Life. And Death.

August 19, 1:06 p.m.
I am less than five minutes from the hospital when I get a call from Chip. I answer it but he doesn't say anything. Then just howling sobs. "Oh honey, hold on," I say. "I'll be there in a minute."

Life. And Death. 
She married Jerry in 1942, when she was just 17 years old. She was a humble hat shop girl, he, a navy instructor headed for war. It's what they did in those days. Their first home was a "one bedroom with kitchen privileges," a fact she liked to share with her children as they each moved into their first wedded home. They were married a little over 68 years. She had eight babies, four living children, eight grandchildren and eight great-grandchildren. And no divorce. For all those generations of off-spring, Jerry and Estelle have set the example for loving, dedicated commitment.

Chip was with her when she passed. He sat next to the bed and took her hand. "I love you, Mommy. I'm here." and just like that, the monitor flat-lined. And she was gone. How does the soul know to leave the body at the exact moment when the heart stops beating, the lungs cease taking in breath? Where does it go? Did she float up by the ceiling, looking down on the scene? I wish I had thought to look, to see if she was there. How does the soul know where to go? Is there a light to follow? Jennifer Love Hewitt to guide her? Is Ellie calling her from the other side, anxious, finally, after 14 years, to reunite with her beloved mother?



Grief is an evil bastard. It slices you open and lets your heart bleed and it doesn't even have the decency to make a clean cut with a smooth knife. It chooses instead the serrated blade, leaving a jagged, raw wound. Oh, that will never heal without a scar, you realize. That there, that's gonna leave a mark.

After 68 years together, you would hope they could exit this world together, lying in one another's arms, simultaneously shedding this mortal coil. But that only happens in Nicholas Sparks novels. You'd think at least that the first one to go would have her life's love there with her. But Mom was here, in the ICU of Baptist Hospital, and Dad was across town in the Jewish Home, unaware that the love of his life was taking her last, labored breaths. Such a cruel twist of fate from a world that aches for love such as theirs. Their devoted youngest son, the only family member able to make it to her bedside in time to hold her hand as she left. "I love you, Mommy. I'm here."

On the pinky finger of her right hand, Mom wore a tiny silver band. No thicker than a paperclip. I never asked her what it was. I liked to think it was her original wedding band. Sparse and slight from a time when the country, the world, was at war. The kind nurse who cleaned Mom's body used some ointment to get it off. She wiped it clean on a cloth, handed it to Chip. "Would you like this?" she asked. Chip took the ring and, knowing it was too tiny to fit on any of his fingers, handed it to me. I'm wearing it now. On the pinky finger of my right hand, just as she did. A reminder of a life. And a death. And a love.