My mom, Jane, died on Wednesday, March 25, 2020 in the middle of one of the worst crises this country has ever known. Burial must wait. Memorial services must wait. She survived two years after this post. She settled into the nursing home and proceeded to worry about everyone else, forcing staff members to say, “We’ve got it under control, Ms. Bainbridge. Don’t worry.” She fell out of her wheelchair more than once trying to organize the clothes in her closet and come up with matching outfits. A lady to the end. She never stopped teaching me how to live, how to be a survivor. I am re-posting this blog because it says what I want to say without my needing to repeat it. Rest in peace, Mom. Your life of service was well-lived.
“My mom’s name is Jane. She is 81 years old, and she is failing.”
I wrote that five months ago. July, 2016. It is January 2017, and I should have known better. My mom is a survivor. My son said, “Stop calling us home to say goodbye, and then the people don’t die.”
Mom and her grandsons
When I told her in July that the hospice company was coming to talk with her, her immediate comment was, “But I don’t have anything to serve.” She doesn’t have anything to serve? That is so Mom, so Belle Meade, so Junior League. She was brought up to be a lady, and a lady she remains. I bought coffee and petit fours, and once again, with nurses and social workers and home health coordinators, she was the hostess descended from Nashville’s “royalty.” She made her mother proud.
Belle Meade bride
Hospice came in and…
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