Paperwork: Finding more meaning in those touching moments in life

I’ve learned something important over the last several days.

Well, perhaps it was a reminder. It’s been with me since the night my aunt died. Aunt Ene.

I wasn’t going to write about this, but, of course, I have to. I think it’s important.

Arlene (Foster) Wade passed on the evening of Feb. 24 in a nursing home bed. My sister and cousin were with her. They thought it was important she not die alone. And she never was.

I chose not to be there. They understood. I didn’t want her final moment to be my lasting memory. I was sure about that. Until my sister texted.

“I think it will be very soon now.” Then three minutes later: “I think she is gone now.”

I felt some relief. Aunt Ene was free of pain at last. But those words lingered ... “gone now.”

My sister said they didn’t need me there. “OK,” I thought, but I couldn’t sit still. I tried but gave up.

“I have to go,” I said to my wife, the dog, the living room ... myself. I left in a hurry, knowing I would see what I did not want to see. But there was something I wanted to do.

I had this demanding need to touch Aunt Ene one more time. To stroke her silver hair and just say goodbye. The last and youngest of the Foster girls who became strong women. My mother’s sister.

What’s telling is that I did not go to that room to see her. I was there to touch her. I had to do that one more time. I had visited her in the nursing home and we talked. But when I left I would run my hand lightly across her brow into her hair, now gone astray. I couldn’t help pretending my hand was washing away pain and fear.

“That feels good,” she said. And I knew. Because I remember the moment I first felt that touch. And that’s the memory that’s been pulsing through me lately. Of me, very young, with my mother. And the healing power of touch.

I don’t remember the why or exactly where, but I clearly recall my mother’s hand on my forehead sliding into my hair and how I suddenly felt safe, relaxed and comfortable ... and loved.

So now I’ve also been thinking about my dad, during his final days in hospice. We talked and had some important connections, but before leaving his room I lightly stroked his forehead. Hoping again to wash away any suffering.

And what’s troubling me now is my clouded memory of my mother’s final days, also in hospice care in my sister’s living room. (Yes, she is the angel in the family.)

I have no clear memory of thanking my mother for that moment so long ago. For that touch and how important it was. And how I have tried to share it.

I brought her strawberry milkshakes and tried to be there for her. And again tried to give comfort with a gentle hand. But did I ever thank her? I’m not sure I did and I should have. The words that come to mind now are simple enough.

“Thanks Mom, for all you’ve done for me. Please know I have never forgotten that day you comforted me with a simple caress of your hand. I can feel that moment now.”

A mother’s touch that whispered, “This is love.”

• Lonny Cain, retired managing editor of The Times in Ottawa, also was a reporter for The Herald-News in Joliet in the 1970s. His Paperwork email is lonnyjcain@gmail.com. Or mail The Times, 110 W. Jefferson St., Ottawa, IL 61350