1925-2020
My mother-in-law didn’t die from the coronavirus, but it certainly hastened her demise
Her last two weeks of her 94 years were spent in her one- bedroom apartment in an assisted living facility 25 minutes away from her youngest daughter – a daughter who couldn’t visit – and a caretaker who also was barred from the center’s premises. She was frightened and lonely.
Attended to sporadically by dramatically overworked staff, Hotche increasingly had trouble maintaining a healthy routine. Getting to the bathroom by herself was tough – she stopped eating – and complained of being so very tired.
In the middle of the night, a staff member reported her appearing comatose. Rushed to the nearest hospital by ambulance, she slipped away just hours later.
When we count the number of deaths that day, certainly hers should be considered among the virus’s toll.
The North Star is the anchor of the northern sky. It is a landmark, or sky marker, that helps those who follow it determine direction as it glows brightly to guide and lead toward a purposeful destination. It also has a symbolic meaning, for the North Star depicts a beacon of inspiration and hope
My mother-in-law was the North Star to her family and her home reflected that reality also. A place of grounding and serenity – a place where friends, relatives and friends of friends gravitated to – that was Hotche’s Place.
A small house where “just one more” was always welcome
A home where you relaxed, got fed and promptly thereafter fell asleep
A place that rang with laughter and radiated with smiles -– even during those long years of her widowhood
She was born in poverty – in the basin of the city – with no running water or electricity. There was an outhouse in the back yard and candles to dispel the darkness.
Her nuclear family had already lost a daughter, Fanny, to diphtheria before Hotche was born. And when her mother found out – against all odds – that she was pregnant – the family deemed the unborn child a gift from G-d.
And my mother-in-law was.
Our vivid recollections won’t be erased by the virus’s ancillary and virulent power. Our families last matriarch is gone, but not her memory.
As this poem by Sylvan Kamens & Jack Riemer so rightly describes;
We Remember Them
At the rising of the sun and at its going down
We remember them.
At the blowing of the wind and in the chill of winter
We remember them.
At the opening of the buds and in the rebirth of spring
We remember them.
At the blueness of the skies and in the warmth of summer
We remember them.
At the rustling of the leaves and in the beauty of autumn
We remember them.
At the beginning of the year and when it ends
We remember them.
As long as we live, they too will live, for they are now a part of us as
We remember them.
When we are weary and in need of strength
We remember them.
When we are lost and sick at heart
We remember them.
When we have joy we crave to share
We remember them.
When we have decisions that are difficult to make.
We remember them.
When we have achievements that are based on theirs
We remember them.
As long as we live, they too will live, for they are now a part of us as
We remember them.
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris Ruth Pastor