The End of a Life/ The Beginning of a Story

Four years ago today my mother died. I wasn't sure about the exact date and had to call my brother to ask. Besides the reminder that she died right before Christmas, I thought of her because my friend's father died yesterday.

My brother, Richard, nephew, Nathan, and I were sitting in my mother's kitchen. Richard and Nathan, I think, were watching a movie on someone's laptop. My mother was sleeping under the influence of morphine in her hospital bed in the den. We knew the end had to come sometime. I went into the den to check on her. She was still, but breathing, I thought. Richard came in to check, and informed me that she wasn't breathing. She had gone sometime while we were socializing in the kitchen. There were tears, even though we were expecting this. I called Hospice,  and, I assume, my sister in Tucson. From there on I vaguely remember the sequence of things, but few details.

I was not overly emotional. We had had a long, hard haul with our mother, and her passing was somewhat of a relief for us and a release for her. Now I am recalling the feelings of the experience of her illness and her passing. Regret. Guilt. Very little obvious, overt love, although there is some love for my mother, some sweet memories and tenderness. Now, after four years, with the availability of this often blank blog, I feel the need to tell our story--my mother's and mine, or at least part of it.