Heaven at Seven

We stand vigil around Mom’s hospital bed sporting matching yellow isolation gowns and masks. Our humorous spectacle as a banana bunch offers the dichotomy of levity and the gravity of life’s potential end. As family of humor seekers, laughter, as well as respect, has been part and parcel of our DNA through all our earthly trials, even death.

Exchanging glances, we watch Mom drift in and out of consciousness, each breath seemingly her last. On hospice care, she has predictably and intermittently rallied between periods of what appear near-demise. This particular evening is no exception, and suddenly rising again, wide-eyed and lucid, she adamantly states: “I’m going to Heaven at 7 o’clock.”

“Seven, huh?” we chide, as this has been one long rodeo. Fully oriented, she persists: “Yes, the taxi keeps coming around and missing me. This past loop, the driver said he’d be back at 7 o’clock.” Intrigued with this stage of life and experiencing the next installment of possibly meaningful “sightings,” I casually ask, “Who’s the driver, Mom?” She says she does not know who “he” is.

“Is it God?” I ask.

“No, I don’t think so, but this past loop the cab door was slightly open, and when I reached for it, it slammed shut and wouldn’t let me in. That’s when the driver told me he’d be back at 7, so I’d like to say goodbye to a few folks if I could.” Surprised, we raise our eyebrows, exchange glances, and check the time: 6:40. With no time to waste and wanting to honor her wishes, we query her for names. No surprise, this social butterfly had many to contact.

Taking turns dialing a miscellany of friends and relatives on our cell phones, we listen with misty eyes and a few chuckles as Mom thanks each one for their love, support, laughs over the years, and reminds them that she is “going to heaven at 7.”

At 6:55, we decide to rein in Mom’s propensity for long conversations and explain politely to her and whoever she’s speaking with that we only had five minutes till departure. Far be it from any of us to make Mom late for her date with The Almighty. With her list of calls mostly completed, Mom again succumbs to lethargy. We watch again in silence as she rests, hopeful that this tidbit of closure may allow a more peaceful respite or passing. Mentally exhausted, the rest of us take our seats to resume “the watch.”

After a bit, my contemplative gaze shifts from my sleeping mother to my fatigued father. “What time do ya have?” I ask. “10 after” he says. “She’s still here,” I counter. “Uh huh,” Dad answers, a note of sarcasm in his tone. Another round of shaking heads and cathartic laughter fills the room. Duped again, all we really want is for Mom to be at peace with her Maker. The fact that she is still breathing tells us the cab has left her on the curb once again. Cruel punishment for someone ready to tarry farther and higher.

Mom’s earthly journey lasted several more months. She had no recollection of the errant taxi, but in that moment it was powerfully vivid for her. As an end-stage lung disease patient, her low oxygen levels helped conjure up some other mighty interesting visions — blazing fireworks, deceased loved ones, and the like. But coupled with Dad’s after-life experience years prior during a cardiac arrest, I firmly believe that while hypoxia may embellish events, heavenly connections indeed happen, and with more frequency than many will admit.

Mom’s eventual passing happened on a day and time devoid of any sevens. Dad happened to be reading the newspaper during a well-deserved rest as a hospice nurse hugged Mom, helping her forward in order to rub her bedridden back. Kissing her forehead, the nurse suddenly gasped, “She’s gone!” One of my brothers and I, both out of state at the time, felt bad for not being there. “How do ya think I feel?” Dad responded. “I was READIN’ THE PAPER!”

I miss my parents dearly, but for every tear I shed, there are just as many, if not more, laughs, for which I am eternally grateful. Both Mom and Dad continually reminded us that we would have a lot to guffaw about after they were gone, and that we should, as it would help ease the pain. They could not have been more correct.

Our own daughters already have plenty of humorous parental fodder; stories I hope will someday comfort them in their anxious moments as we age, inching toward that eternal crosswalk. And when we get there, I will also hail that same cab company; my only hope is that their service has improved by then.