The Promise Of Light
December 22nd
One day after winter solstice
Five hours, forty-four minutes and twenty-seven seconds of daylight
Sunrise: 10:13 a.m.
Sunset: 3:41 p.m.
It’s almost midnight in Anchorage, Alaska as I pull out of the hospital parking lot, the bright red emergency room sign reflected in the rearview mirror. Somewhere behind the sliding doors is my mother, her tiny body tucked into thin sheets on a gurney. Cords attached to her chest, a flimsy curtain acting as a door. Monitors beeping and blinking. The last four hours were spent at her side. My body sags with exhaustion. My brain is a washing machine of emotions.
Mom was semi-conscious and unable to speak. Sitting on a hard plastic chair with a clipboard that held a stack of forms, I was her voice. So many pages, so many boxes to check. A bright exit sign hung across the hall, taunting me to just walk away and abandon my role as a dutiful daughter.
The crushing pressure of the unknown laid heavy on my shoulders and pooled in my stomach.
A parade of hospital staff made their way into the space, wheeling carts with laptops.
Do you know if she took any medication today?
In the event something happens, does she want to be intubated?
If your mother is unable to eat, do you want us to place a feeding tube?
My answers could determine whether she lives or dies.
There were also the unspoken questions.
What’s going to happen next?
What will the future look like?
Am I strong enough for this?
I’m fifty-four years old, and I still need my mother.
Driving home, I’m the only car on the road. Streetlamps provide a few breaks from the inky blackness along with strings of Christmas lights but the darkness feels like a heavy blanket. My thoughts jump from the image of her still body to the stocking stuffers I need to buy.
The sun won’t rise for another nine hours. The night settles into my bones. My memories of the evening are unwelcome companions.
This is the season of small gatherings, around fireplaces and winter bonfires. The longest night reminds us to savor the simple things, soft blankets, candle lights and remote auto starts. A reminder that happiness can exist in dark spaces. A promise that light can always be found if you’re paying attention.
March 19th
Spring Equinox
Twelve hours, eleven minutes and twenty-three seconds of daylight
Sunrise 8:02 a.m.
Sunset 8:13 p.m.
I park my car near a sign bordered in brick that reads Aspen Creek Senior Living Community. Modern and sleek, the place looks more like a condo complex for young professionals than an assisted living facility. A snow pile on the far end of the parking lot is smaller than it was last week. The sun is just beginning to rise behind the Chugach Mountains. A light is on in my mother’s room. I imagine her sitting in her bed, watching game shows, doing crosswords and eating M&M’s. She’s been living here since she was discharged from the hospital in January.
The move to an assisted living facility was not her choice. A care team of physicians, nurses, therapists and a social worker who looked younger than my son made the recommendation.
“Your mother can no longer live safely at home. She needs to be in a place where she can receive more care.”
Hearing these words, delivered with both authority and compassion, felt like fifty pounds had been released from my shoulders. It was not a suggestion but a mandate. The decision was no longer hers, or my father’s.
Prior to the stroke, my parents still lived an hour away, in my childhood home of forty years. Each day brought a new crisis, both identical and totally different from the day before. Despite the drama and evidence that things needed to change, they refused to consider anything other than where they were.
It felt like they were stuck in a deep hole, yelling for help but refusing any rope that was thrown down to them.
I punch the code to enter the building and make my way to her room, where I find her exactly as I expected. There is a lightness to her I almost don’t recognize.
During her last few months at home, I was focused on being a care giver, therapist, scheduler and all around problem solver. Now, I am able to enjoy being her daughter.
She looks up at me, glasses perched at the end of her nose, attached to a bejeweled chain we bought at Walmart.
“Do you want to go for a walk with me?” she says.
She loves to move. She’s spent a lifetime measuring her worth in terms of data regarding her physical body. Miles ran. Pounds gained or lost. Food eaten.
We walk her regular loop through the building. In the lobby, Easter bunnies stand sentry on the mantle above the fireplace.
“I want to go home, do you think I’ll be home by Easter?”
Easter is less than three weeks away.
“I don’t know Mom, for now, this is where you are,” I tell her.
I don’t want to say any more than this. Is she here because it is better for her or me?
The vernal equinox marks the first day of spring, a balanced ratio of light and dark that only occurs twice a year. From here, the increasing hours of daylight are often the only tangible proof that winter is loosening its grip. The extended days offer evidence that a season without snow tires is approaching. A signal to start seeds in basements under heat lamps. A reminder to reserve campsites in the popular places. A promise that warmer days are coming.
