The Phone Calls

My daughter, Jessica, stopped in the middle of the narrow sidewalk and pulled out her cell phone. “It’s Dave,” she said, her younger brother, my son David. It was Sunday morning for us in Hong Kong, Saturday night in Dallas where he was. Jessica looked up. “Dad’s gone.”

The news was expected, given my ex-husband’s terminal cancer, yet unsettling, as was the picture David had sent earlier: his dad a 130-pound wraith. Where was the charming graduate student I’d fallen for years ago?

Earlier that morning, three generations—Jessica, her daughter Abigail, and I—had cruised the aisles of a local grocery store, and were carrying our purchases back to Jessica’s flat. Abigail was being a two-year-old—insisting on doing everything by herself: riding Hong Kong’s Mid-Levels escalators, pushing the grocery cart, and walking along the sidewalk. Jessica reminded her that there were times when it was important to hold Mama’s hand. Even so, I never took my eyes off my granddaughter while Jess was occupied.

Abigail stared into store windows and studied cracks in the sidewalk. A taxi whizzed by. She glanced at her mother, giggled, and took off running—with Grandma two steps behind.

I grabbed Abigail’s arm. “No,” she cried, twisting to free herself from my grasp. “Mama.” Of course she wanted Mama, not this strange visitor called Grandma.

As we continued to Jessica’s flat with Abigail in tow, I pondered our dual wish for independence and dependence. My first husband and I had expected to maintain our separate selves while holding each other’s hands but couldn’t hold it together. We’d divorced three decades ago after sixteen years of marriage.

While Abigail napped, Jessica and I spoke about her dad. We both sensed the fortuitous timing of my visit. I was there to hold my daughter’s hand.

“I’m grateful to you and your brother for taking care of your father. It sure wasn’t easy; planning and execution were not his fortes. Except at work.”

Jessica’s eyes darkened. “It’s been a lot, Mom—the trips, overseeing everything long distance, talking with his doctors. We got the legal paperwork done just in time. Dave’s handling Dad’s bills and the house.”

“Some people think planning or preparing for death means they’re going to die, and, of course, we are. Keith and I knew your dad was dying six months ago when we saw him at David and Gerard’s wedding.” My husband Keith and I had noted my ex-husband’s pallor and unsteadiness. “I hugged your dad, touched his face, and thanked him for coming.”

“I saw that,” Jessica said.

“Your dad said he wouldn’t have missed it.” His comment brought to mind the times he hadn’t shown up, but my heart chose the kinder response.

“I told your father I could see how much his choice to attend was costing him. When he left the wedding, he smiled, waved, and cheerily said, ‘Well, goodbye.’ So, he knew.”

***

Seven months later, I slipped out of bed in the dark, not wanting to wake Keith. The time on my cell phone flashed 4:23. I dressed, started the coffee, and was pouring a cup when my phone hummed. It was my older sister Jane.

“She’s gone. Hospice confirmed time of death 4:30. It’s Sunday, but the funeral home is on its way to pick her up.” Sobs choked Jane’s voice. “I can’t believe she’s gone.”

Mother had been living in a care facility near Jane for eight years. In the past year, I’d increased my day trips from once to twice a month, then weekly and bi-weekly. Our younger sister visited when she could. Jane and I had met with the hospice nurse and knew what to expect. Yet the Friday before her death, when I saw Mother bedridden and unconscious, her shrunken body naked except for a diaper, I felt what? Sadness that she’d come to this, grief that we three would be motherless, and disappointment that I had not been the daughter she’d selected to care for her. I’d come in second again.

The hospice nurse said Mother’s right leg was dying first, the one that had been reattached after she was shot during a home invasion. I was five when it happened, walking home from school and not there to save her. More reason for wanting to save her from the indignities of dementia. But Mother had chosen Jane, a choice my sisters supported despite my better health and supportive husband. A rejection that unlinked me from my sisters.

