The Green Couch

Sometimes when I come home from a day's work, I walk in through the kitchen door and expect to see her sitting there on that green couch.

She bought the couch the year before she died. It was an average size couch with deep seats and high sides. We were in a local furniture store that was hosting a close-out sale when she found it. The twill-like softness of the couch called to her second only to the spring green of its color. It looked comfortable, with its come hither cushions beckoning out to a body to sink in and enjoy. She tried it out for several minutes in the store, while my husband went to find a salesperson to assist us. I think she secretly didn't want anyone else to lay claim to it; after all, there would be no ordering from the home office - it was a closeout sale. All sales final, no returns, cash on delivery. So she sat there, running her hands over it, smoothing the already smooth as silk fabric, oohing and aahing and looking to me to make sure it would "go" with her other furniture.

We closed the deal and made delivery arrangements, and she was happy for the day with her new purchase.

A week later, the couch arrived. By then she had been sitting in a chair, or at the dining room table, for a couple of days, having given her old couch to my sister. She had the delivery men set it just so, making sure it didn't butt up against the wall if a person were to sink into it a little heavier than most. She was pleased as apple pie with her new couch, and never said anything about its comfort level.

However, after awhile, sitting on the couch made her feel as though she had become a pirate ship, sinking ever so slowly after taking on a cannon blast. The cushions, at first firm and supportive, became softer with each sitting, giving in to the weight of the sitter, and getting comfortable became a chore. Worse, getting off the couch was impossible. She had to get out of it instead, as though it had grown attached to her backside. It was a struggle for most, but became a downright pain in the rear for her. Scoot to the edge, then lean forward and pull pull pull until the butt came unglued. It could be comedic if the one getting up wasn't you.

Despite the ever sinking cushions and the constant battle to release herself from it, Momma loved that couch. It was of a cheery green, much like the softer shades of spring that bloom during the first days of March and April. Curling up in it could be comforting, too, if you had a need for something to wrap itself around you. With its high sides and back, you could scooch yourself into a corner and cover up with a throw and a book, and stay like that for a period of time feeling the secureness of it surrounding you.

Memorial Day weekend was fast approaching, and with it my brother and his family were to arrive for a week of visiting with Mom and enjoying the beaches. My sister and her family, living only an hour away, also wanted to spend a Sunday, so we devised a plan to cook out on Daddy's grill and enjoy Mom's company for the day. She had been sick for a number of months, having been in the hospital seven times over the last four months, and deep in our hearts we all knew her days were numbered. Diabetes and congestive heart failure were ravishing her body, taking their toll on her kidneys and lungs and circulatory system. Walking had become hard for her; she could barely make it from her bedroom to the kitchen without becoming breathless. She often had to walk and rest, walk and rest. Her last admission to the hospital resulted in the dual preparation for both hemodialysis and peritoneal dialysis - major surgeries both for someone in her state of health.

My husband, daughter and I all lived within two minutes driving time, and were preparing to move in with Mom at her request. We needed another place to live; our new landlord was turning in to a shark. At the same time, Mom had asked that we move in with her; she was afraid to live by herself now that her health was failing and wanted us closer, not farther away. We were spending our afternoons and evenings, weekends and every free moment with Mom - I had to get in all the time I could with her while there was time to be had. That Sunday before Memorial Day seemed like a good time to spend the day as a family, all of us glad for the excellent weather so that Mom could sit outside for a while. We cooked, we cleaned, we laughed, we told stories; it was a good day.

And yet, something was off. I wasn't quite sure what it was, but I knew there was a change in Mom, so subtle as to be almost not noticeable. I had spent every possible moment with her over the last several months, and I could feel it. It was as though she had given up, and was taking this last opportunity to say goodbye in her own way. She was just a little too bright and a little too happy, with an underlying sense of sadness. Her body was worn down, weakened by years of diabetic ups and downs. As the day wore on, I acquiesced to my daughter's insistence that she be allowed to do the prep work in the kitchen, and instead I sat with Mom, enjoying our time together.

Our day ended on a good note. My sister and her family left first; their drive home with full tummies would be a bit more challenging as they had further to go. My daughter and I cleaned the kitchen, putting the dishes in their rightful places and wiping down countertops and appliances. She, too, left shortly thereafter, young enough to have things to do and people to see and plans for the evening still to come. My husband and I were the last to leave.

There has always been love in my family, with affection openly displayed and freely given. We are Southern by blood, and find it hard not to give a hug and an "I love you" to those who are important to us when we depart from their company. Even new people who have recently graced our lives with their presence will at least receive the hug and a warm welcome. So it is no surprise that I have always told my Mom that I love her and given her a hug and a kiss before leaving her of an evening. I always initiated the ritual, going to her and enfolding her in my arms, seeking from her the love I knew without a doubt she had for me. It was a comfort to her as much as it was to me. We'd laugh about some little comment or repeat of the evening's funnier moments - there was always some sort of goodnatured ribbings going on when we got together - then we'd hug. I whispered in her ear, most every time, that I loved her, and for her to behave. She'd laugh and say "That's no fun."

