My mother had glioblastoma multiforme IV, a terminal brain tumor.
She was diagnosed in March '08 and died in July '08.
We thought she had a stroke or Alzheimer's, so when we took her to Knoxville from her home in Rogersville, we did not know that she would never go home again.
To hear that she had a terminal illness hit like a ton of bricks, as her only child, all of her medical decisions fell on me.
I did what I thought was best for her. I tried to give her a fighting chance, but some decisions were the wrong ones.
Allowing the doctors to operate should never have been done, and I live with that guilt for the rest of my life.
It was a downhill roll after surgery; she had a stroke during surgery; she became paralyzed on one side; she lost the ability to eat, to drink, to use the bathroom, to talk.
It's my fault—I screwed up the remaining time she had on earth and made it miserable for her, and I live with that.
The last word she ever said was “hill hill.”
By that, she meant she wanted to go home; she wanted to go back to her house on her hill.
And we couldn't do it.
She lived with her brother, but me and her sister lived in Knoxville. She needed round-the-clock care; she needed a nursing staff, and we could have placed her in a nursing home where she lived, but it made more sense to put her in one in Knoxville where me and her sister could be with her as much as possible.
So she never saw home again—not alive.
After she died, my aunt made the funeral home drive my mom past her hill.
We had gone to the funeral home, made the arrangements, said our good-byes; she couldn't have an open coffin, so we had to do it as fast as possible once she made it to the funeral home. We came back to the house she shared with her brother, and as soon as you opened the door, freshly brewed coffee strongly hit our noses.
No one had been home in days; my uncle isn't a coffee drinker like my mom was.
We looked at each, and it was just, “Oh, hey, Charlotte has made it home.”
Over the years, until I guess a year or two ago, I would smell her hair spray and her oil of olay so strongly sometimes.
I don't know why she's stopped visiting. I miss her.
Before I start this part, you have to understand that my uncle served over 20 years in the Army; he was in Vietnam for 12 years; he only believes in the things you can touch and see; he's not religious; he doesn't believe in the supernatural; he's laughed at us over the years when we talk about the house being haunted.
He casually sent me a text message one day, “You know your mamma is sleeping on the couch.”
I'm like OK. Uncle has had a stroke or he's on something he shouldn't be.
I was getting ready to call his sister to go up and help him.
And no, he said that she sleeps on the couch; since the funeral, it's just like she's alive.
She's not filmy or ghostly; she's as solid as ever, although he's not worked up the courage to go up and give her a poke.
He says that every morning at 5 am she gets ready to go to work just like she did for 40 something years.
He'll hear her in the bathroom moving around; he'll hear up and down the hall; he'll smell her morning coffee brewing, and she'll come knocking on his door just like she did when she was alive to let him know he needs to wake up, come out, and turn out the porch light after she gets in the car.
He's not worked up the courage to actually open the door, though; he says that he is afraid of what he'll see if he does.
I mean, I guess seeing your dead sister sleeping on a couch is one thing, but opening the door to maybe your dead sister is another.
I guess it should be scary or maybe sad, but she's just come home; she's where she felt safe, she's where she felt happiest, and why should we not let her?
Someone once told me after I told them this story that I should tell her it's ok for her to go; that's cruel to allow her to linger.
Well, why should I?
I held her hand when she died. I told her it was OK to go then, and she chose to return home, so why should I tell her now that she can't stay home?