Hovering over Mother’s bed that last Friday, I’d debated what to say. She had requested for someone to recite the 23^rd Psalm and The Lord’s Prayer at her graveside even though she never had patience for prayer, other than as a courtesy to others. Afraid of upsetting her if I prayed aloud, I prayed at her bedside in silence.

Jane had asked if I wanted her to call when Mother passed, day or night. I’d said daytime would be fine but reconsidered. After years of centering her life around Mother, Jane might need someone to talk with. So, I said I’d keep my cell phone with me day and night until she called.

“Thank you for staying with her, Jane. How are you doing?” She talked for a few minutes before we agreed to talk again after she’d gotten some sleep and contacted our younger sister. Though burial arrangements had been made in advance, there remained much to plan, including how much our younger sister could handle given her chronic illness.

The bedroom door opened, and Keith walked up to me. “Mother’s gone,” I said, “4:30 this morning. Nothing to be done right now, so let’s go to church. That’s where I need to be.” To pray for my mother and ask for grace.

Keith said something—I don’t remember what—and embraced me. Did I cry?

I don’t remember.

***

“Old Dominion Animal Hospital Crozet. Would you hold, please?”

“Yes.” I fisted my free hand and murmured. “Hold it together, Carole, hold it together.”

The rhythmic on-hold clicking ended with a beep. “This is Reba. How can I help you?”

“Reba, this is Carole Duff.” I couldn’t hold it together. “I’m so sorry,” I sobbed, “it’s Heathcliff… it’s time.” Time to say goodbye to our thirteen-year-old, black lab mix.

“Oh, honey, it’s okay. Tell me what’s happening.” Even though Reba was at least half my age, she called everyone ‘honey’—dogs and people.

“Heathcliff hasn’t eaten in three days and struggles to get his hind legs under him.” I paced between the kitchen and my office. “He’s getting me up at night and sleeping more, playing and walking less. And the sarcoma on his left front leg is huge.” I paused to breathe. “Four months ago, Dr. Pocock said maybe six months and recommended we choose a good day, before pain sets in, so he goes happy.”

Had we waited too long, or was it too soon? Maybe a few more days. Was that choice selfish, or selfless?

“Let me check the schedule and see what we have,” Reba said. I shut my eyes and pinched my upper lip. “Is today at 2:30 good?”

“2:30. Today. Let me write that down.” I grabbed a pen and notepad on my desk. “I know you’re under COVID-19 protocols, but we’d like to be with him, if possible.”

“You can be with him, though we ask that you wear a mask. Any other questions?”

“Not right now. Thank you, Reba. God bless you.” I put my cell phone down, climbed the stairs to the loft, and cried in Keith’s arms. Gut-wrenching sobs.

I didn’t cry like this when my ex-husband died two years ago or Mother last year.

Should I feel guilty about that?

The Memorials

At her father’s memorial reception, Jessica introduced me to his graduate student. That morning, I’d sheathed myself in a subdued, form-fitting dress as armor for the ordeal ahead. Jessica had asked if, after the luncheon, I would help sort family photographs she’d found in her dad’s house—a house I’d never been in.

“Thank you for cleaning out his office,” I said to his former student.

“No problem. We found some personal things—pictures of his children. He loved his children.” I nodded.

Moving to the next group, Jessica said for my ears only, “They were old pictures, Mom. At his house, I found pictures of Abigail—his only grandchild—tossed in a heap of junk mail.” She stopped and faced me. “I know he was sick, Mom, but it still hurts.” I gently rubbed her arm.

While Jessica checked with the restaurant manager and Keith chatted with one of my ex’s cousins, I made my way across the dining room to my former sister-in-law. I hugged her and said, “I’m so sorry this happened. How are you doing?”

She dabbed her eyes and wrung the tissue in her hand. “They gave up on him. He gave up.” I thought about what “he” my ex-husband had endured in the past six months and how “they” my children had coped with their father’s drinking and honored his final wishes while fielding his family’s counter demands. My gut simmered, but I kept my mouth shut.

