It is over.  I sit alone in a room that I had shopped around for her to live. It is beige, two big windows, the hospital bed she lays in, a wicker coffee table, a large bookcase with photos of our family all watching, a night table covered in a green tablecloth, a phone, lamp and a statue of Mary.  Across the room is her desk, covered in medication filled  boxes. Her dresser is blocked by the mattresses we have been sleeping on for the past few days.  In the corner is The Chair.  A big blue monstrosity which would slowly rise to lift her to a standing position so she could transfer to the wheelchair which I sit in now, my pen and journal on my lap. My mom, she lays there in front of me.  I swear I see her chest rising as if still breathing, she is not, I tell myself. Her hands, that were blue at the start of this day, are now pure creamy white.  They look beautiful, she always had such long delicate fingers.  I have taken the oxygen away, hearing aids gone, teeth out, glasses off, just her – at peace.

The room is quiet and I am sort of in a good place.  A place of peace.  I am glad we have this time together.  I am not afraid nor anxious to leave, for once I do, I know it will be a race, a big To Do List.  It is peaceful alone here with her.  I touch her hands and kiss her forehead.  “Mom,” I call out.  I still can’t believe that she is gone.  Oh my goodness I think, I’m an orphan!

I hear the phone ring and rise to answer it.  It is Richard from the funeral home returning my call.  I’m new at this,” I tell him, “What can I expect to happen?”

“They will see the nurse upon arrival and sign some papers. Someone from the staff will lead them to her.  They will put her on a stretcher.  You may want to leave the room,” he tells me.  

“Okay, sure,” I respond, my voice cracking. I hang up the phone and go back to sit and be with her.  I will miss her very much.  “Mom,” I tell her, speaking in the voice that she used so often with me when giving specific directions.  “You make sure you let me know that you are okay.  Don’t let me down.”

My husband Tom returns with a glass of wine from the dining room downstairs.  We sit, in quiet, in reflection, in sadness and peace. I wonder if it is only us three in this room, or is my dad there, my brother, people from her past.  

I am startled out of my thoughts by a  knock on the door.  Upon opening,  I see a young woman in a black skirt, black shoes,  white shirt and black sweater.  She has short brown hair parted on the side and looks more like a hostess at a restaurant than the undertaker I was expecting.  She is alone.  I look around the hallway expecting more, and ask her if she is going to do this all by herself.  “Yes,” she replies as if I had asked a stupid question.  I show her to my mom, who lays there, eyes closed, mouth open, resting.  She looks around, surveys the room, the situation.  She asks us to leave as I was told she would.  We step outside and the door closes behind us.  I stand there in that hall,  “What’s happening,” I ask Tom, letting my head fall on his chest.  He puts his hand on my neck and says nothing, he too is new at this. 

Several minutes later, the door opens and the stretcher is wheeled out with a long maroon faux-velvet bag on top of it.  I know my mother is inside.  “Which side is her head?” I ask.  She points to the side away from her.  I touch it, still not believing that this is the end.  A nurse from the assisted living home walks over and tells the young undertaker the plan.  “I will get the elevator, then I will signal to you when it is here and okay for you to bring her down.” They don’t want the other residents to see this.  I chuckle in my head, like they don’t know death happens here, just dining, bingo, and good times!  The signal is given and my mother is wheeled to the elevator that she and I have ridden in so many times, for the last time.  Funny, I think, everytime she has gone to this elevator she has been wheeled, a wheelchair and now a stretcher.  Tom and I follow, we take the stairs.  I should have ridden with her. 

I see the pretty young women who I first met when I began to look for places to move my mom.  She expresses her sympathy.  “She had a nice room,” I say with a pretend smile.  “It was so sunny and she could look out and see all the flowers and the Christmas Tree during the holidays.  How do we work the rent moving forward?”

“Up to the family,” she replies, “take as many days as needed.  We will just charge you day by day, not for the entire month.”

What a sport, I think to myself.  I am annoyed that I am talking business already.

In the background, I see the stretcher with the faux-velvet bag and my mom being wheeled out the front door.  Good, I think. I’m grateful they didn’t take her out the service exit.  

I watch as she is lifted  into the back of a minivan.  She closes the door, they drive away.  I wasn’t sure what type of transport vehicle they would use, but this was not what I expected.  Like she uses it for her family, when she is not The Undertaker.

My mother’s time of death was recorded as 5:00 pm.  It is 8:45 by the time we get into our car.  I am still wearing the clothes that I had packed three days ago when it had been warm and sunny.  Now it is cold and wet.  We ride to get some food.  As I walk in, I care little what others may think of my appearance, flip flops in the pouring rain.  My eyes are swollen and my hair appears greyer now than it had last weekend.  As Tom orders, I peer out the window, seeing my reflection looking back at me.  I try to smile, to mock the smile others have told me looks just like my mom.  I want to see her face looking back at me. I don’t.  She was much prettier than I am.