Alma

Not being a Schumacher boy, I never met Alma until I met Bev. Alma was Bev’s mother, to the uninitiated.

Alma was one of those women who dedicated her life to her family. Her children, her husband, her sister, her grandchildren. I recall how fully she glowed when she held them for the first time. She was filled with a lot of love, that woman.

She was always cooking, always puttering, always doing something. Her hands were never still, even when at rest, when she’d be puzzling out a crossword. Whereas I would race through one in half the time, sometimes layering letters one on top of the other when I’d forge too far ahead without considering those words crossing the ones I’d just laid down, Alma’s were always immaculate, her script careful and literate, without error.

Alma was kind, Alma was proud. Alma liked things just so. If there were things to do, she’d be up in a short, fussing, straightening, eager to fetch and carry, always scolding me should I get up to help.

“Go sit down” she’d say.

“Relax,” we say, “sit down and visit,” we’d say. Or maybe it was just me saying such things, Bev knowing better. But Alma could not rest. There were things to do, don’t you know.

She’d slave in the kitchen, prepping and cleaning up and fetching whatever condiments whomever wanted, jumping up with a stern, “Sit,” she’d say, up and to the fridge before your bum could lift from your seat. She rarely began to eat before everyone was a third of the way through their meals.

So, she rushed through her own meals, inhaling portions that need be taken in smaller chunks. But she had to be done eating before everyone else so as to clear the table, don’t you know.

She took to coughing one meal and excused herself without a word, lest she bother anyone. She was like that. She was a proud and private woman.
She was also choking.
When her coughing grew deeper and more desperate, Bev was up like a shot, chasing after her.
“Are you okay,” she asked her mother. Her mother wavered her off. But her mother could not hide the fact that she was gasping for air and not getting any, that she was turning blue.

And Bev would not be waved off. Bev thumped her on her back. When that didn’t ease her mother’s plight, Bev got behind her and thrust her fists and thumbs up under her mother’s rib cage. Once, twice, thrice. A chunk of half-chewed meat flew from Alma’s throat, across the room.

Alma inhaled more deeply than he ever had before, likely blurry eyed and faint, having narrowly escaped death.

Note to self: never leave the room if you’re choking

Then some time later, Alma got sick. It seemed a cold. But she couldn’t shake it.

We took Charlie, their poodle, in so that she could rest some and not have to get up in the middle of the night to put him out, as he was want to do on occasion. Charlie was thrilled. Ours was a more active household. We went for longer walks.

Before long, Alma got sicker. She went to the hospital. She was admitted, where she remained for a week.

Then they released her. They ought not to have. She was not well. She was tired. She was exhausted. But she would not rest upon arriving home. There were things to do, you know, Albert to care for, what with Albert not being as ambulatory as he could be. Bad knees and all that.

“I’m so tired,” she said to her sister, right before worsening.

Within the week, she was readmitted.

She seemed weaker than ever when we visited. Bev was fraught with worry.

“You need to rest,” she said

But Alma was resting. But not getting any better.

Her medications were in flux. They’d put her on one medication to fight the pneumonia, but then her heart began to fail, so they’d take her off that to treat her heart and the pneumonia would get worse.
Within the week, she became unresponsive. Then she slipped into a coma.

It was sad seeing her in such a state. She lay still, a state I’d never seen her in. Her hands still, too.
We worried. Bev far more so than I, but I can be rather dense at times, convincing myself that everything’s going to be alright. My mother tried to prepare me.

“Prepare yourself,” she said, seeing what I refused to see. My mother had seen such things before and knew a thing or two about what was coming to fruition. She gently guided my expectation without actually coming out and saying that Alma was failing and that I needed to prepare fore the inevitable and not pull the wool over my eyes.

Greg got a phone call from the nurse. “Your mother isn’t doing well,” she said. She hadn’t been doing well for some time, slowly slipping away as the week progressed. Greg gathered up Albert and went to the hospitable, calling Bev to tell her that he’d call her when he had more information.

We braced ourselves. Was it time? Would it come quickly? Or would she remain in her coma for weeks? We just didn’t know.

Greg called Bev shortly after arriving. It didn’t look good. She didn’t need to rush to hospital; she was already there doing the annual inventory count. She excused herself, joining Greg and Albert, both of whom had already by Alma’s side.

Then Bev called me. All she said was, “She may not last the night.”

I responded like the idiot I can be: “Do you want me to come up?”

I came to my senses in the same breath, saying, “What am I saying? I’m on my way.” I went to the hospital right away.

The vigil began. Visiting hours ceased to apply to us.

The room was deathly quiet. Bev calm and not calm, obviously fraught with resignation and despair. Bev’s cousin Darryl arrived to sit vigil with us. Father Pat was summoned to perform Last Rites.

Greg left for home after a time, taking Albert with him, realizing that he’d have to take up the watch in the morning, realizing that the wait may be short, but also realizing that we might be in for a long haul. He had to prepare his kids, too. What to say? They were so young, still. And Albert needed his rest, or what rest he could get, considering.

The nurses brought in extra chairs and we each took a turn curled up in two of them, set facing each other, a cruel way to try to sleep. I understand they have better chairs now, almost day beds that recline like first class seats. I nodded some, Bev not at all.

We left once Greg returned to sit vigil by himself, Laurie remaining home with the kids. We slept some, took care of the dogs and were back up at the hospital before too long.

Phone calls had to be made, the family alerted. It didn’t look good, Bev and Greg said to each in turn.
It didn’t. It looked worse by the hour. The family began to drift in, the circle surrounding the bed growing larger, deeper, what conversation there was, muted and somber, whispers.

I left to get some water. I needed to get some air and gather myself. Laurie followed me, talking gently. I wasn’t there more than a few minutes when Bev’s cousin, Theresa, rushed in and said, “It’s happening.”

I was up and back in the room within seconds, already too late. Alma had passed.

I brushed passed those between me and Bev, until I stood behind her. She was holding her mother’s hand, her shoulder’s tense, her breathing almost as still as Alma’s.

Nothing could be as still as Alma though. Bev later told me that her mother had taken one last long ragged breath that slowly released and no more.

“That’s it,” Bev said, her voice trembling slightly.

Albert seemed confused. He could not process that his wife had passed. It sent him into shock. He couldn’t cry.

“Is she gone,” he asked Bev, his voice laboured and cracking. Tears rose up from him and he wiped his face with a handkerchief with measured regularity. But he would not cry. His upbringing would not allow it.

The nurse was called. Alma’s pulse was taken, the doctor called to declare time of death.

Bev was silent, her sobs almost subvocal. There was a great deal of sniffles and weeping throughout the room.

The doctor checked her pulse again, listened for breath and heart sounds.

The sheet covering Alma was fussed and smoothed, befitting her dignity.

She was always a proud woman.

She liked things just so.