When I arrived at the hospital, I stopped at the front desk to inquire in which room I could find my father. The woman at the desk looked down and then looked up at me. She looked down again at the papers on her desk. She looked back up at me, and through the window between us, she spoke to me through the little hole in the glass . . . like the ones at the ticket booth at the movie theater . . . and said, "Mr. Hawker is deceased". Any strength I had in my legs left me and I felt like I was about to collapse. I looked back at her and said, "What?" And in the same monotone that she had delivered the news the first time, she repeated those four words. No change of intonation, no emotion, no recognition that this must have been someone important to me, since I was there at six o'clock in the morning. I felt panicked and asked, "Where is my mother?" She didn't know was the answer I received. I asked her if I could use the phone and she directed me to a pay phone in the lobby. With my hands trembling, I fumbled for the change I needed to make a phone call, dialed my parents' phone number and reached my mother. She was sobbing, hardly had a voice, as if everything had been taken from her being. She spoke to me in a whisper and through her tears she shared her story of what happened in the past few hours.
I left the hospital, in a state of confusion, and drove the back roads to our farmhouse. It was still dark when I arrived. I went inside and found my mother sitting at the dining room table. There she sat, looking so very small and so grief stricken. She was in disbelief. She told me the head nurse asked her to leave because she was not allowed to stay in the room with my father overnight. He had been admitted only a couple hours before. It must not have occured to her that she could have stayed in a waiting room, so she walked out in the dark and on the ice to her car and drove home. The last words she said that my father said to her were, "Please bring my cane with you when you come back, Honey". She never imagined it would be the last time she would hear his voice. They had been together through every major event during their marriage. She was heartbroken that she was not with my father when he took his last breath. It weighed heavily on her because she had not wanted him to leave this earth alone. She could have been there, had she stayed. She was mad at herself and also at the nurse who asked her to leave. Nothing could be done to change it. It was a regret that she carried with her for the rest of her life. If there is any consolation, it is that my father actually got his wish that he would die in his sleep. My mother was told that he passed away while sleeping. That gave her comfort and she held on to that.
I am sharing this part of my life story, not because I want attention or sympathy, but because it has been playing over and over in my mind this week. As the date of December 4th approached, I started to get very sad. It started on Thanksgiving. I remembered all the bustling activity at our house when a holiday meal was prepared. The arrival of my aunts and uncles and the familiar baskets on their arms with fresh rolls and pies in them, the crowded and noisy kitchen with hot dishes on the stove and hot discussions about how the gravy should . . . and shouldn't . . . be made. And after dinner, the clean up and then either a game of canasta at the dining room table or sewing baskets and handwork in the living room while my father and uncles played cards in the kitchen or took a walk out to the barn. To some people, this may not sound particularly exciting, but to see my parents in a jovial and social setting was very special to me. To see them enjoying the company of their sisters, brothers and inlaws, seemed to bring them all so much happiness. They would often exchange books they had read and would pass them along so the others could enjoy them. They would write their initials and the date with pencil inside the front cover to note when they read each book, so when they were together again, they could keep the books moving among them, with the exception of one hard cover book that my father never loaned out. He kept Zane Grey's "Riders of the Purple Sage" all to himself and he read it every winter.
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| Some of the fancy dishes that we used on holidays. I have fond memories of getting these out of the china cabinet and still enjoy using them for special occasions. |
It is hard to believe that I am old enough to say these memories have been with me for many decades. As those who I held dear left me, the memories became more precious and I am glad I have them and can recall them. And as I contemplated writing this post as the date approached, I started to think about and value everything that has happened in my life to bring me to this place . . . emotionally, physically, philosophically and geographically. The effort my parents made to impart their values to me and provide a safe and happy home, the value of learning and trying new things, the good food that I get to enjoy at holidays and everyday, the beliefs and freedoms I have, and the place in the world that I call home all have great value to me, especially the home my heart has found. The life I share with my husband is unique and precious. It doesn't matter if others value the same things as me, as long as I can still enjoy my own life and my own memories . . . happy and sad . . . distant and sometimes ethereal . . . knowing life is not a guarantee, but a gift. Sometimes the memories are rich and sometimes they are mundane, but when put together, they make what I call my life.
Thank you for taking the time to read this post. I seem to have rambled a bit . . . or maybe a lot . . . while writing this. Without much editing, I will post this and send it your way. It is my wish that you will enjoy your memories, the old ones and the ones you will make today and this holiday season. I pray for all my readers and hope that you and those you love are well and happy. And until we meet again, may the Lord hold you in the hollow of His hand.
Emmy
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