Jessica waved me over to the center table where she, Abigail, David, Gerard, Keith and I would sit. As soon as I put my purse down, my ex’s girlfriend threw herself into my not-quite-open arms. “I miss him so much,” she sobbed. “Lost. I’m just lost. What am I going to do?” I said I was sorry. What else I might have said, given her refusal to care for him when better became worse, I shudder to think.

After she released me, I turned to the table where my ex’s university colleagues were seated and thanked everyone for coming. A former student then colleague, a vivacious blonde dressed in lime green and hot pink, followed me back to the center table.

“Isn’t it wonderful that you and he were always there for your children,” she gushed. So far, I’d kept my mouth shut but wasn’t about to have someone put words into it.

“No.” I stared at her. It wasn’t wonderful, because it wasn’t true.

“No?” Her sweet voice sounded hurt. Speak no ill of the dead, I thought.

“Well, of course, he attended the big events, graduations and such.”

“Oh yes, that’s nice.” She smiled sweetly. I had chosen not to tarnish his image. He deserved that much from me—and the professional accolades from his colleagues.

Some put their work and pleasures before their family.

Others put their children and need for control before their spouse.

***

“People are going to thank me for taking care of Mother,” my older sister Jane said as we walked into the restaurant Mother had favored for celebratory occasions. “I’m going to tell them we all helped out, especially you.”

“Own it, Jane. You bore the burden.” I turned to her. “Whatever happened in the past doesn’t matter.” How I wished that were true. As with my ex-husband’s lunch-gathering, I had moved down the stages of grief from shock, disbelief, and numbness to pain, guilt, and anger—but with less success in masking the latter. Family dynamics always come into play when emotional stakes run high. With Keith beside me, I focused on checking my hurt.

I greeted Mother’s friends, hugged family members, and thanked everyone for staying in touch with her. During dessert, people told stories about Mother’s teaching years, her gracious hospitality, how she savored ordinary things and made people feel special. In lieu of flowers, we’d asked for donations to Mother’s favorite charity: The New Haven Food Bank.

Afraid I’d break down and cry or snap at Jane—my need for control competing with hers—I read a story I’d written about how Mother’s dementia did not steal her love of family, friends, or chocolate. I wish I’d chosen to say something short and sweet instead. But in grief, I teetered among my three selves: the needy “choose me” five-year-old, the faithless young adult who believed life and death were separate, and the mature woman who saw her hurt for what it was: jealousy.

After lunch, we showed a movie of photographs from Mother’s life set to popular tunes. For the last song, “Climb Every Mountain,” from The Sound of Music, we three sisters stood in birth order to sing as we had when growing up. I wrapped my arms around my sisters’ shoulders, hugged Jane to my chest as she wept then stopped singing, deferring to our younger sister’s pure soprano voice. Re-linking with my sisters.

***

At the animal hospital parking lot, Heathcliff sniffed and peed where others had peed before. “He loves riding in the car and coming here,” I said to Reba. “I always roll down the windows when we get close, so he can hang his head out and sniff.”

She slipped his collar off and handed it to me. “I’ll let you know when we’re ready.” Keith and I sat in the car, masks in hand, until she waved us inside.

In the examining room, Heathcliff greeted us with grins, tail wags, and panting. An IV port was taped to his front leg, and a cream-color quilt spread on the floor. Keith and I sat on the low sofa with Heathcliff on the quilt at our feet.

Dr. Kramer greeted us and said, “I’ll inject a sedative, which will make him sleepy, then a large dose of the medication that will stop his heart in two to three minutes. It will be painless.”

Heathcliff rested his big head on his front paws. Keith and I spoke about when we’d adopted him from the Alexandria shelter at eight-months old, how he’d been with us almost our entire fifteen-year marriage. Heathcliff’s memorial. Keith snagged a tissue from a box beside me.

Dr. Kramer placed her stethoscope on Heathcliff’s big chest. “A slight heartbeat. Another minute.” We waited. Then he was gone.

