Sermon preached by Jennifer Sandberg, July 18, 2004
Three years ago today, about 1:00 in the afternoon, on a hot, windless, July day, my father died. The rock, the sometimes unyielding granite, that had underlain our family for so long, was gone. My mother, sat keening as the enormity of what had just happened, sank in. A family friend sat with her. Her daughters could not. When my father died, I had just walked back into his room at the nursing home. It was near where they had lived the past few years and was just up the road and over a hill from my older sister, Karen. I had in my hand a cold can of soda(its called pop in Minnesota). Sitting with me on this death watch were my mother, my niece, and a family friend. I was about to sit down, when I noticed that my father’s skin color had changed from chalky white to grey. “Yes,” answered my niece, “it did just change.” I checked his pulse. There was none. I then went to get the nurse. When she came in, she got out her stethoscope and confirmed that he was gone. My children were eating lunch at their Aunt Karen’s house, who had been watching this scenario play out for months. I found a phone and called my sister. “Daddy’s gone.”, I simply said. “I’ll be right there.”, she answered. In a few minutes she and my children were. Our family friend headed out to find my other older sister, Gretta, and her husband, buying groceries for our mom. That was not a hard task, since this tiny town on the prairie had only one grocery store. There they were, loading the groceries with help from a store employee. Soon the entire town knew of my father’s death.
There was much to do upon my father’s dying. The trip to the funeral home was not a pleasant undertaking. My sisters’ and I began to show the tension underlying our relationship. It burst forth in full bloom as we were planning Daddy’s memorial service.
Karen’s minister from the local UU church was leading the discussion. I felt I had to vigorously state my wishes so that my sisters would listen because my sister’s didn’t take my ideas or opinion’s seriously. Evidently, I was a little too forceful. Half way through the planning, Gretta stormed out. Apparently, earlier, when I hadn’t arrived on the scene yet, my sisters had planned what kind of memorial service they wanted, without realizing that I might have had some ideas, too. Or, perhaps they didn’t think I would object to what they had planned. To make a long story short, the minister, the Reverend Dillman Baker Sorrels, did a beautiful job of blending everything into a truly wonderful service. At least she was listening! My sisters and I got a lot of compliments after the service on how fantastic it was. When we arrived at my sister Karen’s home after the service and reception, she turned to me and said, “Gretta and I think that your ideas for Daddy’s memorial service were really right after all.”
Last summer my children and I spent about a month taking care of my mother, their grandmother. They helped clean out Grammy’s garage and basement. I took care of my increasingly frail mother. When we arrived at her home in July, she was still able to walk around some, though with a walker and a lot of help. Her mind was still strong and her sense of humor in excellent form. When we left, she was completely bedridden and beginning to have times of confusion.
When my mother was feeling good, she could carry on conversations and would crack jokes, especially about dying. I never realized death could be so funny! She would ask, “Whose in change anyway?” Or, “What do I have to do to die around here?” When Linnea and I returned from a visit to the Swedish Lutheran college, Gustavus Adolphus, my mother shook her finger at Linnea, and said, “Be careful of those Swedes!”
My mother and I also had a conversation about my father. It was a very special and unique discussion that I am so glad I had with her. It answered a lot of questions and tied up many loose ends about him. You see, my father was very hard on me. I never felt I could do anything right in his eyes. For the longest time, I didn’t think he even loved me. Being a Swede, he was restrained in his emotions. Yes, those Ingemar Bergman films are true to life!
He was also a very different father to me than he had been with my older sisters. They could never understand what I was talking about, until, in his last years, he started to treat them as he had always treated me. He would tell them and everyone else what a wonderful person I was, but he couldn’t tell me, ever. My mother and I talked about this and how she felt that his demeanor had changed, perhaps due to the onset of his many illnesses, when I was still a little girl. He was always crabby and irritable around me. Of course, being a child, I didn’t realize this had nothing to do with me, personally. As an adult I didn’t either and I became quite confused and angry. In his last days as I sat by his bed in the nursing home, none of that mattered anymore. He knew I was there, but was uncommunicative at that point. All the ‘issues’ I had with him, melted away.
As last fall progressed, my mother grew increasingly frail. Finally, I decided that I needed to be at her bedside. My sister Gretta, who lives in Arlington, decided that same thing at the same time. We flew out to Minnesota together. When we arrived, it was snowing, sleeting and cold. By that time, Mama was in a hospice nursing home. She had given up her home and beloved cat. When we got there, Mom was very weak, she wasn’t talking anymore or eating, and was having trouble breathing. My mother had been on oxygen for nearly a year, but her body was just giving out and no amount of oxygen could have sustained her much longer. We all knew that the end was just days away. My sister, Karen, had begun sleeping overnight at her bedside. Gretta stayed that night, and I agreed to stay the next night.
The next day, Mom was about the same. I felt in my bones that this would be her last day, however. That evening, we all went out to dinner, my sisters and I and Karen’s husband. We had good Minnesota food and a beer. Death took a break for awhile, so we could have some time together. When we got back, Mama’s breathing had gotten even more ragged. It’s called a death rattle. Its hard to describe the sound, but you know it when you hear it. Gretta decided that she wanted to stay the night, also. She and I watched some inane movie on TV, the title of which I can no longer remember. Then we settled down to get some fitful sleep. I was in a very comfortable easy chair, and Gretta had a cot. We were all in the room with Mom. Just before 5 am, I awoke suddenly. Mom’s breathing had changed. The nurse came in just then, and said, “It’s not long now.” I got up and called Gretta to come to Mom’s bedside. We each took a hand and talked to her. “Mama, we’re here with you. We love you!” Her eyes opened and were clear, not cloudy as they had been. She seemed to look directly at us. Then she stopped breathing and slipped into the Great Beyond. Her heart, which had caused her major health problems in her later years, beat a full minute more before it stopped, too. The oxygen machine clicked off, no longer needed. It was so quiet. The nurse came back in to check on Mama. When she realized that Mom had just died, she said a prayer asking God to welcome her to heaven. She apologized, saying that she automatically did that, but we told her it was fine. To me, it was very comforting.
Once again, I called Karen to tell her a parent had died. She was asleep, it being just a few minutes after 5 a.m. and when the ringing telephone finally woke her, she knew what I was going to say. This time, when I had a few minutes alone with my mom, I was able to cry, something I hadn’t had time or been able to do, when Daddy died.
I couldn’t stay to watch my mother being dressed and then picked up by the funeral home. My sisters could and did. We all felt relief, but at the same time, terrific sadness. Now, we three sisters, were without any parents. There was no one left to cushion the inevitable, we were next.
Read Part II of Death on a Hot July Afternoon.