Ruth L. Reynolds (1927 - 2010)

Above are a couple of snapshots of my mother taken when she was in her 20s. Her eyes and smile were engaging and remarkable then, and they remained so throughout her entire life. If you ask people who knew her -- or met her even once -- they will always describe her in terms of her sweet smile or happy, engaging eyes. They say the eyes are the window to the soul; in her case it is certainly true. Yesterday, my mother passed away by my side at the age of 82. Below, I'd like to tell you a little bit about yesterday and also to recommend a book for you along the way.

ABOVE: After suffering a major stroke several years ago, my mother's final years on this planet were spent here in the Nahalem Valley (lower left in distance of photo). For years my oldest brother took my mom for long rides every week in this beautiful setting; she loved it. This spot on Neahkahnie Mountain was one of her favorite places to park and have a cup of coffee. I would visit Oregon every chance I could from Japan and also spend hours driving with her around this inspirational part of the world. Especially when the weather is good, it's impossible to grow tired of the natural beauty here. I'm too young to remember, but when my brother's were small, my family had a summer cabin on the beach pictured here.

ABOVE: After hearing of my mother's condition, my friend Patrick Newell back in Tokyo suggested I get the book Tuesday's with Morrie, a story of a remarkable man with only a short time to live who shares important life lessons with his former student. The parallels with my own situation here in the US were very clear; it's a wonderful, simple book with powerful reminders from a man facing his own death. On the way down to see my mother -- for what would turn out to be the last time in my life -- I dropped in this earthy little cafe off the beach in Cannon Beach called The Bald Eagle Coffee House. The cafe is one of the last Starbucks Speciality shops around anywhere. It's local, it's arty, and it's peaceful. Although I had a certain sense of urgency, I sat down outside on this first sunny morning since I arrived two weeks ago to sip a little coffee and read the first short chapters in the warmth of the coastal sun. Here's a little bit of wisdom from Morrie (only very slightly edited), a gentle man dying from Lou Gehrig's disease (ALS) :

"Death is only one thing to get over. Living unhappily is something else. So many of the people who come to visit me are unhappy. Why? Well, for one thing, the culture we have does not make people feel good about themselves. We're teaching the wrong things. And you have to be strong enough to say that if the culture doesn't work, don't buy it. Create your own. Most people can't do it. They're more unhappy that me—even in my condition." -- Morrie Schwartz

ABOVE: I was touched by what I was reading. I wanted to share this book with others, so after I left the cafe I quickly stopped by Haystack Rock just down the beach to take a photo of the book and take in the splendor of the morning one more time before seeing my mother a little further down the coast. I knew her death was only hours away (according to the medical professionals) but I had a sense that she would not pass without one of her sons by her side. It's not rational, perhaps, but I had a feeling...though I could not be sure, hence the sense of urgency as well.

ABOVE: A few miles down the coast I stopped at Neahkahnie Mountain briefly to reflect one time more and to say a little prayer. I sat on the wall high above the ocean and quickly read one more short chapter from this book. The warmth of the sun juxtaposed with the cool breeze flowing off the beautiful Pacific Ocean far below was invigorating, even as all my thoughts were on my mother and all the times we had spent together in this exact spot many times before. After twenty minutes, I drove down to the Nehalem Valley Care Center a few miles away.

As I entered her room I was relieved to see her still breathing. Her breaths were shallow but thankfully less labored than the night before. She looked peaceful. The staff have been very skilled and also remarkably caring throughout this entire process. They were very concerned for her and made sure that she was in no pain or suffering in any way yet very mindful that the family needed time with her. I kissed her forehead and told her that I was here, that I was not going anywhere, and that I loved her. I pulled up a chair next to her bed and opened up my book. For the next hour I read a page or two and then stopped to hold her hand or talk to her. The room was bright and cheery in a kind of bitter-sweet way due to the beautiful weather outside. Sunbeams were even kissing the edge of her white pillows. There was a certain calmness and peacefulness in the air that I can not explain.

After about an hour of sitting next to her in this way, I continued reading a few sentences in the book when I glanced over at her chest expecting, of course, to see that she was still breathing. I took notice immediately that her chest had suddenly stopped moving. But her breathing was very slow now so perhaps, I thought, if I just wait a few seconds I will see her inhale and her chest expand once again. Two seconds, then five seconds, then ten...nothing. I change my position and bring my face closer to hers. Nothing. Her mouth is slightly open, but still. Then one last very, very tiny breath from her mouth, halfway between a breath and a gentle gulp...and then complete silence, except for the bird chirping outside and the low hum of the oxygen tank next to the bed. That was it. I just saw my mother's final, gentle breath of life. I entered the hall and quietly asked for the charge nurse. He entered the room with a somber yet empathetic look on his face. Without saying a word, he softly placed his stethoscope on her chest. After a few moments: "There is no heart beat," he whispered to me. "I'm sorry." The nurse then bent down to turn off the oxygen tank which caused the room to become completely silent save for the occasional bird singing in the garden next to the window. I did not hear what the nurse said after that, but I asked to be alone in the room for a few minutes with my mom. "Take as much time as you need," he said, and then he quietly closed the door.

I grabbed a towel and covered my face as I wept next to my mother, using the towel to soak up the tears so that the staff would not see. After a few minutes I pull myself together. I am feeling great sadness, of course, but also a strange sense of peacefulness and calm. Perhaps this is what they call closure. In any event, I am happy that I can be sure now that she is not suffering or sad in any way. I am also feeling so blessed that I could be there to witness my mom's very last breath of life. I will always remember and cherish the experience of being by her side at the end. I was able to witness the last breath of the woman who gave me my first. Yes, it is a very sad, sad feeling, but it is also a beautiful one. I do not feel that she is gone in a sense. Her body, which is after all a kind of ephemeral vessel, is dead, but the relationship does indeed live on.

ABOVE: When I arrived at the care center, about 10 days before my mother passed, I noticed a picture of my mother on the wall: "Resident of the Month" it said on the frame. Below that was a sample of some of the thoughts that people had written about her. Even though she could not speak, it was her happy smile and gentle eyes that made such an impression with people. This is an inspiration for me.

Scrapbooks and memories
I am leaving for Japan soon. I am feeling closure at this time, but when I return home to Nara, I will assemble a kind of "Srapshow" (slideshow/scrapbook set to music) of my memories with my mother in Japan. In the '90s I was able to bring her to Japan for two different month-long trips of Japan. She loved everything about Japan and I took her everywhere, from Sapporo to Hiroshima (The snap below is from the Hard Rock Cafe in Osaka; she was 67 at that time). I have been thinking about this slideshow for a long time, but I could not find a song that would go with the images. Then by complete accident iPhoto pulls up 涙そうそう (Nada Sou Sou) a famous song in Japan about flipping through a photo album and the very painful yet beautiful memories that follow. I totally forgot about that song. The words are beautiful. Yet even if you do not speak Japanese, you can not help but feel something when hearing the music. It is extremely evocative. When I put the slideshow together I will include the English translation of the song, but if you have a chance, please listen to the song here below. And thank you, everyone, for your kind words during this time. It is much appreciated.