Flight Cancelled
Amy Hill
By Adi Gevens, Oakland, California, U.S.
The last time I saw my Momma-Lu was at her 96th birthday (or was it her 97th?), at an independent living community in the overly quaint little village of Rhinebeck in New York’s Hudson Valley. In the not-so-distant-past, Rhinebeck was known as the lilac capitol of the world … that was before lilacs were exiled from fashion due to associations with jazz age lesbians and chic-les gandmarmars.
It was a mahvelous party. Champagne, balloons, seasonal flowers, Chopin tinkled by student musicians from the most classy, artsy Bard College up the road. We catered fruit, nuts, sesame crisps, and chopped liver (Ma sez: “Call it pate, they won’t know the difference”).
We were there and gone before I missed a session of rehab. Many hugs and kisses. I promised I’d be back when she actually was dying. She’d summoned me for her anticipated, scheduled–by-her death, but, hey, a party, what’s to argue?
You get it, my mother was old– old enuf, and she decided, ready to die, escape her dreamscape. A life-long uber-control freak, Lucille had topped-out her ability to endure help. She was ready to go … but it wasn’t that easy. Damn. Death … an encounter that she couldn’t control with her effervescent charm and iron will. Death, it didn’t come when beckoned. Not even when cajoled, nagged, guilt-tripped.
All said, Momma-Lu was dying. Now, she was sure it would be “now,” and I should come, be there at her bedside, like in the classic movies we so loved– be there with my sister, to absorb her final benedictions and ask the questions she so fervently wanted to answer for, ah, so many years … but it soooooo didn’t happen like that.
COVID-19. The Coming Plague done come. For decades, I’ve worked that media content: emerging diseases, vaccine denial, influenza, historic plagues. Research for books, films, radio, TV. Surfing that infowave landed me– New York suburbs’ premier beat rebel dropout-teenage runaway– the first kvellings I ever got from my parents. Their appreciation was roused on my terms, in my world … awesome! As I leaped up those stairs to the stage, to grab the faux-gold tatchka, (like every other award winner ever?), I vowed to take care of my Momma-Lu when she was leaving this earthy realm.
To prepare, my sister and I emerged ourselves in Mahamudra Tibetan Buddhism for decades. We held it close: the three jewels, the keys to the heavenly realm. We’d be the entourage for her exit out. Hugging those keys. Practicing, practicing …
And then, the doors slammed– shut. Quarantine. Couldn’t travel to New York. Just couldn’t do it. Still can’t. The splotches on this page … my tears.