Home Going

by Dori Davis

October 15, 2017 It’s 2:00 a.m., and my phone rings. Caller ID tells me it’s Mar Vista Country Villa Healthcare Centre. Home for my 105-year-old Mom. A place where I spend many hours. Mom’s health has been in free-fall the past six months and this is one of the numerous calls from Country Villa to awaken me from a deep slumber. Her health decline has been marked by the increased frequency and duration of hospitalizations—conditions more severe and added complications.

“I’m calling to inform you that Lenora Davis developed a blood clot in her arm, and the paramedics took her to UCLA.” I’m told her vital signs are normal, and Mom is not in pain.

I sit in the green plastic visitor’s chair, watching Mom sleep. So frail and small underneath the white sheet and blanket. I remember Mom as a fiercely independent and strong Wonder Woman. A smart money manager and entrepreneur, she handled the family’s finances with focus and determination. When many of our peers lived in the Projects, Mom insisted on homeownership for our family. She bought and sold real estate with Dad’s modest wages. She carved out three separate living quarters on our lot and managed the rentals.

A skilled seamstress, she designed and tailored our clothes with patterns she made from the newspaper. She created and filed her recipes in her head. She disciplined with reason and love. Though she developed parenting skills by trial and error, she got it right with me.

Mom did life her way. Always eating whatever she wanted. Plenty of pork sausage, barbecue ribs, biscuits, peach cobbler, lemon pound cake, and vanilla ice cream—all homemade. Beverage of choice? Seven-Up. Working out? A foreign concept. Mom remained physically healthy and robust well beyond her 100th birthday despite her unhealthy lifestyle.

I remember Mom’s 100th birthday. I always knew she’d live to be 100! She was celebrated and recognized along with other centenarians by Smucker’s on the Today TV Show. She jubilantly reigned over her surprise birthday party with old friends, family, Country Villa residents, and staff.

Mom is radiant in her favorite color, the color of her 1958 DeSoto—red jacket, red flower in her hair, and red polish on her manicured nails. DJ Rob plays music from the 70s and 80s. Mom dances with her shoulders and arms in her wheelchair. My sister Cynthia and I prance and dance like teenagers. The Temptations’ “My Girl”. Al Green’s “Love and Happiness”. Earth, Wind, and Fire’s “Shining Star” blasting through the speakers. Rob serenades Mom with his guitar:

I’ve lived a life that’s full
I traveled each and every highway
And more, much more
I did it, I did it my way
(My Way: Paul Anka, Claude Francois, Jacques Revaux, & Gilles Thibaut)

I start my tribute: “One hundred years ago, on July 3, 1912, Gould and Eliza Kirksey welcomed a beautiful baby girl into the world.” I end with, “Mom, I celebrate you. I honor you. I love and adore you.” Mom is happy and beaming. She knows she is loved and appreciated.

After her 100^th birthday, the process of dementia that had slowly crawled throughout Mom’s brain accelerated. Together, we fought to retrieve and retain as much memory as possible. I’d throw out questions and coach her when needed. “How many sisters do you have and what are their names? What do I need to buy from the market to make chicken and dumplings? How many brothers do you have? Where were you born?”

“I have two brothers: Vas and Robert. I was born in Shaw, Mississippi,” she gleefully answers with the pride of a television game show contestant.

With repetition, we preserved bits of Mom’s experiences and knowledge. She remembered many of the details of her life, and she remembered and recognized my sisters, Cynthia, Renae, and me to the very end.

December 27, 2017 It’s 3:30 a.m. The phone rings. The piercing sound is deafening and startles me as I struggle to wake up. “This is Harriet West at Mar Vista Country Villa. I regret to inform you that Lenora Davis passed away at 3:01 this morning.”

I accept death as an essential part of the life cycle. I’m grateful to have had Mom in my life all these years.

Yet, I’m sad because she suffered the last several months of her life. I’m sad because I didn’t get to know and appreciate her more. I’m sad because Mom is gone.

I call Cynthia. It goes to voice mail. “Cynthia, call me as soon as you get this message.” I call Angeles Mortuary to advise them to pick up my Mom’s body.

I call Cynthia again. “This is Cynthia. I can’t answer your call, blah, blah, blah”

Now I’m annoyed. I need to share my grief.

I’m fully awake and I get out of bed. I don’t know what to do with myself. I try to read and find myself blindly staring at the pages. I search for the folder with the documents I’ll need later in the day. My dogs Bentli and Baili pick up on my sadness. They’re quiet as they trail behind my every move. I turn on my music and search for a playlist to ease my heightened emotions until sunrise. Weary, I curl up on the sofa. Bentli and Baili climb up and snuggle on my lap.

I finally talk to Cynthia around 8:00 a.m. I’m sad, tired, sleepy, and emotionally drained. I’m consumed with grief, and I start to cry. “Mom was tired and suffering. She was ready to leave this earth.”

“I know. I think Mom hung on as long as she could for us. She didn’t want to leave her daughters. Do you want me to come over?”

“No. I’ll be ok. We need to meet at Angeles later today. I’ll call and make an appointment.”

I feel an overwhelming crushing sensation in my chest as my heart breaks!

January 12, 2018 Today is the day I bury my Dear Mother. I wear a black, red and white dress. Absorbed in my thoughts, I sit in the Black SUV limousine. The driver and Pastor McKnight stand outside. I gather myself, take the driver’s extended hand, and climb out. I fall in line behind the Pastor as he starts to recite Psalm 23:1- 6: “The Lord is My Shepherd. I shall not want”. This was Mom’s favorite Bible verse. One deeply ingrained in my memory.

After a blur of melodies, prayers, and verses, I stand and walk to the silvery blue casket. I begin to read my remarks and immediately toss my presentation. Instead, I speak from my heart. “My Mom was a remarkable and capable woman, particularly for a woman with an eighth-grade education. A descendant of slaves. I talk about her generosity and kindness. Her nurturing and caring spirit. She cared for my blind Grandmother, Dad, nieces, nephews, my five aunts, my sisters Renae and Cynthia, and me with love and devotion. She never hesitated to lend a helping hand to anyone in need. She made it look easy. She did it without complaint or expectation of anything in return…”

I lean into Cynthia. Our arms wrap around each other’s shoulders. Our heads are touching. The service comes to an end, and White Doves are released:

Did you ever know that you’re my hero
And everything I would like to be?
I can fly higher than an eagle
For you are the wind beneath my wings…
(Wind Beneath My Wings: Jeff Silbar & Larry Henley)