“Good morning Carol”
For the past few weeks these were usually the first words out of my mouth. Carol had been in home hospice. In the mornings she was either in the hospital bed in Evan’s old room or in her recliner in the back living room. The recliner was positioned so that Carol had a good view of the garden, the humming bird feeder, and the flowering pots on the back deck. Jo or Nicole on most mornings had already poured her a glass of chocolate milk that she sipped from using one of those straws you can bend. Till she could, Carol navigated the straw to her lips through the one of the side openings of her oxygen mask. Behind her an array of medical devices hummed away. Whoever had the night shift usually lay curled up and exhausted in the small green loveseat near the foot of her recliner.
But not Carol. She **always** responded brightly.
“Good morning Arun!”.
Sometimes she added “well we are still here so it is a good morning”. I’d ask her how the night was. Not once did she complain. I’d tell her that I had made some extra blueberry smoothie just for her and she’d make a face and say I could have it all. Same stupid joke every morning.
Carol died on August 11th after a struggle with idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis. While it affected her, till recently she was able to live independently. At the end of last year she traveled to New Orleans for Christmas with her four children and many of her 13 grandchildren. There she zipped around on her scooter and partook of coffee and beignets at the Café du Monde and went on a two hour tour of haunted New Orleans and a cruise up and down the Mississippi on the Natchez and a surprisingly interesting alligator swamp boat tour. Till three months ago Carol was able to live on her own.
Carol was a Christmas baby. We had all heard how the doctor who delivered her had to be brought to the farm on a tractor through the blizzard on Christmas Day in 1945. Through the last two and a half decades and certainly after Vivian and Evan were born, Christmas took on a special significance at our home. Often Carol spent Christmas Eve with us and Vivian and Carol made chicken dumpling soup for supper (there is a story about an old chicken versus a hen but I’ll spare you that because it can get somewhat contentious). On Christmas afternoon, we celebrated Carol’s birthday. It was a two-fer-one day.
I met Carol through Nicolle in 1999 or perhaps 1998, before I knew JoEllen. She worked as a nurse, had a very soft spot for unloved dogs and cats, was up to trying almost anything as long as it did not involve vegetables, snakes or heights, made the best fried chicken ever, and though she never mentioned it that way, her pride, joy, and love were her four children. She patted many of her grandkids to sleep on her shoulder and taught eight of them at least some aspects of swimming and then driving. To this day when Vivian takes a sharp turn, she or I often say “eawoooon” as Carol would. It is hard to imagine this world without Carol.
Carol – may you have great mornings forever. Rest in Peace. Om Shanti.
Notes from Dad 