The Unfurling

This poem was inspired by this image

~revised

In the meadow

lays the seed

deep under the

dew of fallen night

and a mother’s

dandelion tears

scattered upon

budding leaf

And sunlight

warms open

furled petals

unto a new

season of hope

in full bloom

The Filling

I arrived on a Saturday. She rode in the front passenger seat, smiling and chatting. We were all so happy to see each other. Joy filled the car, even though we knew, we all knew, change was a coming.

Salmon pasta salad filled our bellies as we sat at her card table. When we were done, she “cleared” our paperplates carefully, determinedly with her stronger non-dominant hand carrying them gingerly as she walked to the sink. Pride filled me as I watched my big sister execute her independence and hospitality.

Sunday morning coffee out by the pool. Warmth filled our conversation of fractured linguistics, fading retention and perseverance of reaching, reaching for collaboration between syntax and synapse. A crooked smile accompanied by a shrug of her shoulder waved off her attempt. She took another sip of coffee. Bird song and insect noises filled the silence.

Later that day, reality fell unexpectedly and at a cost. Independence broke into battles of wills for safety. Physical assistance was now a must. Resignation veiled heavy on all of our faces, but I’m sure it ripped aspiration from within her heart even more. Fear, love, and uncertainty filled our tears as we sobbed, lifting my sister off the bathroom floor.

My niece went to work Monday morning. The day was quiet with a spirit of solitude. I escorted my sister first to the poolside, but then she wanted to stroll. Barefoot like the Floridian she had become, we crunched our way across the dry grass of her backyard. A patio set welcomed us by the fence. Cardinals, morning doves, green parrots visited the trees. People from the nearby RV park strolled and biked past, most likely heading to their community pool. The yard was much larger and lovelier than I had remembered. We sat together with little conversation, the sun warming us. I couldn’t help but imagine that she was taking it all in, savoring memories unfamiliar now, or perhaps glimpses of vivid past times did come alive. When we got too warm, we headed to the front deck where we ogled her flowering bushes and an iguana on the telephone line. Her home. Her yard. Her tasks of caring for them. Routines that had filled her days had come to a stop .

Tuesday’s coffee never got drunk. Another bleed filled her left brain. She sat frozen in time, void of expression, eyes vacantly open, no whisperings or moans, or movement. I texted my niece to come home. Her mother needs to go to the hospital. Within minutes, I was opening the car door as she and the neighbor carried my sister out. Within a few more minutes, she was back in the hospital ER, exactly where she did not want to be, again. Helplessness filled me as I remembered words formed and clearly spoken at some point since my arrival. My sister had stated her intention, “I’m done.”

Three days later, she came home, and hospice arrived. Disbelief filled our minds with naive questions. How will she eat? And the taunting unknown, how long? We quickly learned that cozy nightshirts would be our friends over the pajamas she was so used to. Sipping medication was next to futile as was using a dropper. It was two days of winging it on our own over the weekend. There were some moans of distress and we learned. We spoke to her and she smiled. And with 2 daughters and 2 sisters moving about to readily accommodate unspoken needs, unintelligible requests or our own worries, our patient would close her eyes, raise her hand, and wave us away. We all understood that! We did alright though. We did a lot of laundry too. Productive love measured by loads of sheets. That made us feel useful. That made us feel good. That made us feel real good.

Finally the hospice nurse came on Monday. We were all so relieved and grateful to see her, until…sin came into the conversation. What?! My older niece smiled in response, “You can’t mean my mother’s sins. She doesn’t have any.” Once the language gap was filled, original sin and thus sickness entered the world, the translation awkwardly emerged. But, what we all remember about the exchange was the gasp of air sucked out of the room by all of us and our distorted faces aghast, questioning, beckoning each other in disbelief. Retelling the story now, rolling laughter fills this memory.

If there was any beauty in these days, it arrived through the care of the hospice aide who carried out what could be considered by many as the most menial of tasks, bathing and changing. She hardly spoke, and when she did, it was a soft voice of command. Command of herself, of those of us helping her, and command of reassurance for her patient. She moved about the bed so fluidly, I swear she floated! Never rushing, she doused. She wiped down. She patted and dried. Dignity was never compromised. And then she lotioned limbs with such a genteel touch that to watch her, it was as if she was working with velvet. Dressing, oral hygienic care, and hairbrushing complete. My sister was ready for another day. And we all were filled with the “renewal” of the offering made by this loving hospice care provider.

It’s the 4th day home living in her hospital bed. The aide just left. My sister is wearing a deep red satin pajama top of a classic cut. She looks beautiful. She is quite alert. Her daughters decide to move her bed in the kitchen area by the window. For some reason, my twin sister and I decide to give them some moments together. I’m sure we checked the laundry first. Then, we meander about the backyard making our way to the front. We sneak up the side steps of the deck to push our goofy faces against the window where they are. They all laugh. It was like a celebration of delight, love, and life for the remainder of the day. My sister was with us cognitively and emotionally, seemingly enjoying our antics, stories, and frivolity. In fact, she was the catalyst for it all. It was about her. It was about her love. It was about her life. It was her day. We reveled in it all the way into the night. We all said goodnight the same way, “What a good day.” A stuttered sigh foretelling goodbye took me to bed. But I slept knowing that Tuesdays really are full of Grace.