We stroked his soft fur. “He looks like a puppy again,” I said. In the car, I pulled off my tear-soaked mask and put it in my purse along with Heathcliff’s collar. Keith drove us home.

Heathcliff’s memorial went on for days—the second guessing, the “remember when he,” the weeping, the gut-wrenching emptiness of his dog bowl—all finding their way to the last image of Heathcliff on his deathbed looking like a puppy. In his final moments, he had reminded me of a simple truth.

Life and death, held together by grace and mercy, include one another.

The Dreams

In the dream, my ex-husband and I look for a house together but never find quite the right one. I’d dreamed many variations of that theme in the two years since his death, each dream working through another what-if scenario. What if we’d put each other first? What if we’d grown together instead of apart? What if we’d chosen forgiveness over blame?

The dreams end when I wake beside Keith in the house we built together. Because of the sadness that was, I have a happiness that is, here with Keith. I always thank God for both the happiness and the sadness. Failure and loss are good teachers.

***

Soon after what would have been her 98^th birthday, I dreamt of Mother. She drove me to the hairdresser in our navy-blue ‘63 Ford Falcon station wagon. The hairdresser didn’t touch my hair. Then Mother took me to the dentist, but the dentist didn’t look at my teeth.

“We’ll schedule another time,” I said to Mother, who was now walking with a cane. “Let’s go home.” I held Mother’s hand as we crossed an intersection and stepped onto the sidewalk. Suddenly, she let go, jumped into the water-filled drainage ditch, and floated away. I ran, grabbed her flailing arm, and lifted her naked, frail body onto my back. “Wrap your arms around me,” I said as I carried her piggyback down the narrow sidewalk. “Don’t worry, Mother, we’ll find the Falcon.” I woke before that could happen.

Later, when I told Keith about my dream, I sighed. “It’s obvious what this is about. Who am I to demand the world and others give me what I desire?”

“Yes,” he said, “and shining a light on our monsters makes them smaller.”

I’d cried a river when my first husband left thirty years ago, and when Mother slowly lost her mind. Maybe I was all cried out by the time they both died. And maybe it’s okay not to cry when death finally happens, because the stages of grief end with acceptance and hope.

***

“I heard about your dog,” said a woman, as I was leaving the Bible study brown-bag lunch. I’d debated whether to attend the gathering. Heathcliff had been gone less than twenty-four hours. But I decided that abiding with the women in their prayer requests was the selfless choice.

“It’s hard right now. I expect to see Heathcliff everywhere I go.” I saw tears well in her eyes. “You’ve been through the loss of a beloved dog several times. How did you manage?” She pulled a wad of car keys from her purse and fingered one dog nametag after another, seven in all. Now I teared up.

At home, I slid Heathcliff’s heart-shaped nametag off his collar and onto my keychain, so I can dream that he rides with us wherever we go.

Mother used to say trouble comes in threes. I suppose I could consider three losses in as many years as trouble. But because Heathcliff’s pure loss linked my heart to the two complicated losses, I chose to see the three as grace. In paintings and sculptures, The Three Graces—daughters of Zeus, the goddesses of mirth, elegance, and youth—huddle together and lean inward, their heads almost touching. Linking arms or holding hands, they dance and sing, bestowing their gifts gracefully.

Carole Duff is a veteran teacher, flutist, naturalist, and writer of narrative nonfiction. She posts weekly to her long-standing blog Notes from Vanaprastha and has written forBrevity blog, Mockingbird, Streetlight Magazine,The Perennial Gen nowThe Sage Forum, for which she is a regular contributor, and other publications. Her book Wisdom Builds Her House releases in early 2024 through Brandylane Publications. Carole lives in Virginia’s Blue Ridge Mountains with her husband, writer K.A. Kenny, and two, large overly-friendly dogs.

Header image: Heathcliff when he was a one-year-old puppy, running our mountain land here in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia.