My Mom and Her Eleven Eleven Eleven

“Any series of repetition of numbers whether it be 11:11 or 2:22 or even dollar amounts $4.44, anything like that, is a clear sign you are on the right path, whatever your path is. If you’ve been thinking about doing something or changing something and you see these numbers a lot, the Angels are telling you to keep on going. You’re doing great! They also want you to know that this is their sign for you to let you know that no matter what, they are protecting you during this transition you are considering going through. Bottom line? Have faith.”

This is a beautiful thought to me because the last semi-purposeful thing she said to anybody that I am aware of (except to the chaplain who asked her if she was ready and she said yes) was “eleven eleven eleven” when asked who the president was. My brother Zane and I laughed at her in delight because now she was too stupid to deny hospice care. (We knew of course, she was talking about her birthday and just crossing her wires.) But it is a comforting thought that also she may have been getting ushered into the transition from this life to death, whatever that is.

We didn’t know she would die so quickly after that and that she would never be able to talk to us again. Otherwise, we wouldn’t have been so happy.

I have business unfinished on her behalf.

I’d like to send a thank you note to her last nurse, the only person who was with her when her spirit left her body and walked across the living room, the only other witness being her cat. The nurse’s name I can’t recall at this moment, but it was entire and formal, and he was adopted away from his mother by his father because he’d been abused by his older brother. He survived the abuse and the traumatic separation and now he has a wife and children and wipes people’s spittle and cleans their bottoms and watches them die. He was my friend. I saw his hands wiping the slack lips of my mother as her labored breath passed between them. I never saw his face. The tablet camera was always faced toward her as I watched and got drunk while wrapped in a comforter on the floor of my closet.  I’d also like to explain how I didn’t realize the presence of hospice would make her demise follow so closely — and how now I understand why she refused them as long as she could have.

I also need to send a thank you note to her work. For all the people coming to her memorial who came. And send a picture to them of her there at the clinic. It would have meant a lot to her. It meant a lot to me.

I am sad that we cremated her and now her remains are but a pink box with a plastic bag full of silty, silky sand, buried beneath the oak in her yard. My aunt told me what it looked like and I can picture it in my mind. But I wish I could have seen it or felt it. But really, I wish we were Indonesian and her body was somewhere mummifying for me to unwrap and hold later. I miss her. My brothers are stupid. They didn’t even tell me they were going to bury her before they did it.


Author: Morgan Mill

Thanks for reading!

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