Date on the calendar spurs memories

Four years ago I was trying to regain the energy that radiation had stolen. When I rang the bell that marked me as a survivor who had completed treatment for breast cancer, it was bittersweet. I was more than relieved that the ordeal was finished.

Mom’s visiting nurse had called during my next to last treatment, but I had turned the phone off. I didn’t realize she had called until after we returned home. I called the hospital and was told Mom had been admitted with kidney failure. I told them that couldn’t be right. It was heart problems. I expected them to fix her up and send her home like always.

I called my brother, David, and he confirmed that she was in the hospital and gave me her room number. I asked if I could wait until the next day to come down to the hospital, or even better could I wait until Sunday? The answer was no. After we completed our conversation, I fell asleep.

We went to the hospital the next day. I was still exhausted, but it was important that I see for myself what was going on. My brothers and I, along with our spouses were still expecting the doctors and nurses to work their magic.

The doctors told us she had multiple organ failure and that she was going to die. We listened in stunned silence. At that point, we were still clinging to the notion that the hospital would fix her up and send her home.

David called all the people he knew and told them what was happening. So did I. We asked them to come by the hospital if they could. Most of them came to say their goodbyes. Mom had a great day as the center of attention. Her organs began working again.

Sadly, that only lasted a day or two. We had her transferred to the hospice part of the hospital. She died on Feb. 2. Groundhog Day.

For the rest of my life I will associate Groundhog Day with Mom’s death. I would rather it be a day devoted to a big rodent that lives in a library and is hauled out one day a year. I was hoping to do a column on the fuzzy prognosticator.

That is not to be. I fully realize that Mom is in a better place. As much as I miss her, I don’t want her to come back to life. She does show up in the mirror when I have my hair fixed just right. I also find myself saying things she would say. I find that to be rather disconcerting, as we held opposing views on almost everything.

To be honest, I miss all of the relatives who have left footprints on my soul while they were alive. I miss hunting nightcrawlers with my grandfather. I miss watching my grandmother reroof the barn. I miss my in-laws. One had a garden that fed the neighborhood. Another taught my daughter to cook. Still another told tales of her childhood. One told stories of angels. To my knowledge, none of them ever mentioned groundhogs.

Our resident groundhog does not reside in a library. It tunneled under our compost bin years ago. As a result the bin leans more than the famous Leaning Tower of Pisa. The Tower has a lean of 5.5 degrees. I have no idea how many degrees our compost bin leans, but I am quite certain it is more than 5.5 degrees. When spring comes I intend to dismantle the bin, use the compost inside and reconstruct the structure. The groundhog will be evicted in the process. Maybe.

Most of us have lost loved ones. It is the price we pay for outliving them. One would think that after four years I would be used to the loss. Perhaps next year I can do the groundhog justice. After all, I did read that he predicted an early spring this year.