singing her out

These were the first songs my mother taught me to love. She played them for me on a record player. The big, black discs slowly rotating around and around as the needle snapped, crackled, popped into each new groove, each new portal to a world of songs I was just discovering.

1.     There's a Hole in the Bucket by Ella Jenkins

2.     Harry Belafonte (from Free to Be You and Me): When I Grow Up

3.     Free to Be (Anything)

4.     Sesame Street (Sunny Day)

5.     Electric Company (We're Gonna Turn It On)

6.     American Pie by Don McLean

These were songs I played for my mother on the last day we shared together on earth. I played them with my phone, which lacked a certain snap, crackle, and pop, but made the words clear in a way that we both could hear them.

1.     Sunshine on My Shoulders by John Denver

2.     Sweet Baby James by James Taylor

3.     Love at the Five and Dime (her last sound) by Nanci Griffith

4.     Annie's Song by John Denver

5.     Memories (choked up) by Babs

In Judaism, we honor the memory of our ancestors by remembering their yahrzeit, or the anniversary of their death. My mom's is (spoiler alert) July 19th in the Roman calendar.  It's taken me two years to write about her last day. And, still, I'm finding it difficult to do, but I know now that writing about it both honors her and all of us who have, or will, experience the loss of a parent.

There's something about knowing your mother is near the end that made me want to stay out of her hospice room, because if I didn't go in there, then she wouldn't die.  But after some serious cajoling by my aunts (her sisters): "Lisa, get your tuchus in there and say goodbye to your mother!" And extreme—but gentle—nudging by various friends and other family members: "You want regrets? NO! No regrets, Lisa! Go see your mother." I decided to open the door.

I arrived in Boston on the 18th of July. Another redeye from California.  First order of business: hide in my hotel room for a bit. Then more phone calls came from friends and family in Boston, family who were heartier than me, at my mother's bedside and kind of screaming, "Where are you?!" I didn't have the heart to say, "I'm dying, too, just in a less obvious, more existential way." So, instead I said, "You know I don't like to drive."

To which they responded: Friend #1: Lisa, you need to get in a car share and get over here. Friend #2: Lisa, you can do this. Also, you can ask a hospice nurse to meet you at the door and walk you in. Cousin #1: Get your ass in here so that your aunts can shut up already. Cousin #2: Really, they are out of control!

To which I responded by having a conversation with myself: 

Me: Get up and order a car share. 

Me: OK done.

Me: Get your shit together. 

Me: Not possible.

Me: Get your water bottle and hydration mix. 

Me: Yes.

Me: Go to lobby of hotel and walk outside. 

Me: Done.

Cut to: me sinking low in the seat of a gray sedan with torn faux leather upholstery, sunglasses on, like I'm Kristen Wiig in Bridesmaids, hiding the fact that I'm drunk, only I'm not drunk on alcohol, I'm altered by the thought of seeing my mom dying.

The hospice nurse greets me at the threshold, smiles gently and walks me to the sign-in sheet. She's done this before and I'm grateful. We glide into the elevator, together, no words are necessary.

The room is near the nurses' station. I take a deep breath in…and let it out, let it propel me into her room.

I see her, swaddled in white sheets, like she might have done with me or my sister when we were babies. My aunts surrounding her, like a Greek chorus whose refrain has just become, "Finally, she's here! It's time to go." My best cousin is relieved to see me, which releases a tension she's clearly been holding in her shoulders as they deflate and she leaves the room.

I pulled up a chair next to her bed. Put my arm on her leg very gently. What do I do now?

I started singing. It was reflexive. All of the above songs she had taught me, all of the songs we learned about together, they all came out. And a few prayers, too, including Hashkivenu.

When I started singing "Love at the Five and Dime" by Nanci Griffith

Dance a little closer to me,

Dance a little closer now

Dance a little closer tonight

Dance a little closer to me,

'Cause it's closing time

And love's on sale tonight at this five and dime,

Mom exhaled with a deep, guttural sound that surprised me, that said, "I recognize this song."

They say that our ability to hear is the last thing to go and, sometimes, can last after the person is dead. Beyond sight or speech, if they could hear before they entered this state, then there's a chance they can still hear while we're here. I decide that's a chance worth hanging onto.

While I sang, I cried. I couldn't help it. I didn't want to help it.

In between singing and crying and going in and out of lucidity, I called Bernie, Mom's boyfriend, and put them on the phone together. I also called my wife Sandy, and put her on the phone to Mom. 

Sandy: Can I sing to her too? 

Me: Of course you can!

Sandy: Can I sing Ave Maria? 

Me: Of course you can!

I put the phone up to Mom's ear. 

Sandy: Can she hear me? 

Me: Of course she can.

The nurse, a human angel, would float in periodically with medication to ease Mom's pain. "Open up," I'd say to Mom, like when she first fed me baby food, making an airplane out of a spoon and mashed apples.

After 6 hours of singing and angels and Mom gasping with recognition, I said goodbye to her, kissed her on the forehead, and headed back to my hotel.

Outside the sky was the most magnificent swirl of pinks and blues, like if the trans flag was painted with watercolors that ran together in the most unexpected and delightful ways. There is nothing like an East Coast sky in the summer.

Pulled up to the hotel around 9 pm. My sister and cousin were waiting in the lobby for me.

Sister: What did you do? 

Me: Sang a lot of John Denver, James Taylor, Barbra, Nanci. 

Sister: Wow, that is so cool, my sister.

Once in my room, I turned off my phone, head hitting the pillow at the right angle, one that turned off a switch in my brain and allowed me to go into a deep, needed, sleep.

At 4 am, the hotel room phone rang, startling me awake. It was THE call. As if in a trance, I turned on my phone to find what seemed like a hundred voice messages from the nurses' station and family members…

I called my sister in the next hotel room. 

Sister Emily: Did you get the call? 

Me: Yup. 

Sister Emily: Wow. Okay. What do we do? 

Me: Do you want to come next door for a cuddle? 

Sister Emily: I'm on my way.

Sometimes we just need to sing with our aging loved ones.

What’s on your mix dōte?