LAPORTE – “I just don’t know what to do. Nobody told me how to die. I’m still waiting for instructions on how to die.” Mom always had a way of speaking what was on her mind, so it didn’t shock us when she made this comment. I think it was her way of breaking the somber atmosphere in her bedroom – and it worked. The joking began, laughter filled the room and conversation turned to making mom’s famous apple slices.
Mom, Patricia “Pat” “Penny” Wellinski was in the end stages of aggressive leukemia. She openly asked the questions, often shared by others who are nearing end-of-life: “Now what? What am I supposed to do? Somebody, tell me.”
I think she answered her own question by her actions in the last two months of her life, from February 8, when the unofficial lab results detected something very serious, up until her last breath.
What seemed like a rollercoaster ride as each test result came back, although the diagnosis basically remained the same, what changed was whether treatment was an option or to prepare for death.
For mom, it was “what shall be, shall be. We’ll take it one day at a time.”
This wasn’t her first encounter with death.
In 1997 she was diagnosed with stage IV lung, lymph node and bone cancer. Due to the cancer’s aggressiveness, doctors gave her one month to live without treatment, two years maximum with treatment. She opted for treatment to give herself a chance, as little as it was, to spend time with her family, especially the young grandchildren.
Her one request was to die at home, in her bed. A request we honored. Family, friends, neighbors, medical and pastoral care made it possible. Challenging? Yes. A blessing? Definitely.
Family meant everything to mom, and she made sure we had peace and reassurance despite the grave circumstances. She talked openly and candidly with family and friends. She would often tell us, especially the grandchildren “Do you have anything to say or ask?”
“I lived a good life and I have no regrets. Everything will be okay. Just remember, I’ll always be with you,” she often repeated.
We joked with her how surprisingly raising three “angelic” sons didn’t put her in the grave sooner. She responded by telling us to behave ourselves otherwise “I’ll come back and haunt you.”
As I sit here writing this, her 1970’s avocado green recipe box sits on my desk. We talked about our favorite meals or dishes and how to make them, especially her cheese balls.
I asked if she was scared, and she honestly said she wasn’t. She was ready to see God. She was more concerned about her loved ones left behind.
Reconciliation was woven into this journey. Some issues had created a split between mom and her mom and sister. My uncle and I prayed for them to reunite for many years. Our prayers were answered as mom and grandma reconciled before grandma’s passing in 2021. Mom and her sister visited for the first time in many years about a week before her passing.
Mom hadn’t been to church in many years for an unknown reason. The past few years, there’s been an indication of her desire to return to church. She met with Father Nate Edquist shortly after her diagnosis and a visit by Father Bill O’Toole on Holy Thursday.
As a career bookkeeper, she obsessed over details and schedules. She made sure every detail was taken care of.
I recall a few times nearly a month following her diagnosis, she made her impending death sound like a doctor’s appointment. “What’s taking so long? I have a schedule and I’m behind schedule. I expected to be dead by now.” I know she was joking, but it was a reminder how I (we) like to think we’re in control of so many things in our lives.
As Jesus’s journey to the Cross began with his entry into Jerusalem, Palm Sunday weekend began the last leg of her earthly journey. It was obvious the pain, fatigue and trouble breathing were wearing on her. She tried to hide it, but her cross was getting heavier.
Following the Palm Sunday Vigil Mass, I received a frantic call from my brother, Steve, telling us, “You better get home now. Mom said she’s ready to go and she wants all of us here with her.” We arrived at mom’s home to find family members gathered around her in her bedroom. Mom’s concern was whether she should remain seated in her wheelchair or lay in bed. Not out of comfort for her, but what would be easier for the funeral home staff.
Monday of Holy Week was the last time mom felt well enough to come out of her bedroom and join us at the kitchen table. For the brief time she was there, the words shared, although few, were meaningful. Our presence with each other spoke volumes. That would be the last time we sat together at the table where many of mom’s home-cooked meals would be served, where family, friends, and strangers would gather. That day was different, I think she knew that would be the last day she would be physically present at the table. Her eyes focused out the window beyond the earthly setting towards the eternal world with a sense of peace and calmness. Her eyes shared her thoughts, she was ready.
The darkness of Good Friday was evident in her room. The sunlight bothered mom’s eyes, so the curtains had been pulled shut over the past two months. I never experienced being as close to Christ on the Cross as I had that day. As mom laid in her bed with her head drooped to the right and her arms somewhat extended out, I could see our Lord on His Cross next to mom. No matter how hard we tried to rearrange mom into a more comfortable position, she moaned in pain. She stayed that way until she died.
Although the sun shone brightly on Holy Saturday, the curtains contained the darkness in her bedroom throughout the day, until 6:07 p.m., the moment she took her last breath. Feelings of sadness (of losing her) collided with relief and happiness (her suffering is over). It was then we opened the curtains that allowed the setting sun to cast across her face as the start of the Easter Vigils were about to begin.
Holy Week is now bookend with my parents’ deaths. Dad died on Palm Sunday in 2020 and now mom on Holy Saturday.
The darkness would once again be overcome at the cemetery. After mom’s urn was placed into the darkness of the grave, I knelt over to pray. Although the direct sunlight was blocked from the grave, enough light seeped in to reveal HOPE. One lone root, a sign of life, protruded from the wall of the grave stretching out towards mom’s urn. The only thing I could do was to look up and thank God the Father and leave the cemetery with a sense of peace and joy.
Caption: Terminal cancer didn't stop Pat Wellinski from continuing to do her job as a bookkeeper from a hospital bed a month prior to her passing. Her son, Greg, sits in a chair beside her. (Bob Wellinski photo)