“Mom, you have fought a good fight and finished your work here on earth,” Phillip said, his hands resting on mother's head as he gave her a blessing. The spirit was very tender, and I could feel dad close.
Phillip and his family had come to visit during the Christmas holidays, but it was time for them to go home. Before they left, Phil offered to give mother a blessing, and she was very grateful.
“Gale,” Phillip told me later as he got in his car. “There's something else I was thinking. I would go back in and tell mom, but she's resting and I've got to get going or we won't make it home. Would you tell her for me?”
“Sure,” I said.
“Tell mom that I've been thinking about the time in the Book of Mormon when the Savior asked his apostles what they wanted after he was gone. All but three asked to be able to live with Him when their work was done, and the Savior told them they could.”
“That's kind of the same thing that happened to Peter in the Bible,” I contributed, trying to follow Phillip's thinking. “The Lord told Peter he could come live with him after he died, but not to worry if John wanted to stay and continue preaching the gospel.”
“Right,” Phillip agreed. “Well, anyway, would you remind mom of that story, and tell her it is OK for her to want to go home, too.”
I gave Phil a hug and assured him I would talk to mom. Later that day Linda came over to see how she was doing, and we had a good visit with mom.
“Phillip says it's OK for you to want to go home,” I told mother, tears in my eyes as I looked into her tired face. She was such a trooper.
Mom's legs had started hurting really bad. The were bright red, and and mom said they burned, but at the same time she was cold inside. Every morning I helped her put on support stockings, and it just killed her as I pulled them up, but she said they helped after they were on.
The constant pain seemed to be sapping what little was left of mom's energy. Mostly she sat in the easy chair next to her bed, dozing. Occasionally she would work on scrap-booking, but she couldn't do it for long.
On the other hand, I had plenty of things to do, just not enough time. Still, once in awhile when the weather was bad, I'd stay home. I knew I should spend that time with mom, but I usually didn't. I'd begun thinking about our new house again, and I loved drawing up plans. Whenever I got a good idea, I drew it out on graph paper, then made a model out of foam board and my hot glue gun. It helped to see the house in three dimensions, and it was a lot of fun building it, but it took a lot of time. I knew mom was lonely, but she wouldn't have begrudged my little hobby if I'd told her about it. Still, I hated to do that. Once mom told me she hoped we wouldn't build our house until she was gone, and I didn't want to make her feel bad.
“I don't want mom to die,” I told Moe sadly one night, trying to explain the guilty feeling in the pit of my stomach. “But at the same time, I hate seeing her suffer, and I think she would be happier with dad. Still, I feel awful for thinking that way. It's like I want mom to die so we can build our house and move on with life. I really don't, but I feel sick inside.”
Perhaps mom felt that way, too. I wondered if she was torn between wanting to be done with the pain and loneliness, but not really wanting to die, and kind of guilty for thinking like that.
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