She died of dementia, not a fond disease for either the dying, nor the caregiver; that was I.

I had tears welled up in my eyes when my brother looked over at me, he asked me that somewhat innocent question. ‘How are you doing, Bill?’ That was two days ago, while I was at my mother’s visitation at the funeral home.

Upon hearing his question, I had suddenly broken down with a gush of tears in anguish. My shoulders heaved with the release of memories and the incredible loss. It had happened About forty-five minutes into the start of the solemn event. I was looking over at my sweet, timid mother, lying inside her wooden casket. Her lifeless, but tranquil face, her hazel eyes were closed – finally at peace. All the images of her lying in the bed at the retirement home, gasping for breath, holding my hand and fighting to live, or was she fighting to die, I did not know which. All those memories hit me like a pounding surf crashing onto a beach. I had been holding it together for so long until that moment.

My brother stood up and came to my side; he put his arm around my heaving shoulders. He said some words of comfort; I do not recall what they were. My nephew-in-law was right there too. They prayed over me as I cried waves of sorrowful release.

Almost every day for the past four years I had spent time with my mother. It was a death of a thousand pin pricks, and I had held them all back. I packed them deep in my soul, hiding the pain from her and myself. I was trying to be strong, as she had always been strong for me. The woman who, when I was a rambunctious child, had kiss by ‘boo-boos, when I scraped a knee or bumped my head. She told me, “It’s okay, you’re going to be fine… it’s a long way from your heart.”

She was the person who encouraged me through grade school and high school; “You’re not stupid, you are the smartest child I know.” You must understand that I didn’t want to be taught or even try to get a passing grade; I always felt stupid, because the school system, as they used the term ‘held me back’ at first grade, this was just after moving to a new town and school. Mother struggled to get me to believe that I was not stupid for the next twenty years. She was right, and she had seen me become a successful businessperson and financially secure, something we as a family did not have growing up. That was mostly all mother, she never lost hope that I would get past this self-denigrating attitude and finally be what I was destined to be.

But on this day, I just wanted to be away from everyone. I did not want to see her lying there dead, in her casket, a reminder that she was really gone. That I would never hold her hand, or confide in her, laugh or cry with my mother, my best friend, ever again.

“How are you doing…” people would ask. Like my brother just had, moments ago.

“My mother just died – what do you think?”

That was what my niece’s husband told me to respond to that silly question next time. That awkward question attendees would say to the mourning. He was making a joke; this was after I had gained my composure back; trying to lighten the mood of the moment. It worked; I laughed uncomfortably at the thought of me saying this to the next comforter who approached me.

Of course I did not say anything like this, after all, I mean, who could. But it was certainly a humorous thought to imagine the reaction of the receiver of a shocking response like that. Let’s be honest, it’s funny because it’s true, not appropriate but true, nonetheless. I appreciate his sense of humor in this difficult moment. I am now by myself, here in my apartment doing the only thing that makes sense, I am sharing my thoughts about this terrible event in my life. We are all on the same journey, birth to death, we all deal with it differently. I shut out the pain until it was all behind me, and then I was bushwacked by my emotions. I no longer have the fortitude to act as if it isn’t hurting. In truth, I still have not fully delt with it yet, there is a lot more crying yet to come. You know what they say, old habits are hard to break.

My mother was the last in her generation. We who survive now carry the torch for father time. When we pass on to that other place; that next generation will take our place in the turning of the next generation. And so, it goes.