What's the hurry?

So, after my sister up and died the year before, my mother decided she was going to defy our expectations of living at least as long as her parents (mid-90s) and without much warning, died of a heart attack in April, 2017. She was 82.

82! That's like--average death age. She was supposed to last longer!

She had been sick with a cold in the days before, she went to the doctor, who thought nothing of it, and I'd strangle that doctor now if I could. What she probably had was congestive heart failure, if you ask me, but I'm no doctor. Still.

Shannon, Marty and I were with her the night before, she wasn't feeling well. We had no idea. We tried to convince her to go the the hospital; she wouldn't budge. Finally, we put her to bed, and she said to us that she felt loved. Those were her last words to us.

Shannon checked on her in the morning, she was sleeping. I showed up to visit an hour and a half later, and she was gone.

One hour and a half hour. That's it. That's all it took.

She wouldn't have liked being hooked up to all the tubes and wires and electronics that folks are subject to in the hospital when they die. She died in her sleep. So it was a good death, we keep telling ourselves.

She was cremated, and sits beside my dad in the basement. We had a great service for her--beer and wine and snacks--we wanted to make it a party. I think she would have approved.

Since then, I've taken my parents to Aruba and to San Francisco and scattered some of their ashes into the water. Just so they know I get around.