But this Sunday, well, it was different, you see. It was different because she initiated our ritual hugging. She came to me, and enfolded me in her arms as though to comfort me. She rocked me back and forth a time or two, then told me she loved me. There was no laughter or joking this time. It's a though she knew that time was slipping away, and she wanted me to know that I was loved. She told me she was proud of me; had always been.

My heart aches, trying to write this down. The screen is blurring - blinking does no good. It just blurs again, like I'm looking through an aquarium to the other side.

The next morning - Memorial Day - my husband and I lounged around until mid-morning, being lazy and having no particular plans for the day except to go see Mom. I knew Momma would be getting up soon, so I called her to let her know we'd be over in an hour to help her with breakfast. The phone rang and rang, until finally after ten rings it went to the answering machine.

And that's when I knew.

Denial is oftentimes a person's worst enemy. It is a vicious bedfellow, allowing a soul to lounge around in the darkest of hours, oblivious to the lack of light, convincing oneself that everything is as it should be.

Denial whispered in my ear that it was still a bit early for Mom to be up. I still had time to hop in the shower and get over there if I were quick about it. Denial told me that I could still make it in time to fix her a healthy breakfast, maybe have a cup of coffee with her.

An hour later, denial reached out of the darkness in all its raging madness and took to shattering my world like so many glass crystals under the wrong end of a falling hammer.

There she was on her beloved green couch. Her morning bottle of water was still chilled, her morning pills pooled together beside it waiting to be taken. The blinds across the french doors were still closed, so I knew she hadn't made it very far into the morning. Her hand where it lay on her belly was still warm, as was the side of her face where it rested on her shoulder. But life had exited her body nearly an hour or so ago, leaving the remainder of that vessel cold. I sat with her, not knowing exactly what to do, except to hold her hand.

God, I wasn't ready. Not yet. And then the floods came, and I broke loose with all my inhibitions and the sound I heard was my own voice, wailing out my grief and I cried for someone to turn back time. This couldn't be happening, it was too soon, I wasn't ready I wasn't ready no I wasn't ready not yet please not yet somebody make this not be true.

And the body that encompassed all the essence of my Momma's soul for sixty-six years lay there, telling me it was so.

She was gone. The beauty of her was up there in the air, circling, floating around, surely looking down on me at that very moment, watching me grieve and somehow conveying to me that the one last act I must do for her was to take care of her now more than ever.

After six years of doing without a crutch, I started smoking again that day. I'll quit when I get over this ache. Or maybe - hopefully - before then.

Calls were made, family came, services were arranged and attended. The death certificate was signed by her nephrologist so as to spare her the indignity of an autopsy. He was such a kind man to my Momma, in life and afterwards.

We scattered her ashes in the yard. People look at me funny when I tell them that. My Daddy had passed away six years earlier; he had always made it known that we were to "feed the fish" by way of scattering his ashes in the Gulf of Mexico. When Mom and I talked about her wishes, she said she couldn't swim, so of course she didn't want to be scattered in the Gulf. Instead, just let her be fertilizer for her favorite places in the yard. That summer her muscadine vines and hydrangeas and Christmas roses bloomed like they never have before.

The couch went to my sister. My brother had no room for it, and I couldn't face it every day. Every time I go to my sister's place now, I see Momma sitting on that couch. On bad days, I walk in through the kitchen and see the couch here, at home, where I last saw Momma. So no, I couldn't deal with having the couch.

It is still worn in the cushions, and it still grabs you when you sit down. Getting out of it continues to be a struggle. I get a mental picture in my mind when that happens, and it's Momma, declaring she loves that couch and it surely must love her too, because it won't let her go.

I miss my Daddy a lot and still think about him when I hear a funny joke or read a really good book. When he was alive, he and Momma were a unit; they did things together all the time and because we were grown and had families of our own, it was less often that we got together with them. For that I will always be sorry. But I have no regrets where Dad is concerned; he was larger than life and loved by his children and all who knew him.

I ache - literally, deep down hurt - for missing my Momma. Every day I think about her. When something goes wrong, or something goes right, I want to share it with her. She was my friend, my confidante, my mentor. She was everything I ever hoped to be and more when I grow up. I fear I will always hurt for missing her. Time eases some pains; for Daddy, time had done me well. But for Momma, it's yet to chip away at that wall surrounding my hurts and grief. I just....hide it well.

I regret Momma being alone when she died. I didn't want that for her. She told me she wanted us to move in so she wouldn't be alone, and I somehow feel like I've failed her. I wish I had skipped the shower and come straight over; maybe I wouldn't have been too late. Maybe. Just maybe. Just maybe maybe maybe maybe.

That green couch. It reminds me every time I see it that my Momma died alone, and that maybe it was my fault she did.