See You Later Momma

Oh momma, I always knew the day would come, but are we ever really prepared for it? I found it hard to imagine exactly how you would pass, but figured it would have to do with your body struggling to do the most basic of autonomic impulses, merely take a breath. I Felt conflicted. I didn’t want you to be gone from my life, but I knew you were tired. You needed relief from the struggle. I vividly remember you calling me while I was working about a week before you went into the hospital. I told you I couldn’t talk right then because I was on a delivery, but I could hear in your voice this call was something different, so I made sure to call you right back. You told me you were all by yourself the night before and had a scare. You felt you were going to die soon and you wanted to make sure I knew you loved me.

Linda Jean Beezley – 5/24/42 – 5/20/22: Last Days from My Perspective

     I know there were other people there, but this account is what I experienced, so this has to be about me and what I saw and felt.

      Hanging out in the hospital with you was surreal. It was just days before your 80^th birthday and you were excited about that. I wasn’t sure you were going to make it, but did my best to go along with it and as I sat and watched you in your dream state, I could tell you were having vivid dreams. You told me about one you thought was real upon waking. You said everyone was singing happy birthday to you. All the Craven kids were there and Danny and Mare. I couldn’t help but wonder why you didn’t mention me. Wasn’t I there too?

   I feel guilty for being annoyed about your choice of TV viewing in the hospital and how I reacted to some of the things you said in your last days. Did we really have to watch Fox News at a time like this? You even turned to mention to me that Tucker Carlsen was thinking about running for president. Like I would give a flying fuck. As I rolled my eyes you turned to another family member and said “Dana hates all republicans.” Why mom? Why did you have to turn away from me and say something like that? I was so pissed at you for that. I had to make an excuse to leave the room. Luckily my sons had arrived and I was going to meet them downstairs. I made the suggestion you turn the TV off or change the channel by the time we all came back in.

After discussing your condition with the doctor, we knew your life couldn’t be sustained. At first they were thinking they were going to move you from Colorado Springs, back to Canon City. I let the doctor know I thought that was a horrible idea. I pleaded with her to keep you there and move you into hospice on one of the upper floors. You would not have made it to Canon. They couldn’t even move you into another bed without you having a major crash. We were blessed they decided to put you in a room with the most awesome view of Pikes Peak. Although it was more for us, I’m not sure you ever saw anything out that window. I’m hoping you were able to once you left your body.

I was so glad all three of my sons were there with me! Their support meant everything to me. Jason drove all the way from Chicago to be there. For five days we sat together, ate together and took walks around the hospital to stretch our legs.

Joey and Danny were able to get some bonding time sleeping in the hospital room with you, while Jason, Joshua and I went to a hotel room. Although Joshua did decide to stay at the hospital the night before you passed. Once you went into hospice, they had you pretty drugged up on morphine, so we weren’t able to communicate with you much, but I believe you heard us talking to you and were able to listen in on all our conversations. We’re kind of a crazy bunch. I imagine you were probably laughing with us (and at us) on occasion. Jason got you the most beautiful flowers in all your favorite colors and I wanted so bad for you to see them! I was able to wake you up for just a couple of seconds. I stood at the foot of your bed and held the flowers in front of you. You opened your eyes real big and looked right at them. That was the last time I saw your eyes with life in them. Those flowers might have been the last thing you saw on this earth while still in your body, so I kept one of them.

During this time in your hospital room and back at the hotel, I thought a lot about the past. When I was little and curled up on the couch with you as you tickled my back. I remember that suckerfish we had in our tank for such a long time. After it finally died you took it upon yourself to put it in a shoebox and we had a little funeral for it in the backyard. We had that fish for so long it had become family! We were living in the cul-de-sac on Meda in Glendora, which was also around the same time you fostered Greg and Yvette (a whole nother story). I also thought about all those times on the Mariposa in Oceanside Harbor and at the river when you were married to Richard Harder. I see those as some of the best times of my life. He was a great man and an even better stepfather to us. He stepped in and did the things our own father wouldn’t. He even coached my softball teams! You made a great choice with him and we had such fun times on that boat. During the holidays you would make our home so cozy and magical. I vividly remember the feeling I had inside. It was one of love and contentment. Those were the good times. I only want to focus on those going forward.

I was obsessed with watching you and kept looking for signs you were going to pass. It even got to the point I was afraid to take a bathroom break. I wanted to be prepared to envelope you in my love on your way out of this physical realm and into the world of spirit. This may sound weird, but as I watched you I kept thinking to myself how you reminded me of a fish out of water laying on a shore gasping for breath. You didn’t belong here like that. As the gasps became few and far between, I watched as your eyes changed. They opened a bit and started to roll upward and in. I knew this was it, so I slid my arms around and under your back, so I could cradle you. I wanted you to feel me as close to you as I could possibly be. As I put my head down next to your ear, I told you “I love you, I’ll see you later,” and said our je t’aime. I wanted that to be the last thing you heard.

All of a sudden you weren’t there anymore. I went back to your hospital bed several times to touch you and kiss you on the forehead in a state if disbelief. I’d pick up your hand and it was pliable yet lifeless. I found it hard to stop touching you because I knew I never would again. Danny and Trinity were there, along with all my sons. Everyone cried and hugged each other. We had all just witnessed you take your last breath, which is probably THE most intense, yet meaningful experience a human could ever have.

After Effects

For a couple months afterward, I felt your dying eyes would be forever ingrained into my memory and it haunted me. As I write this, it’s about four months after your death and I’ve since come to a realization of sorts, which has made the visual much easier on me. I understand that as life was leaving your body, your eyes were last. As you lost control of those muscles they angled upward and inward to where your spirit was leaving your body. I honestly believe the vacuum it created pulled all the life that was in you up and out along with your spirit. THAT is an image I can deal with.

I know you’re okay now. I believe you’re in a place where our Creator has shown you the truth about some things that weren’t clear to you while you were here. There has always been more to the story than you were able to see and hear.

I love you mom.

And hey, I’m drawing a portrait of you! I’ll post that here when I’m done. I’m going to try incorporating some of your ashes in it. That’s what I’m choosing to do with some of your remains.

P.S. I found your ring! But you probably already know that 😉

I may have to come back and add thoughts as I think of them, but that’s the great thing about a blog, you can come back and do stuff like that. Also, someone reading this might think I shouldn’t have written anything negative. Well, that’s life and you can bite me. This ain’t about you.