is there any more pie?

My mother’s happy place.

Monday was the funeral and I really don’t want to write about it.  Aside from it being a cold, gray, rainy and windy morning, it was certainly not the funeral I’d pictured for my mother.  I’d always envisioned the entire family–three generations– gathered together, along with our special friends, to cry and laugh and comfort each other with funny stories and memories.  I had the photo dvd ready to play in the background.  I knew what music my mother would like.  I thought there would be hugs.  Wine.  Food.  A bittersweet celebration of a life well lived.

Severe restrictions due to Covid-19 prevented all of that.  And let me tell you, it hurt.  A lot.

I feel so sad for other people who have had to bury loved ones during this time.  I cannot imagine the pain that they’re going through.  Not many would have the “she lived a long and happy life” feelings given to an 94-year old woman.  Ours was a simple grief.  While so many others are not.

How are large families coping when only five are allowed to mourn together and one of those is the minister or priest?

How is comfort given and received when people have to stand six feet away and aren’t allowed to hug?

My heart breaks for everyone.  I don’t know how people are dealing with it.  I was absolutely devastated despite my own loss being an expected and inevitable one.

I’m pretty damn sad right now, but I’m sad for everyone who has had to deal with the lonely passing of someone they love.

This is a cruel time.

I hugged my daughter Monday.  Yep.  Flew caution to the wind and hugged her as hard as I could.  

It helped.

The good old days.  Not one mask!   And no social distancing.

Mom and Dad on safari in Kenya.

This picture was on my mother’s refrigerator for twenty-six years.  That’s how long she was without my father.  They were together for fifty years and very much in love until the end.  She never got over losing him.

She died yesterday.  Peacefully.  In her sleep.  The dementia had worsened very, very quickly.  On her 94th birthday, April 9, she had Face-timed with me.  She knew it was her birthday, she knew who I was, and she was chipper and cheerful.

And then it all went downhill.

Death during the Time of the Virus is a very difficult process.  Hospice was called last weekend, but only one Hospice worker was allowed in to the nursing home–and only once.  All recommendations were done by phone after initial assessment.

I was allowed one “end of life” visit, for 30 minutes only, on Monday.  I wore a gown, mask, and gloves.  It’s no wonder my mother had no idea who I was.  But I doubt she would have known anyway.

There are severe restrictions on funerals now, so there won’t be any kind of service.  Only five people can attend any gathering, either at the funeral home or the chapel at the Veterans cemetery.  So Banjo Man, daughter Nancy and I will represent the family and do our best to make sure we honor my mother as well as humanly possible.

The rest of the family sadly has to stay in California and DC and Texas, due to quarantine rules.  This of course is not what anyone wanted or envisioned when it came to saying goodbye.

I’ll end this with one of her favorite pictures, taken a couple of years ago at the beach with the great-grandson she adored.

“Tell me a ‘John Story’,” she’d always say.  Her face would light up as we’d describe his latest antics.

Rest in peace, Mom.  We know Dad is making you laugh again.

Last night ended five weeks of being isolated in the house.

All of you out there know what that means.

Along with tequila I had chips and salsa for supper.  Dessert was a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch.

The entertainment of the evening was episodes eight and nine of Season 4 of THE WIRE.

We wore the same clothes we have worn for five weeks (we do remember to wash them once in a while, if we think about it and actually get around to it), also known as our Virus Uniforms.

Sometimes we clean up the kitchen.  Sometimes we don’t.

Every day we walk the loop in front of the house.  But not together.  Banjo Man walks fast.  I still limp.  It’s a solitary exercise, but we’re breathing fresh air.

We have our morning chat every day, after I fix my first mug of coffee.  Banjo Man usually comes to my office and we chat about the world.  There might be a discussion later on in the day about dinner.  Or not.  We meet again around 6 or so for our tv programs (no news allowed in the evenings).  We have been known to have popcorn for supper, but don’t tell anyone.

There is still plenty of food in the freezer.  We’ve realized we don’t really eat that much.

And I am starting to go–ever so slowly–insane.