June 21
Summer Solstice
Nineteen hours, twenty-one minutes and twenty-five seconds of daylight
Sunrise: 7:44 a.m.
Sunset: 11:42 p.m.
Mom and I celebrate the longest day of the year with a walk on the Campbell Creek Trail near Taku Lake. The whole city is in motion. Packs of bikers in tight jerseys pass by. A mother holds the back of a toddler’s sweatshirt as he throws chunks of bread to a duck family. Several roller skiers pass us on the left, wearing bright yellow tank tops with the University of Alaska Cross Country Ski Team in bright green letters. As the trail passes under C street, a caravan of motorhomes and trailers pass overhead, bound for camping in the midnight sun.
She catches me up on the news and gossip. Phyllis left the other day in the ambulance, but she came back. Nobody liked the meatloaf they served for lunch. She signed up for the field trip to the reindeer farm. She didn’t win at bingo yesterday.
She’s simply telling me what’s going on. There is not a listing of challenges, problems or complaints I am not responsible for. I’m grateful for this moment. Less than a year ago, spending time with her was a chore, an obligation but now, I’m able to relish the time I have with her.
“Can we get some more wine today?” she asks me.
“Of course, Mom,” I tell her.
“Do you have a bag we can put it in?” she asks.
My mother loves her daily glass of boxed white wine. She insists on hiding it in a reusable shopping bag. I remind her that she is a legal adult, not a college freshman but this does little to change her mind. Every night, after dinner but before her shower, she pours herself a small glass into a paper coffee cup.
“I really thought I’d be home by now,” she tells me.
“I know, Mom.”
I bite my tongue, not wanting to ruin this moment with the unknown path of the future. Sometimes she just needs to be heard. My brain knows this is for the best, but my heart can feel the pain of her longing to be somewhere else.
The solstice marks the end of the time of the gaining of light. From here until December 21st, the days will gradually shorten. I know the darkness will return, but today feels like these days will last forever.
The longest day is a sign to look for the blueberries that will soon be popping up on the mountains above the city. A reminder to make sure there is room in the freezer for vacuum packed bags of salmon and halibut. A promise that surviving the winter will be worth it.
September 22
Fall Equinox
Twelve hours, twelve minutes and forty-five seconds of daylight
Sunrise: 7:44 a.m.
Sunset: 7:57 p.m.
My mother isn’t in her room. The birthday tiara she wore at her champagne bingo birthday party the week before is hanging from the side of her mirror. An empty cookie package on her nightstand is evidence of a life well lived. I’m wiping up the crumbs as she enters the room. She’s been walking laps around the building.
We end up wandering through the nearby neighborhood. Canadian Geese fly overhead and the wind blows dry leaves across the path in front of us. Four days from now, the geese will be in California.
“I’d really like to be home for Christmas,” she says.
I take her elbow and guide her around a pot hole in the road, partly for her safety, partly because it buys me time to come up with a response. I’ve never been good at telling people things they don’t want to hear.
“I know, Mom, but for now, you need to stay where you are.”
There’s so much more I could say, but this is all she can handle.
She is now eighty, she’s already outlived the average American woman by two and a half years. She survived two strokes and pancreatic cancer. Sometimes it is easy to assume her invisibility, but I also know an eighty-first birthday is not guaranteed. The sand in the hourglass is moving quickly.
Tomorrow, the northern hemisphere will tip back, away from the sun, an imperceptible tilt of the planet. We aren’t promised a world without darkness, and sometimes the change in the light is too small to notice, but it’s there if we’re paying attention. The year long tango is a gentle invitation to accept the presence of darkness and anticipate the return of the light.
The autumnal equinox is a reminder to stock up on gloves before they’re sold out at Costco. A cautionary sign that the hours of darkness will soon exceed the hours of light. A promise that the labors of summer will be savored in the upcoming months.
Nine months ago, I drive home in what feels like a night that will never end. My mother’s future is uncertain. That day is four seconds longer than the day before. Maybe it is a coincidence, or maybe it is the universe letting me know she’ll be okay, at least for a little while.
-Heidi Valantas
Heidi Valantas, a retired teacher based in Anchorage, Alaska is a freelance writer who writes about empty nesting, travel, books and life after 50. She's also currently working on a memoir about caring for her aging parents.
