Comfy Chair

I hate hearing that old prayer “If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.” Why should kids have to worry about dying during their sleep?

Sarah did not like to go to bed, and even though she took naps for years, until about age 11, and definitely needed a nap, she didn’t like the idea of taking one. If she heard the word nap in a story or on TV, she would sometimes cry, thinking it was an imperative that she go take a nap.

She didn’t like bedtime either. The tradition of bedtime stories and bedtime rituals started early, with Max telling her a bedtime story and acting out fairy tales for her with her minions as the cast. She just seemed a bit anxious around bedtime. I don’t know if it was the separation from us, or just that she wasn’t part of the action anymore. It makes me feel bad knowing that she ultimately died during the night.

I was driving around yesterday, listening to my 70’s music station like I almost always do and it was playing Everything I Own from Bread. Like so many songs it seems to relate to Sarah.

The finest years I ever knew
Were all the years I had with you

And I would give anything I own
I’d give up my life, my heart, my home
I would give everything I own
Just to have you back again

It made me think of Sarah’s routine in the morning, of physically transferring her from her bedroom to the living room, picking her up and putting her in her wheelchair, then letting her choose her favorite stuffies to ride in the chair with her to the living room. Then the short ride to the living room, the reverse unburdening of all the stuffies. They could either all be thrown on the floor, which Sarah didn’t like, or they could be carefully arranged on her comfy chair in a horseshoe pattern that left room for her tush and her legs in the middle with pillows for her feet. This took more time and attention. Then, I would transfer her into the chair, tap in the password for her ipad, and put on her video of choice to start.

Depending on what day it was, then I’d either wake up Max, or make myself some coffee, or read the newspaper, look at my phone, or do Sarah’s hair for school. Whatever there was time for and what the agenda called for. Yesterday as I was reminiscing about all this, the weight of her body and of transferring her came back to me. I felt the sense memory of the task and of lifting her up and over. Rearranging her clothes. Positioning her feet. Moving her hair aside. Wiping her face. Kissing her. It was a strong memory.