Hermes Psychopompous, who guides the souls of the dead to the River Styx,
hear the cry of your devotee as she undertakes such a task.
It may be the River Jordan and not Styx,
but I walk the last mile of the path
with one who has served you and Persephone all unknowing.
Be with us both.
Let our way to the shore be smooth.
May we walk it at the right speed.
Bear me up as I bear her up.
Michael. Azrael. Samael. Await us.
Wrap your handmaid gently in your dark wings and bear her across.
Gentle Jesus, welcome her, who loves and serves you so well.
And beloved Persephone, dry my tears as I watch and cannot follow.
~~~
This blog is mostly for me. I will be documenting my mother's final walk to the River, which her faith called Jordan and mine calls Styx. There, I shall see her into the hands of her psychopomp: Michael, Charon, Hermes or Samael to be carried across to where her beloved Lord awaits her.
As I write this, it's a cold, rainy Friday, December 5. I meant to start it on Thanksgiving, but such is my life. I woke up to pain today, my often-sprained ankle informing the weather had changed and that we would not be walking more than absolutely necessary today.
Mom is back in chemo. Three years ago she was diagnosed with Myelodysplastic Syndrome and given 6 months to live. She had chemo and did what fighting she could. Medicare doesn't cover bone-marrow transplants. Those are only available to people under 60. She has had more transfusion than I can count.
A myelodysplastic syndrome is a type of cancer in which the bone marrow does not make enough healthy blood cells and there are abnormal (blast) cells in the blood and/or bone marrow. It's ofte a precursor to leukemia.
She's been and out of the hospital with all kinds of illnesses.
Last October, she had bleeding on the brain, because her platelets were so low. Surgery corrected this, and left her a bit of a mess. I moved up there for the month of November as an "in house tyrant." I was horrible to her. I made her eat. I had her work dot-to-dots with her off hand. I made her color and work with clay. Terrible.
She's had difficulty off and on this last year. The week of Thanksgiving, she was hospitalized with viral pleurisy and they discovered she had gone into full fledged leukemia.
The doctors give her an expiration date of 4-6 months. She had four treatment options; Aggressive fighting, which would leave her miserable and lonely and sick from the meds; moderate fighting, which wouldn't necessarily buy her more time, but would be uncomfortable; maintenance, which gets her the 3-6 months, and keeps her comfortable; hospices, where she ceases all treatment.
She opted for maintenance in order to wind up her end-of-life things. She has a list.
So, we are off on the last mile of a journey begun almost 69 years ago. Mom spent many years of her life as a psychopomp while a nurse. When I was small, she worked in Labor and Delivery, seeing new souls into this world (and sometimes, in hopeless cases, holding and comforting them as they went right back out). In my teens, she went back to work, as a nursing home nurse, seeing people out of this life. She has eased many transitions.
This is the role of the Crone, to make ease the transitions.
It is my duty as Acting Crone to make this walk beside her, ease it for her as I can. But more, it is my privilege.
I am the Crone,
the dark mother to whom all return.
The beloved embrace the dying cry for.
I am North.
I am Earth.
Mountains and barren peaks
from which winter sweeps down.
The sharp crags where nothing grows,
the empty fields after the harvest.
I am Winter.
The frost in my hair kin to that in the furrows.
Death is my purview.
I guide the dying.
I comfort the living.
I stand like a mountain between my people and trouble.
I create the place where rebirth can happen.
I am the Crone.
