Sunday marks one year since Mother Lovett passed away.
Some days it feels like years, other days it feels like minutes.
A year ago at this time, we kept vigil in her hospital room. There were usually seven or eight of us there at all times. Though she only came to every few hours, she knew we were there.
She left the world the way she lived in it — stubbornly.
It began on a Tuesday. We all knew it was the end, and so did she — she had the mind of someone much younger. We expected it would be over by Wednesday, and the nurses thought the same. Friends came and sat quietly, waiting like we always did for her. If anyone taught me patience, it was her (well, her and Mr. How Sweet — he drives me batty).
Within a few hours it became clear she wasn’t ready to let go quickly.
So that’s when the party started.
We were fortunate to have a large hospice room with an adjoining private lounge, fridge, and table. The logical next step was to bring in the drinks. After all, Mother Lovett would have wanted it that way.
For the next few days, six-packs arrived in plastic bags and handles of whiskey were tucked into duffel bags. Quiet was never our style.
Most mourn in sorrow and grieve a loved one’s final days. We didn’t. We celebrated a remarkable life.
Soon the nurses caught on and started bringing ice in bedpans. We spent five days reminiscing: laughing about tissues tucked up her sleeves, the parmesan cheese in her fridge that expired years ago, the time she rolled down a grassy bank while pulling weeds, and her relentless curiosity about the neighbors.
We laughed over the “Merry Christopher” greeting she once wrote instead of “Merry Christmas,” and remembered how her four-foot frame tottered in two-inch heels every Sunday on the way to church.
It’s the small things we didn’t expect to miss — when she claimed she wasn’t hungry and then finished two slices of pizza or swiped a cheeseburger from a Happy Meal, how she discussed The Young and the Restless as if she knew every character, or how she sent grandchildren to buy the most awkward items: maxi pads “without wings” and stool softener.
We even miss grocery shopping with her — trailing behind her tiny cart, pretending not to notice as she passed gas in the cereal aisle, and arguing about how oatmeal cream pies could possibly cost so much now.
We remember when she passed out after one too many mudslides and later declared she “really loved that mudslinger drink.”
We like to think her slow departure was because my grandpa was holding on the other side, not ready to be nagged again. He was enjoying his peace.
For five full days we ate, drank, laughed, and stayed with her as she left this world. It may seem odd or even disrespectful to some, but that was our way — living, loving, laughing, and crying together to celebrate this sassy, stubborn, sweet, vibrant woman. No wonder it took her so long to go — who would want to leave a party like that?
There weren’t many tears at Mother Lovett’s funeral. She lived an incredible, full life with joy and struggle alike, and we all knew it was her time. There was no better way to honor her than to celebrate a life truly lived.
Growing up, Mother Lovett made memorable chocolate chip cookies. As she aged, those cookies became darker and more burnt because she couldn’t hear the timer and couldn’t see their color. I recall a beach trip when the cookies were so overdone we hid a loaf of bread in the tin; the cookies sucked the moisture out of the bread and softened — a strange but effective trick.
I wish I could share Mother Lovett’s recipe. The truth is I don’t know it — and I’m not sure she did either. Her cookies were the result of a grandmother’s instincts: a little of this, a little of that, sometimes oblivious to exact measurements. I’m half afraid of some of the ingredients that might have found their way in.
In the end, there’s no recipe to replicate what she made. Those cookies — and the woman who baked them — are one of a kind.
One of Mother Lovett’s last requests was simple: “Every time you have a party and are together, think of me.” If you couldn’t already guess, we do party. And we always raise our glass to her.