The time ticked away on the living room clock. The next four days brought more seizures with more valium to decrease them. At this point, the only way for us to administer it was rectally. After I push the syringe plunger, I think to myself, where did dignity go? My poor sister. She started to fade away from us, like fog rolling in on a summer night, slowly, quietly, until you realize you are in it. Being in the fog fills one with anticipation for high alert, watchfulness, and anxiety as you’re not sure what you’re looking for or when it will appear.

I’d been at my sister’s house for two weeks, which felt more like months condensed into a few days. My twin sister had arrived a week ago – the first full day of hospice. It meant a lot to have another sibling there. Generations of DNA coalesced as we cared for our big sister together alongside her two daughters. For my twin and I, memories of lives and deaths before calibrated our hearts and actions but our thoughts calculated future actions toward more preparation, more expressions of love, less concerns for yesterday, explicit instructions of intent. Ushering in our own mortality filled our reflections of self.

My third Saturday night. We had just finished a feast of BBQ brought by our niece’s friends. It was messy good! We sat on the floor. We had seconds and thirds. They drank wine and beer. My sister’s body, ever depleting, lay undisturbed in the hospital bed next to us. In fact, we acknowledged that she had not spoken or seemed aware since Wednesday night. But still, our family style gathering filled the room that she herself had made so comfortable for such occasions as this for decades.

I was washing the evening’s silverware and wine glasses when my twin gasped that we should call our niece inside. I waved her in. A call was made to have our other niece return home. We surrounded my sister watching her breaths as we held our own. Final kisses. Sweet goodbyes. One last stroke of her hair or touch of her hand. Her younger daughter asked me to play the keyboard. Graciously, I played chords echoing Pachabel’s Canon circling to Heart and Soul to singing Amazing Grace to final chords of ascension. For nearly 40 minutes, music and breaths measured time until I looked up at my twin sister, who just shook her head. And the world stopped. I knew what that meant. There were no more breaths. There were no words spoken among us. There were lots of tears. Hugs held us all together. And close.

She was gone.

We learned that dying is ugly, but in death is release. Life is fragile, but to live is to suffer.

And in the gut of our grief where a vast void remained, love, it was love that filled us.

Remembering my sister Chris May 25, 1950 – January 21, 2023

~Judy Spencer

For Chris 5.25.1950-1.21.2023

Adapted original poem written for her 70th birthday

On May 25th 1950
Their second daughter
Was born, Chrissy
Christine Mildred
Her formal name
Derived from Mom’s Mom so
A grandmother’s heart
Blessed your start
In North Adams
On Freeman Ave
Bringing the nest to 5
For Vir and Art
Plus
Five more there?
But, that was before
My time
because you
were just shy of ten
When two more
Sisters filled
Our Spencer home
Now in Stamford
And it was there
That we grew
Up in your shadow
between the front
yard maples
And the tipped back
Chairs round
A table that
Somehow fed
Souls too
And
Remember side by side
We’d sit in the
Den, song after
Song we’d sing
Til we exhausted
Ourselves
Then maybe
We’d hear a
Spin of Joan Baez
Or Peter, Paul and Mary
Brings me to
Watching you
Twist and Shout
Or Wanna Hold Your Hand
From an electric
Guitar in the living room
Strummed by a very tall
Skinny bearded man
We watched you manage
Your teenage years
With 3 little sisters
Under toe
Listening to very
long phone calls
From boyfriends who
didn’t know
When to go
I coveted your beauty
Groovey style and
Long hair
And learned how to
Straighten it
Before irons
Were sold to curl
We had yours
on the board unfurled
I remember three
Big Hi-C cans
A hairdryer in
a case
So many things
A young girl
Has to know
And someone to
Put me in place
Be it too
Much Chocolate
Syrup, or Time in the tub
Or Down the stairs
I fell
The directions from
Big sisters
Last a lifetime
As collections
Of so many
great memories to tell
Like sledding on
The back hill
In the dark
After supper
And dishes were done
All the way to
The brook
Goal achieved
Feet wet 
Anyway
Inside we’d head
Watch you brush
Your teeth
And then we all went to bed
From there to
Mornings in North Adams
On a high narrow street
An apartment your own
On to California not for long
Unsettled still
Came back then gone
To Florida and
There you stayed
Funny you ended
Up with a native from N.A.
And two beautiful little girls
Loving family made
And I know they are lucky
Because my big sister
Never shooed us away
And more often played
On and On
Stephen Bishop style
Cool and smooth
Or maybe on a summer breeze
Like Seals and Croft
My big sister Chris
never stopped holding
Her place
in so
Many Northern hearts
Where the beat began
But as years
Rolled by
And rolled by some more
You shined ever strong
Looking beautiful
And young

…Until 3 months ago
A cruel and fatal blow
Began to snuff you away from us
Quickly and so unjust
It’s not supposed to be
You had so much vigor left
So many more dreams to live
And we all wanted more love
To come down through you
As we held your hand
Cried tears into your hair
Or slept next to you in the chair

To my big sister’s side I came
Until you breathed your last breath
It was the least I could give
To my sister who showed me how to live

But even in death you gave us more
Because now we know
Your love still lives
On in our hearts
Where the beat of knowing you
And loving you
began

~ love always and forever
    Judy