So on April 27th, 2013, my Mom Sunny died. We knew it was coming -- the night before her breathing, under the blissful morphine, was shallow. My sister of another mister Mirta was with her, and insisted on staying when I left Miami Jewish for the evening. Mirta and I spoke late -- she had to grapple with the hospice people for another morphine dose -- like many hospice people at the end, they are kind of scarce to find, but tough, loving Mirta got what was needed, and Sunny rested peacefully. I told Mirta to go home -- I would be there early the next day.
I woke up early, and drove to Little Haiti, and stopped for gas right next to MJH. As I was pumping, my phone rang -- it was the social worker. Sunny had just died. I told them I was literally right next door and would be there in minutes. That gave them the time, mercifully, to clean things up, so I wasn't greeted by the stench of the last bowel movements -- instead that sort of sickly sweet disinfectant nursing homes seem to get in bulk.
Mom lay there peacefully, of course, and I called the Neptune Society for the pickup. They asked her weight, which they need to know for the number of crew they send -- Sunny was a mere wisp when she died -- well under 100 pounds.
Wifey was due to come later, and fetch her Dad who was also a MJH resident, and walk him over. Her friend Edna was in town, too, visiting her parents. At the time, we were MAJOR MJH patrons!
I knew my father in law Richard feared death, and tried to get Wifey on the cell to warn her to take her Dad back to his room, but as she pushed his wheelchair, she was talking to Edna and ignored the call. I heard the trio coming down the hall, and I came out of the room and tried a comical semiphore signal to keep them away. It was no use -- they wheeled in -- and Richard accepted that his consuegra had died.
Coincidentally, Dr. Barry came by, too, to say his goodbyes to Sunny. He came down the hallway and I snarked "Well, you're a little late, Dude." Still -- it was a great comfort to have him there.
I called Mirta and she offered to rush back. I told her no need, but would see her later. Sunny meant a lot to her.
As we gathered in the room, a large Black man from Neptune arrived, and gently placed Sunny in a blue velvet sack. I kissed her face goodbye before he zipped it up, and with little effort wheeled her body out. And that was it -- the last time we saw her in person, in that form. Comedy would, of course, ensue later.
Well, as my late boss Ed always noted, even in times of financial difficulty for the firm, "Ya gotta eat," and so Wifey returned her Dad to his room, and I took Wifey, Edna, and Barry to nearby Soyka, which had become a favorite when we visited MJH, as we often did.
D1 came over and joined us. It was by now early afternoon, and I led a toast to a great lady -- one who fiercely loved her family and friends.
A week or so later, I got word from the crematorium that Sunny's "cremains," a word I really dig, were ready, and they would FedEx them to my house. By then, D2 was back from the end of her junior year at UF. The Ds and Wifey went out shopping -- it was the day before Mother's Day. The FedEx guy delivered the wooden box while they were out, and I placed it atop a rolltop desk in the family room.
When my three ladies came in, they didn't notice it. I said sternly "This is the respect you show for Grandma Sunny?" as I pointed to her boxed cremains. "Oh G-d, Dad!" As I said, comedy ensued. We all agreed that we didn't want to keep the cremains just hanging around, and the following day, Mother's Day, appropriately, we would bring Sunny to join her beloved Hy in the ocean.
My California sister was wrapped up in son issues, which unfortunately remain, and she wasn't going to make the trip East for this. My Florida sister was, I think, on a cruise.
So we drove to Matheson Hammock, with intent to commit a violation. You're supposed to only place cremains miles offshore, a law that makes zero sense, as they're far less an environmental hazard than pelican poop and other natural additives to the Bay.
We parked, and traipsed a bit through the mangroves. I spread the cremains, which are sort of like concrete mix with a few bone fragments. We said our loving words to Sunny. And then a really cool thing happened.
As we walked back, a flock, if that's the word, of beautiful white butterflies flew past us. I had never seen them before, and haven't seen them since. It was, we knew, a message from our beloved mother and grandmother.
And now a decade has passed. The Ds are both married, and there are 2 beautiful grandsons -- Sunny's great grandsons, who she never got to meet. Hopefully D2 will join that club and give us some more.
I just viewed a video of Wifey and the little man -- she spent the night with D1 and the boys -- Joey is in Dallas on business.
Hopefully I'll get over to Matheson, and look at the water. D1 lives near Biscayne Bay, and she talks to my parents whenever she is there --introducing her beautiful sons. I'll try to be near the ocean at 4:30 -- which is Grandma Sunny time.
Years ago, we were returning from an outing. Sunny was in the back of our van, or SUV. It was quiet. All of a sudden she looked at her watch, sighed, and said "Ah -- it's 4:30." Wifey asked, so what? There was no so what -- Mom had her own internal voice and logic, and was famous for her non sequiurs.
But now 4:30 is "Grandma Sunny time."
I love and still miss you, Mom. Your memory is a blessing to me and my family.
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