce was called "Downbound Train."  We lost the ability to download at the hospital, but I went home that night and listened to it.  It certainly wasn't "Dancing in the Dark", and I wondered why Mom would pick a song that seemed so down-beat, and dark, from an artist who had always lifted her up.  Still, as she said it was her favorite, I made sure I didn't come back without that song on my phone.  I played it for her the next day, and she kept up as best as she could, singling along with him:

"Last night I heard your voice
You were crying, crying, you were so alone
You said your love had never died
You were waiting for me at home
Put on my jacket, I ran through the woods
I ran till I thought my chest would explode
There in the clearing, beyond the highway
In the moonlight, our wedding house shone
I rushed through the yard, I burst through the front door
My head pounding hard, up the stairs I climbed
The room was dark, our bed was empty
Then I heard that long whistle whine
And I dropped to my knees, hung my head and cried
Now I swing a sledge hammer on a railroad gang
Knocking down them cross ties, working in the rain
Now don't it feel like you're a rider on a downbound train..."

As I reflect on this in the aftermath of her passing, I believe more and more that Mom became aware that her time was coming.  Otherwise I can't imagine this would have been the song of her choice.

We started taking song requests from family and friends on CaringBridge, the website we had been using to provide updates on Mom's condition and also for receiving words of love and encouragement (which were, sadly, often too tough to share with her).  So many people found comfort in focusing on the happy times with Mom, and nearly everyone struggled to limited their picks to just one or two.  Uncle Mark dedicated "No Surrender."  Brother Dave wanted "She Loves You", and plenty of others suggested "anything off Rubber Soul or Sergeant Peppers" (she adored the Beatles). A couple of people suggested "I Won't Back Down" from Tom Petty, as well as "No One Lives Forvever" by Boingo (a song that Mom had long requested played in her memory, as it was pretty much her life's anthem).  I started compiling all of the songs on a play list, and came up with my own list, which still grows longer by the day. 

We played as many of the songs as we could for Mom in the hospital the next two days, but she soon took a turn for the worst.  She wasn't actively listening very much, under such duress from the pain and discomfort.  We waited anxiously for an ambulance to arrive so that we could take her home and into hospice care, to die in her room, as we all knew she wanted, and soon she was heavily sedated, in preparation for the transport. 

While we waited, music became more beneficial to us for therapy even than for her.  We listened to "Dance With Me" by Orleans, and I told my sisters I wanted to play it at my wedding someday.  I think they knew what I was thinking.  I was full of regret knowing Mom was not going to see my wedding day.  (This is one thought I don't sit with for long, as it hurts too much to dwell on things we can't change, and ultimately it doesn't matter.  If I ever do get married, I guess I will have to find a way to feel like she is there, or simply accept that she is not, when and if that day ever comes.)  (I think that is a separate post altogether.)

At the risk of crying like little children, while we waited, we also listened to some sad songs.  I took a chance and played "In a Little While" by Amy Grant.  Although she hadn't requested it in the hospital, she had previously informed us that she wanted this one played at her funeral as well.  I think it was much more fitting for our time in that moment, that day, hoping she could hang on just long enough to make it home.  As she slept, Amy and I sang quietly, knowing this was a kind of prayer for her, as much as anything:

"In a little while we'll be with the Father, can't you see Him smile?
In a little while we'll be home forever, in a while....
We're just here to learn to love Him
We'll be home in just a little while."

I don't know if Amy Grant knows how healing it could be for a family to utilize her wisdom at a time like that, but I am forever grateful for that song, and how it truly reminded us that peace was on the way for Mom.  Much of my faith as a young Christian came from Amy Grant's music, educating and reminding me that Jesus was by my side always, and with such beautiful storytelling and personal experiences that made me believe in everything they taught me at Church.  When she switched over to pop music in the early 90's and later got a divorce, I struggled with feelings of personal betrayal.  I can only imagine how she ever managed to cope with this kind of backlash from her fans.  How could one person shoulder the responsibility for others' faith?  Nobody but Jesus could possibly manage that, and look what he had to endure.

Once Mom made it home (on a wing and a prayer!) the last sign of life I remember her giving me was when she was backed into her room via the rear door, and I told her she was home.  Her face changed, into a look of either true relief, or genuine anguish.  Was it relief that she made it out of the hospital and finally back into the home she created and shared with her true love?  Or was it anguish and pain, knowing that these were her last days, if not hours, and anticipation of grief and loss, leaving us behind?  This, I will never know, but in my heart I believe it was the former. 

Our home was full of family that day.  People who had come to demonstrate love for Mom, for us, and to say their goodbyes.  We each had our time in her room, some of us in groups, others alone.  I just kept kissing Mom's hand and head, telling her I love her, while I watched her suffer.  She had become so emaciated, her eyes sunken into her head, a gray glaze taking over the seam, her hair missing, but no regard at all for wanting to cover her head anymore, like she had ever since cancer had first confiscated her bloom.  We filled the house with laughter and music that night, holding the "Party" she had talked about in the hospital, watching old videos of her entertaining and frolicking with the family, listening to her and watching her light shine on television.  Hospice gently advised that we should not keep the party going indefinitely, as Mom will want to hold on longer.  They couldn't have been more right; Mom would not have wanted to miss the party.

The next day was Saturday, and we kept things quiet.  We all knew she was not going to make it much longer.  In my mind, she was already gone.  Once a person can't function, including speaking, eating, or looking at their loved ones, their live is over, and Mom would have absolutely agreed.  She wasn't looking at us.  She was barely moving.  Her feet were cold and swollen; the inside of her mouth was turning black.  Her breathing was hollow and belaboured. 

I took my time alone with Mom, and I did what I could to help her separate.  I cleared my throat, prayed to God for strength to do one perfect, intimate, selfless performance of prayer through music, for Mom's enjoyment, for her to take with her.  I sang for her, and even though she was already gone in my mind, in my heart, I know she heard me:

Let me say once more that I love you
Let me say one time, maybe two
That I love the way that you love me
and I wish I knew more of you

Tell me that time can't erase
This look of love on your face

Let me say once more that I need you
One more time or just maybe two
Oh my life will always be richer
For the time I've spent here with you

Tell me that time won't erase
The way that my heart sees your face...

I sang the whole song, just as Amy and I had done on the day Mom married Burt.

Then I sang the other Amy Grant song she loved; the one that first touched my heart.  This was my final prayer for her, it was a perfect, uninterrupted moment, as I felt the presence of God in the room with both of us.

El Shaddai, El Shaddai,
El-Elyon na Adonai,
Age to age You're still the same,
By the power of the name.
El Shaddai, El Shaddai,
Erkahmka na Adonai,
We will praise and lift You high,
El Shaddai....

Though your words contained a plan
They just could not understand
Your most awesome work was done
Through the frailty of your son.....

He was with us, and He helped me sing this perfectly.  Mom had received her last rites in the hospital, but I was blessed with the ability to give her her final song.

I did not stay with her that night.  I wanted to be with my son.  Mom had started aspirating, and I couldn't bear to listen to or watch her suffer.  I knew her spirit was ascending already and leaving her body behind.  I had already bid her goodbye, as best as I knew how.  Maybe it was selfish not to stay with my sisters and Burt for support, but I did not want any other lasting memory of her.

She was gone just after midnight.  My cell phone was programmed with a special zylophone ringtone for when she would call me, and as soon as Jess and I were awoken by that playfully plunked progression, we both knew.

That was her final song for me.  Upbeat, exciting, and full of fun.  And it, too, was perfect.