"525,600 minutes"

July 7, 2008

I will never forget that day.

Mom was up early and dressed; she actually seemed to be excited. She didn’t understand.

I couldn’t do the work my brother’s were doing – it was impossible. I was a coward.

Instead, I opted to go with my cousin, Lou Ann, and sister-in-law, Linda, who had crafted plans to take Mom shoe shopping and then out to lunch. She didn’t understand.

We also took along the new cherry-red wheelchair Mother had been so excited to receive; it didn’t matter what it was -- it had been a gift from her “Sweetie.” The wheelchair had not yet become an essential fixture in her life; it was available. She didn’t understand.

We walked out of their home around 10:30 in the morning. She didn’t understand.

We shopped for shoes, and then went on to the Olive Garden sitting down for lunch. That is essentially all I did; I was not interested in food. The mood was somber; it was a wake of sorts. She didn’t understand.

At noon, as choreographed, after a few cell phone calls, we made our way to the van. I was physically ill by the thought of what was to come. I understood. Did I?

We drove past the boulevard leading to their home? Oh, my God! This is for real.

We drove another half-mile or so and then turned onto a property I had visited before in the final years of my Grandmother’s life. I remember thinking, again, “Oh, my God.” But Mom seemed fine; she was making plans and even a grocery list. She didn’t understand. Or did she? She had certainly spent more time here with her Mother than any of the rest of us; could those memories have faded as well?

My twin brother was in the circle drive – as planned; he was hurting – visibly -- but he was determined to do what was necessary for Mom. He was strong – or at least he acted the part. He understood.

We had arrived. Our life, as we knew it, changed in a moment.

I remember the sense of a weight seeming to push me back as we entered the doors; I didn’t want to be there under any circumstance. It was supposed to be for the best, right? I honestly did try to put on a brave face. It wasn’t easy.

Feeling numb and moving along unfamiliar hallways, I felt pulled – as if by some invisible rope – toward an uncertain reality; I was blindly following everyone’s lead.

Suddenly, there it was. Room 610. Worse was the card that hung beside the door which read, “Dorothy Scott.” I felt weak in the knees.

What my brother’s accomplished in the hours after we left the house that morning with Mom was miraculous. As if by magic, many of Mom’s favorite things had been transported to that room – it quite honestly already felt like a “home.” On seeing her favorite rocking chair, Mom took a seat with nary a complaint; she was alright. My brother’s had worked a miracle – at least from my point of view. By making this day – this transition -- easier for Mom, they had paved the way for the rest of us as well.

I was the weakest link in the chain that day. I had not prepared myself for this eventuality. Yes, it had been discussed over time but there was a part of me that had continued to push the thought aside for “another” day.

July 7, the day that had dawned just a few hours before, had brought more change than I could have imagined.

Before leaving the house with Mom that morning I had the opportunity to tell Bob what was on my mind. I assured him that while I was personally distraught by the blinding reality of the day, I didn’t want him to feel any guilt. Though my heart was breaking, I assured him that he was doing the right thing. He seemed strong but I suspect he was holding on by a thread.

Has it really been one year? It feels like a minute. It feels like a lifetime.

Mom understands. Mom doesn’t understand. It is all true.

One year.

“525,600 minutes … moments so dear … how do you measure, measure a year?”

“Seasons of Love” from the musical, “Rent.”