Columns My mother was so thin and fragile and fearful as death approached

My mother looked me in the eyes as if to ask her firstborn to tell me that all this is not true, writes Jari Tervo about his mother’s death in the hospital.

Early Thursday morning turned white in Teisko cold and beautiful. Lake Näsijärvi did not even shake. A chainsaw was tuned on the opposite shore. My sister Maija called a moment ago. Our mother Ritva Tervo died at night, just before twelve. He reached the age of eighty-two.

At the mother, our brother Matti supervised us at the last minute. His mother was already resting unaware. Matti heard a small sigh as the spirit left.

Short a week ago I still called Maija to ask if my mother had already gotten out of the hospital. No, Maija replied, and the doctors’ speeches gave the impression that the mother would not come home anymore. The inflammatory values ​​had dropped a little, but now he had pneumonia. We both knew that pneumonia was the cause of death in many elderly people with multiple diseases. The mother also suffered from pneumonia and heart failure. His left hand was swollen.

I called Mom and asked if her hand was working. After all, the man didn’t work at all, at any point, Mom said. He talked about Rovaniemi: sitting in a sofa and drinking handkerchiefs straight. The man was a man in these areas, but there was no talk of hoo. The dialect returned to my language whenever I had spent a few days in my hometown. I immediately booked plane tickets for Kalle and myself.

Five years ago, I corrected and improved a draft of a novel in Scotland. Mom called Edinburgh. Dad was in the hospital. He was alive but no longer in this world. My mother didn’t think it was worth going to Rovaniemi. At my father’s funeral, this thing weighed on me.

To the mother had been given his own, large room at Saarenkylä Hospital. A television was set on the wheeled table, flickering silently. In the corner, a fan rattled, messing up the air, but not cooling it. I realized that the people in the hospital treat the mother like a dying person. Let’s give my room. Let’s escort the lady towards the inevitable.

The mother weighed forty-eight pounds by the time the hospital. Now yes less. She reminded her own mother of this recently. Ritva had been on a diet regimen all my life without ever being obese. For the past ten years, doctors had urged the mother to eat everything pulsating. Mom updated: now that I finally have a reason for what she wants, she doesn’t mind, yes there is a couch.

Mum looked me in the eyes as if to ask his firstborn to tell me that all this is not true. Let’s go home soon. My little mother. When I was expecting my birth in your womb, you were my universe.

My little mother. When I was expecting my birth in your womb, you were my universe.

In the half-lying position, the mother’s gray hair looked soft on the sunken face. Half of the teeth of his lower jaw were missing: the Tekars had been removed. She had been a beautiful woman for seventy years of her life. Therefore, the decay felt humiliating. He made a death.

Only it was still untreated. Everything else had been done, the children and the work, an almost sixty-year marriage with our father Alpo.

A ceramic bowl came to mind for Dad’s funeral. We had forgotten about the audio memorial service. Maija selected the song and put it in an empty bowl, which confirmed the sound amazingly well. The song was Alpo ‘s mood, Big Stockholm Lindholm’ s version My traveling brother Janista.

The nurse brought her mother a piece of pie and a cup of coffee. I knew I remembered the beak. In the hinges of life, I turn my attention to the mundane and simple, in no way deciding it myself.

Last time I hugged my mother. My heart ached. He was so thin and fragile and fearful as death approached. In front of the beast, man makes himself small.

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