Yabadabadoo

My mother died early in the morning of Feb 16, but really it was the night of Feb 15. I got the call from her caregiver sometime in the night. Air hungry for too long, panic attacks she was calling them when she was at the doctor’s office, declining the morphine that would help her. She knew that would mean it was close to the end, her diaphragm losing strength, the bipap forcing air was not enough. And though she was waking regularly with the panic attacks, she had declined morphine three times.

We didn’t do the drill, That’s one of the last things she said, when they were rolling her to the ambulance. These are the things that stick with you, the tiny moments. The look she gave me, when the ER nurse wanted to use their bipap. Do something. I didn’t understand until later. The purple flowers of her nightgown. The cell phone calls in the hallway. The man that held her head in the ambulance to keep it from flopping over, to keep her breathing. 

Today, five years later, I don’t want to remember those things.   I want to tell you about the angel chimes that hung in the living room from the light fixture. I want to tell you how we would hit our head on those stupid chimes every time Mom needed something, but somewhere along the way, it became our reminder, that every time a bell rings, that the angels were there. Mom would say it as I hit my head.   That was our reset, our reminder, a moment that would ground us in what life is, what our life was, and not the frustrations of the moment.  That we loved each other. That we were here together.

I want to tell you about the times Emily and Keller would come to stay from California, and we would sit around the living room talking, loving on baby Keller, and trying to make him laugh, the way he would nap with mom in her armchair, in the cradle of Mom’s legs, the way he sat in the high chair to eat and we would rearrange ourselves towards the living room and not the kitchen so mom could see from her chair because she couldn’t turn her head.   The way he made a face every time he tasted unsweetened Greek yogurt, but kept going back for more.  The funny face he would make because he wanted you to laugh, or the time I made snare drum noises for ten minutes straight to keep his eyes on me, fusses forgotten, laughs every time I paused and then started again.

I want to tell you about the day we said, “Alexa, play Yabadabadoo,” and we meant the Flinstones, but Chub Rock came on instead, early 90s rock rap, a heavy beat and a song that pulled your hips and found our hearts in the beat, a dance party, Mom tilting her head what little she could, a finger tapping in rhythm, Emily and I jump, jump, bumping and grinding and lifting our hands up, touching the beat of a beautiful moment, joy and more joy, all of us there together, all around, lifted higher than our bodies could move us.  Together. 

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Shavasana

I practice on my mother’s purple yoga mat. It reminds me of her spirit, how she fell in love with purple just before her ALS diagnosis, obsessed with purple, as if the universe was preparing her for what was to come.   She chose a purple front door for the house, painted terracotta flower pots purple on the porch, found a metal bird speckled purple to put next to the purple front door, and a purple gazing ball, and then found the iron words Live Laugh Love, which she painted purple and hung above the flower pots. The flower pots were two shades, light and dark purple. 

And her yoga mat is purple.  When I practice, I remember how she practiced yoga on this mat, and it reminds me of my capable body, my blessings.  

I start a sun salutation and work my muscles in Runner’s Stance, arms swinging into Warrior II, breathing fast, muscles burning, and when I stop, to Downward Dog. Face to the mat, shoulders quivering. I breathe heavy, and I remember I am able:  Stretch, breathe, bend, lift, hold and quiver. Release.  

Breathe in.  Stretch up, bend further… release. Breathe out.   Keep going. Breathe. Stretch, bend. Release, breathe.

My instructor tells me of all of your work, all of the long minutes you are ready to live, to leave for work, to make that phone call, to pay the electric bill–all those moments must wait.   All of your work, your breath and muscles moving, all of your practice is preparation is for the end.  For Shavasana. Corpse pose.  

Meditation. 

Rest.  

Lay down on your mat. Hug your knees to your chest. Stretch your limbs long, long, then let go. 

I try to let the mat absorb me. Deep in breath, deep in repose, I try to harness the moment I felt many practices ago, but thoughts press in, thoughts of her heavy body, of how bought this mat after a pre-diabetic diagnosis. My mother, who drank saccharine and diet soda, worked so hard, reversing the diagnosis without medication, doing yoga, taking walks, eating cinnamon and flaxseed and yogurt every morning, shedding the weight of her body. Her capable body. And then her drop foot.

Breath in.  Breath out.  Let the thoughts wash out with the release. In shavasana, thoughts come and go.   I try not to fight it.

Mom, who only spoke of what she could do when she saw the doctors. Mom, who bought a sparkly, purple cane and held on fiercely hobbling long after she needed a walker.

The goal is to let the thought go, to let it all out on your breath, like a wave. Like a cave on the ocean, waves crashing in and out. Let go.

Breathe in. 

There was a day, a morning boot camp workout when the leader, pushing us past our sweat and our breath said, “Keep it up, Ladies! We’re going to need these bodies when we’re 60!”  I fell apart then, grief washing over me, I walked out to the bathroom, hiding in  a stall, weeping silently. That was not my mothers story.

Breathe in.   Let go…. breathe out…   Art classes. Yoga. Pottery.  In six months, she crammed them in, chased by the weakness growing in her hands. 

Breathe  

Our bodies leave us in the end.

Many practices ago, back in the middle of a yoga studio in California, I found it. 

Peace and the truth of our bodies.

We are only light and mineral. 

Breathe in light. Light in my breath, my spark, my life force, my belly.

Breathe out. After the light, only elements bonded, carbon and iron and everything else formed into muscle and bone. 

Breathe in the starlight spark within us. We are only light.

Breath out… Muscle and bone and carbon that will cycle into dirt again. All that remains when the light leaves. 

Breathe in light of the sun. Movement. Energy. God’s light humming through the elements, minerals and compounds and all matter that will break down and return to the earth. 

Breath out.  All that we are: Light and mineral. 

Like a cave on the ocean, breath coming in, and thoughts washing out. 

Breath in. Life force.  Breathe out: Feel my body, feel my bones, what is left…

Light and mineral.  Light and Mineral.

  Light. Mineral. 

Light.