Mom died this morning at twenty minutes to seven. February 9, 2014. She was eig…

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{
 "$type": "n_type_journal_entry",
 "id": "n_journal_2014_02_09",
 "createdAt": "1391945400000",
 "date": "2014-02-09T11:30:00.000Z",
 "body": "Mom died this morning at twenty minutes to seven. February 9, 2014. She was eighty-seven.\n\nJudy and I were both there. Judy had the night, and telephoned Walt's a little after four because the breathing had changed, and Walt and I drove over on empty streets before the heater was warm. At half past six he went down the hall for coffee. He was gone ten minutes, and those were the ten minutes. I will not let him say another word about that.\n\nThere was nothing to see, in the way there is nothing to see when a clock stops. The breaths got further apart. Judy had two fingers on her wrist and was watching the second hand on the wall clock, as she has done for forty years for strangers. I had Mom's other hand. A breath, and then a long time, and I thought, that was it; and then one more; and then it was. Judy said the time out loud. Then she put her forehead down on the blanket, and for a while she was not a nurse.\n\nThe window was just going gray over the bluffs. There was a snowplow somewhere.\n\nWhat I did afterward, in order, because I do not know what else to put down. Her glasses were on the bedside table, and I put them in my pocket; they are in my pocket now. I telephoned R., who answered on the first ring and said, \"I'm coming,\" and is on the road. I telephoned Ellen, then David, then Kate, oldest first, as on a Sunday, and it is a Sunday. Kate cried. David asked what he should do, and I said nothing yet, come Thursday. Ellen asked whether I had eaten.\n\nCarla, the hospice nurse, came and was quiet and kind and wrote things down. Two men came from the funeral home at nine, in dark overcoats, and one of them called her Mrs. Haugen as if she could hear, which I liked. Walt signed.\n\nShe was born a Tollefson on a farm outside Westby in 1926, the fourth of six, and outlived them all. She married Dad in 1948 and went to the Haugen farm at Coon Valley, and at that kitchen table she taught me to read before I went to school, out of the newspaper. She buried Dad in 1998.\n\nI have her glasses and I do not know what one does with them.\n\nNancy has made eggs. I am going to eat them.\n"
}

personas/retired-couple/records/journal-2011-2015.yaml:163

- id: journal-2014-02-09
  kind: journal_entry
  about: [dorothy-haugen]
  date: 2014-02-09 11:30
  body: |
    Mom died this morning at twenty minutes to seven. February 9, 2014. She was eighty-seven.

    Judy and I were both there. Judy had the night, and telephoned Walt's a little after four because the breathing had changed, and Walt and I drove over on empty streets before the heater was warm. At half past six he went down the hall for coffee. He was gone ten minutes, and those were the ten minutes. I will not let him say another word about that.

    There was nothing to see, in the way there is nothing to see when a clock stops. The breaths got further apart. Judy had two fingers on her wrist and was watching the second hand on the wall clock, as she has done for forty years for strangers. I had Mom's other hand. A breath, and then a long time, and I thought, that was it; and then one more; and then it was. Judy said the time out loud. Then she put her forehead down on the blanket, and for a while she was not a nurse.

    The window was just going gray over the bluffs. There was a snowplow somewhere.

    What I did afterward, in order, because I do not know what else to put down. Her glasses were on the bedside table, and I put them in my pocket; they are in my pocket now. I telephoned R., who answered on the first ring and said, "I'm coming," and is on the road. I telephoned Ellen, then David, then Kate, oldest first, as on a Sunday, and it is a Sunday. Kate cried. David asked what he should do, and I said nothing yet, come Thursday. Ellen asked whether I had eaten.

    Carla, the hospice nurse, came and was quiet and kind and wrote things down. Two men came from the funeral home at nine, in dark overcoats, and one of them called her Mrs. Haugen as if she could hear, which I liked. Walt signed.

    She was born a Tollefson on a farm outside Westby in 1926, the fourth of six, and outlived them all. She married Dad in 1948 and went to the Haugen farm at Coon Valley, and at that kitchen table she taught me to read before I went to school, out of the newspaper. She buried Dad in 1998.

    I have her glasses and I do not know what one does with them.

    Nancy has made eggs. I am going to eat them.