So after my last post where I complained about folks not being willing to accept death (saying somebody ‘made their transition’, has ‘gone to Glory’, ‘passed away’, anything but ‘died’), this post is probably gonna sound like maybe a retraction.
It ain’t. I still believe that all these other definitions of death are a means of escape rather than acceptance. But that doesn’t mean…
OK. Now that we’ve got that out of the way, let’s proceed, shall we?
My mother died on February 17, 2016. To say that was a difficult period in my life would be an extreme understatement. But since that time I have derived at least a small bit of comfort in the fact that as she got closer to her time, she and I were able to spend a lot of time together talking about a lot of different things.
We were always very close, and I spent the overwhelming percentage of my vacation time from wherever I happened to be working throughout the years as a journalist returning to Denver to visit. But those declining years were something special in a very special relationship.
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I could recount a lot of things that might make an interesting post, but because my focus in this particular SciFi Musings section leans more toward the not-quite-normal, there is one discussion Mom and I had when she had about a year left and her dementia was starting to kick in pretty hard.
I had been told that she probably didn’t have long so I left Detroit and returned to Denver for more than two months to be with my mother because I had made her a promise that I would be by her side when she died, plus I didn’t want to arrive with just minutes or days to spare.
Turned out my return somewhat reinvigorated her and Mom made a pretty remarkable recovery to the point where I eventually went back to Detroit. The alarm light had gone back from red to yellow.
But during that extended period in Denver, I was staying with a very generous family friend and would leave every morning to catch the bus across town and spend the day with Mom. Sometimes I would just sit by her bed for nearly half the day watching TV or reading as she slept, waking off and on to look over and make sure I was still there and then smile before drifting away again.
Other times, however, she was wide awake the entire time and we would just talk about whatever. One recurring topic of conversation was that she was beginning to have what she thought were visions of long-gone family members - and some other characters I couldn’t quite figure out -and we were both trying to determine were these hallucinations or something else.
Because she was certain she wasn’t asleep when she saw these visions, and yet her extremely rational mind was having difficulty accepting what she thought she might be witnessing.
Mom was a deeply religious person, but she was also extremely educated. Not that those two things can’t go together because they obviously can, but she wasn’t the type to go for those churches where you were just supposed to accept stuff without questioning it.
Mom questioned everything right up until the end, and her understanding of God told her that was the way it was supposed to be. Being a good Christian - which she was - didn’t mean blind obedience to whatever the pastor said. The hell with that.
So back to these visions. Once when I was sitting at her bedside, and her voice was so low it was barely above a whisper, Mom let me know that she could see a little boy nearby who she sometimes called the ‘other’ Keith.
What she said didn’t scare me or shock me, I just asked her what he looked like and where he was standing. She pointed, and I nodded. Then she proceeded to tell me about other times he had shown up in recent months.
She let me know she wasn’t scared of the other Keith at all; in fact, she was somewhat protective of him and once had to tell him to watch out when he was crossing a street.
Then she told me that she was being asked to go somewhere. I asked her where was that, although I already felt a painful tug inside knowing where that might be. In so many words she let me know that it was another place, a nicer place, away from the small room where we were sitting, and that she could see that place as we were speaking.
I smiled, and so did she. Then she asked if I would come with her to this place. I actually laughed and shook my head.
“Not my time, Mom. I think this one’s for you.”
Just as I had told her I thought - and honestly believed - that some of the other things she was seeing were for her and not for me because it wasn’t my time to see them yet. No, I didn’t think she was hallucinating. She was simply adjusting to her new sight.
An explanation that she appreciated, but it didn’t stop her from asking again if I would go with her to this other place. Because she didn’t want to leave her only son.
Again, I shook my head. Wherever this was, no way was I stepping over there. If Mom chose to go, she was on her own.
Mom gave me a long look, her eyes sparkling somewhat mischievously. And then she responded.
“Chicken.”
We both cracked up. But today I still wish I could have at least been able to take a peek at where she had been asked to go, and where I might go one day as well.
And I wondered about that little boy, wondering maybe was he some sort of guide?
Not quite a year later, Geneva Mildred McNamee Owens died at the age of 93. I was standing by her bedside with one of her good friends as we watched her take her last breath. Something tells me the Other Keith may have been there as well…
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