By Rhonda Spaziani
My mother died the same day I had an emergency appendectomy
My mother died the same day I had an emergency appendectomy. Post-surgery, I had to stay the night in the hospital for observation. Due to the magnitude of the infection, after several attempts to remove my appendix laparoscopically, they feared it bursting and flooding me with bacteria, so they removed it the old-fashioned way– by Edward Scissorhanding my abdomen. Otherwise, I would have been long home in the comfort of my bed with the Trio of Terror (TOTs) (the affectionate nickname given to my three little rescue dogs by our veterinarian’s office) prior to my mother dying. In addition to losing my mother later that night, I also had to cancel my trip to Paris scheduled for the very next day.
Photo by Muhammed Abiodun on Unsplash
As I lie in my hospital bed post appendectomy, doped up and depressed because my flight to Paris the next day was called off and the trip to Le Tour Eiffel, which I dreamed of since 7th grade French class with Lisa Middents (she got to go to France!), was now a no go. The apartment we rented would be enjoyed by our traveling friends, Chip and Tom. Our room would go empty.
And at some point in the long, drugged evening
And at some point in the long, drugged evening, I began to see the texts between my siblings heralding my mother’s imminent death. She had been terminally ill for months, and both she and my father had been encouraging me to go on the trip to Paris despite the possibility that she would die while I was away. One sister kept telling me not to go, that I would feel terrible if she died when I was away. But here was the thing she didn’t know: I was terrified of watching my beloved best friend and mother expire in front of me. In case you think me a coward, please know that I have held and buried every animal I have ever loved. I have comforted them as they drew their last breaths and dug the holes for their coffins, blessing their final resting places with the sacred tears of my heart.
My mother? I dreaded the thought with every fiber. I would have done it. I would have rushed to the house as my one sister tried in an act of love and honor, but I would have shattered as she died and grew cold in front of me.
True confession: I was forever grateful that I missed it, even as I cried alone in an empty hospital room. I had great drugs to deaden the pain, the kindness of an amazing nurse (I cannot for the life of me remember her name and I have always wanted to send her a gift of gratitude), and a sorrowful soul call from my brother in Texas. We wept across the miles; our mommy was gone. I left the hospital the next afternoon. In a state of grief-stricken denial, I hobbled to bed with the TOTs comforting me in a way only the unconditional love of an animal can.
There was a week before the service as my mother was to be cremated. I was pretty beat up from the surgery and the soul deep heartbreak. Doctor’s orders–I couldn’t drive, or clean, or run around like the maniac I usually am. I had to be still and rest (a four-letter word in my family).
I looked for signs from my mother all week
The weather was beautiful that week in early June. I sat outside on a chaise lounge and looked for signs from my mother all week. I was entirely present to the beauty of my surroundings (my backyard is my sanctuary place). The lovely sounds of outboard motors chugging awake in the marina across the cove, the whiny, wasp-like hum of jet skis along the Thames, the warm verdant smell of freshly cut grass, the healing sun on my battered body, the loving, furry companionship of the Trio, the languid tendrils of planes far overhead. It was one of the most awake and painfully beautiful weeks of my life. I was touched by grace; my awareness of the magnificence and fragility of life filled my every moment.
Photo by Susan Lindberg on Unsplash
And so I continued to watch. I was waiting for a sign from my mother that she was okay and safe on the other side. She was always pretty spiritual, despite being a drifted Catholic. And she was also fairly psychic, on top of being a super-involved, uber mom, so I knew there would be a sign. Was it that bird? Was he my mother’s messenger? Could it be that squirrel? Or bunny? I was exquisitely awake that week. I kept looking. And while I was looking, there were hundreds of white moths everywhere. Inside my house, in the yard, everywhere. They were the whitest, most unusual moths I have ever seen before or since. Some of them had almost human faces on them! But I didn’t want or believe moths to be my message. Moths? How pedestrian. I kept feeling that I was grasping at straws as the moths swirled and surrounded me. I looked it up and white moths are a spiritual sign, but moths? Really?
I talked with my friend and work colleague Matt on the phone that week and shared with him my moth experience and my skepticism that it was actually a spiritual sign from my mother. I was hopeful but cynical. I wanted something more dramatic! Moths?
My mother was very fond of Matt and he got a kick out of her, too. He shared the story with his wife later that evening as they sat on their patio. And as he told the story, a luminous, white moth floated down and alit on the table right next to him.
Postscript: I told this story recently in a yoga class I was teaching. Afterwards, my friend and author, Dorothy Preston, encouraged me to write the story. Today, as I was watering the plants and thinking about if I was going to write it or not, a big, beautiful, white moth landed on the pink geraniums in front of me. It flew up above my head and into the ivy vines. I asked it silently, “If you are a spiritual message, fly towards me.” It did. Okay, ever the skeptic, I asked it again. It flew towards me again. I smiled, and let it flutter away without demanding any further theatrics.
And as I headed back to the house to be with my now aged, but ever more beloved TOTs, I realized, I’ll take magic. In any form it comes.