“The Tulip Tree” By Becky Jensen

“It is hard for me to look at his bed. The impression of his body is still in the foam. It’s awful,” said my mother, crying, as I helped her walk out of her mobile home. She asked me if we could sit outside as she needed some fresh air. I took her soft arm in mine and we walked slowly onto her deck, then down the ramp, to her wooden swing. She loved that swing and so did my dad.

My dad passed away the day before of Pulmonary Fibrosis, a relentless disease. It was now Sunday, March 18, 2012, so you can understand why I don't really love St. Patrick's Day decorations. I also didn’t love a certain hospice organization for various reasons, one being they said they would pick up his bed on this day, but there was some miscommunication among staff. So, it would be several days more my mother would have to walk by and feel the outline of where he took his last breath in their living room. Two days after he died, one of their workers came, not to take away the bed, but to care for my dad. My mother had to break the bad news to the very cheerful nurse's aide.

It was an unseasonably warm March in Michigan that year. Temperatures were in the lower 80s. We felt the sun on our faces as we sat and rocked gently in the swing together. “The sun feels so good. You know, about a month ago dad told me when I felt the sun on my face, that was him saying I love you,” I told my mom as I began to cry, still holding on to her arm, looking at her freckles as I often did as a little girl. My dad and I had that conversation over the phone just a month before he entered home hospice. During that time he apologized for any hurt he ever caused and I forgave him. Sun shining or not, I knew my dad loved me until his last breath. I don’t know if one could ask for much more when having to say goodbye to someone you love.

My mom and I sat for some time, just chatting about what life would be like now without him. I saw some birds coming and going out of their old tulip tree. My dad loved that tree. It was on their lot before they bought their home. I remember how excited he would get when it bloomed. It was then I noticed one single bloom coming off the tree. The pink and white stood out against the blue sky.

I described the flower to her as her ability to see small objects was fading fast. In the coming years, I would have to be her eyes a lot, for things like menus, bills, cards, and letters. I would eventually have to describe my daughter’s face to her as her sight darkened more. Macular Degeneration is a slow but nimble thief. She told me she missed reading books the most, especially when nights were quiet and lonely. I tried to give her as many details as I could, like a living, talking alt text guide. I tried to make sure she could imagine the world around her. It was the least I could do for the mom who gave me so much in life.

As we marveled at the pretty single blossom, I remembered how my dad said if he could give us a sign when he died, he would. He was a man of faith, but also believed there was more to life than what humans knew or thought they knew.

“Wouldn’t it be neat if this was his sign?” I said to my mom. We both agreed that it would be just like him to use the tree for his sign, as he loved and respected nature. A sense of peace filled the air as we then talked about how we wished he could let us know he was ok.

“Wouldn’t it be nice,” she said.

I asked as I started to cry again, “When you go, will you promise to give me a sign?” “If I can, I will. I promise,” she replied as I snuggled into her shoulder.

In the years ahead, there were many challenges for my mom. She required a lot of care to stay in her home as she dealt with Kidney Failure and COPD. It would have been safer for her to be in a facility, but she refused. It was terrifying to be her daughter at times, watching her cook over a gas stove wearing oxygen with limited sight, but my worst fears never came true when it came to her living alone.

As her conditions worsened, she required more in-home visits from healthcare workers. She became friends with some of her nurses and the hospice chaplain. She had a gift to get someone to open up and tell her their life story. I always thought she would have made an excellent journalist. She looked forward to sharing a bit of juicy gossip with me. I began to think better of hospice organizations, as this one provided excellent care for my mother, both physically and mentally.

She lived in her home until she became unconscious on February 20, 2016. Moments before, as she was struggling to stay alert, we were both able to say “I love you” and I asked her if she was ready to go to heaven, and she said yes. Again, I was blessed to have this type of conversation with a parent whose time on this planet was so very short.

We moved her to a hospice facility that day. Her new room, decorated in all things birds, had a beautiful view. Even though she was unconscious, I described it all to her. I told her about the unseasonably warm weather, as it was 65 degrees outside. I will never forget listening to her struggle to breathe. She only spent about eight hours there before she passed away. She went while we stepped out briefly to grab food. I like to think she protected me from having to see her die. Until her last breath, she thought of me.

In the coming days, I spent time at her home cleaning and making sure the house would be ok if it just sat there until we were ready to sell. On this particular day, I was by myself and was craving quiet time as my heart was broken. During this season, my life was really overwhelming. I just lost my mother. About six weeks before, my husband had a stroke, but survived, and my childhood best friend passed away. My mom pondered these sad events and even talked to the chaplain about why it was that she lingered on and all these young people were experiencing illness and death. My mother was very concerned about my stress levels, as my daughter was just seven years old, I worked full time and was working on my master’s degree. She told me she felt bad she could not do more for me as I was busy taking care of everyone. She called me twice a day, every day, to make sure I was ok.

As I cleaned the bathrooms, refrigerator, and tidied up, I prayed she would send me a sign. I wished I could smell her perfume. I had read about how some people would smell a loved one’s perfume after they died, but I had to go into her dresser and spray some on my wrists to smell it. I was disappointed she could not reach beyond realms to let me know she was ok.

As I wrapped up my work, shoulders sunken by the weight of living, I headed out the door for home towards my car in the driveway. I had a trash bag in my hand destined for the outside bin. I happened to look up at the tulip tree. I dropped the trash bag on the concrete after what I saw stopped me in my tracks.

The tulip tree was blooming again. But this time instead of one blossom, there were two.

Becky Jensen is a communications leader, former TV news producer, Emmy Winner and poet. Her work has appeared in Peninsula Poets, by the Michigan Poetry Society as well as in videos via The Poetry Room. She lives in the Lansing, Michigan area, but you will often find her enjoying Michigan's beautiful coastline. Find her on IG, becky_jensenpoet or on Facebook as Becky Jensen the Poet.