Dreamboat Annie

Annie, my mother-in-love, died four and a half months ago, on July 7, 7-7, which happened to be her favorite drink.  A few days ago, I asked Ric, her son and my husband, if he thought that was a sign from God, that she died on that date?  He said he didn't know.  And the truth is, we don't.

But I digress.

Annie was diagnosed in 2024 with triple negative breast cancer and said cancer metastasized to her lung (a fancy way of saying it spread).  A month or so after finding this out, she died.  I do not like to say passed away because there is nothing glorious or sacred about death and since I was the only one with her when she died, I know it was not a "passing" but a death.  Three long breaths in, then out, and Annie was no more.

But yet she is.  She lives on, in the memories of so many, in the songs she sang to us, in the giving that she gave.

Ric and I agonized on when we should go to Arizona and be with her.  At first she said, don't come yet, then she changed her mind.  So he flew down early on a Friday morning in June and I followed later that night.  We are blessed with the gift of inexpensive flights due to my years in the airline industry (sometimes it's a curse, but mostly a great thing).  

When Ric arrived, he felt Annie looked great, all things considered.  Her best friend had said the same.  I had to see it for myself, my doubting Thomasina rearing her ugly head.  In this moment, I related to Thomas the disciple more than I wanted to admit...

When I arrived, I had to concur.  Yes, she was hospital bed-bound and had lost weight, but I had seen people dying of cancer before and she did not resemble those people.  She looked, well, like Annie.  And she acted like Annie.

Before we all shuffled off to bed, I asked her to sing "Dream a Little Dream of Me" which was her signature song.  If she were a baseball player, it may have been her walk-up music, although I think I asked this question once on Facebook and she gave a different answer.  I did learn, interestingly enough, during my time at her bedside over the next week, that she loved softball and she gifted me her mitt, along with a ball as well.  This blew my mind.  All this to say, the thought of Annie and walk-up music was not that far-fetched.

Anyway, that night, with oxygen flowing through her nose to her body, she sang the main chorus of the song:

"Sweet dreams 'til sunbeams find you. Sweet dreams that leave all worries behind you.  And in your dreams, whatever they be.  Dream a little dream of me."

It was so meaningful and touching, and for once, I actually had the foresight to get it on video, knowing it may be the last time she sang to us.  It was.

Over the next several days, I had the opportunity to hang out with Annie and to take care of her, things I hadn't done much of during the 16 plus years I had known her.  She was always the one taking care of us, taking care of others, never letting us serve her.

At times, it was easy.  At times it was a battle.  Pushing and pulling, like trying to break a horse. She was 81 years old and had learned, I think, after a difficult upbringing, that she had to be this way:  strong, independent, fierce, stubborn.  I get it.  I resemble a lot of it.

I hope that, in my final days, I won't need help.  But I also pray that I will be humble and gracious and allow those who I took care of take care of me.  

Those last days with Annie were a gift.  They were not perfect or easy, but nothing worthwhile ever is.  As Garrett's Popcorn has on its napkins, "Love is Messy." No truer words ever were spoken.  

I had the chance to serve her, like she had served us.  I doted on her, much to her chagrin.  She didn't like it much and let me know, at times.  One such instance caused me to run to our bedroom crying, which she never knew.  When I returned, she apologized for snapping at me.  It was a sacred moment.  

I sat at the kitchen table for days, on my work laptop, trying to get things done.  But a steady barrage of friends and neighbors stopped by, wanting to say good-bye.  Dutifully, I would retreat to our bedroom downstairs to give them time alone because I knew that was fitting and appropriate and I had my fair share of alone time with her that week.

I had the opportunity to thank her for all she did for us, told her we had great memories.  And she said that she never did that much and that "all of it wasn't that pretty."  And I agreed, telling her none of that mattered anymore.  Love is messy, remember?  Our relationship wasn't perfect.  She loved her son fiercely and I am the love of his life.  One friend told me, something like, "Her son is her number one and you are married to him.  There will always be issues."  Said friend also told me that caretakers always take the brunt of the abuse.  Both of these statements were spot-on and very appreciated.

Were the last days hard?  Yes.  Were they truly a blessing?  Yes.  We had a lot of talks and laughs and I made her a lot of 7 and 7s, all that went nearly untouched.  There truly is a first time for everything.

I miss Annie.  October 15 would have been her 82nd birthday.  Of course, we remembered her on this day.  We toasted her, just like we toasted her on that Monday afternoon when she slipped into eternity.  Just her and me, alone in a room, where I heard her breathe her last, along with the droning of the oxygen machine, no longer needed.