The Last Time - An Essay about Melanie Welch by her daughter Sarah

    It has been ages since I last wrote an entry. Since my last entry, I have had a book published, have had two art exhibits, and am working on my next book. My original motivation to write this blog was to tell some of the family stories after my sister, Melanie Welch, passed away from cancer on July 8, 2014. The blog will be continued as I find time. However, I received two wonderful written pieces from my niece, Sarah, about her mother, Melanie.
    Sarah is the last child born to my siblings. She shall be graduating high school in June of 2016, and she is planning on trying to go to college in New Hampshire in the fall. The two pieces she wrote are worth sharing as part of our family history. Even just a few months before her mother, my sister Melanie, died, the two were still doing mother/daughter activities. Between hospital visits for my sister's declining health, Melanie was able to see Sarah go to her first prom at 16.

Melanie and Sarah at a dance recital in 2007

Mel, Sarah and Dave at Sarah's first prom 2014

           
   The difference in Sarah is amazing. She turned out to be a lovely girl, and her mother was so happy to be able to see Sarah dressed up like a princess going to a ball. Melanie had been released from the hospital about 4 days before this, and I think the next day she was back in the hospital. I think it may have been the last time she was able to leave the hospital. That was in May of 2014.

    In her last year of high school, Sarah has been taking creative writing. I am sharing her poem and her essay, both about the last few days of her mother's life. I was given an inside view of how she felt through both pieces. The night before Melanie died, we were all in the room. Sarah and Marc stayed the night. I cannot explain the emotion I felt that night, but I did recall the last night of my mother's life, also a victim of cancer. We were all in the room that night, and Melanie stayed all night. Our mother passed away the next morning, Thanksgiving Day 1998. To read what Sarah wrote, I feel I may have gotten some insight into how Melanie felt when our mother died.  I did not have the courage to stay with my mother when she died, or my sister. I am grateful to Sarah for this gift of writing she created regarding that last night.

_______________________________________________________________________________
                 
Holding on to You

Hoping, waiting, dreaming, wondering,

How would this battle end?

Trapped for days, weeks, months,

On the cold hospital bed.

Sarah, Melanie and Amy in a family portrait

Hearing whispers through the walls,

Words we couldn't understand,

All we could do,

Was hold your pale, bony hand.

It won't be long now,

This pain will be gone soon,

The longer you hold on,

The longer it will hurt you.

We held on to you,

As the time passed by,

But you still grew weaker,

Our hopes were left dry.

Without goodbyes,

Or tears filled with sorrow,

The beckoning walls whispered once more,

It was time to let go.

______________________________________________________________________________

    Her essay for her final paper in creative writing is filled with such genuine feeling and emotion. There can be no doubt that this came from the heart. I have tried poems and essays about Melanie, but the one Sarah wrote says it all, captures much of what we all were feeling. Here is the essay. You might want to get some tissues for this. 

_______________________________________________________________________________

                                                                                      

Sarah Welch

1/06/16

Creative Writing

Final Writing

The Last Time

    He told me 17 times before, "She's not going to make it." with a hopeless look of defeat

in his eyes. But I had never felt anything. Not any of the times that he told me. Not that I was

emotionless to what was going on. It was very real. But this time was different. Those words hit

me straight through my heart.

    I looked at him and I didn't have to say anything. He knew I was coming with him back

to the hospital no matter what. No thoughts ran through my mind other than how much longer I

had with her.

    The rumbling storm swept across the sky. It looked at us as we were driving to the center

of the storm; the hospital. The car was filled with silence, while the sky shouted and struck the

ground with vicious bursts of power.

    How much longer did I have?

    We got to the hospital and ran to room 221. The room was humid and had a stench of

must. Lying in the stiff hospital bed was my mother. I looked at her pale white face, covered in

sweat from the pain she had been enduring. Then I looked at her feet, I could never forget the

sight of her small, swollen feet. I wondered when the last time she walked was; probably weeks.

We all sat in silence. The room was buried in lost hopes. All that was left was a lifeless body

only held alive by the machines attached to her.

    I knew my father felt a pain worse than any of us. A woman whom he fell in love with at

first sight, whom he shared every thought and feeling with, who gave life and is now losing hers.

He turned to me, looking straight into my eyes, "I can't stay overnight, but if you want to

you can. Do whatever you feel most comfortable with."

    "I'm staying." I said immediately.

    My oldest brother, Marc, nodded, "I want to stay too."

    My other brother decided to go back home with my dad. I was upset that they couldn't

stay with us, but I also felt okay with their decision. It was a feeling of exasperation, yet

understanding. I hoped my whole family to be together for the last moments with her. I sat in the

chair next to my mother, and stayed by her side while trying to fall asleep, as my brother was

already asleep.

    The room breathed with a calm air. I thought about all of the moments that I got to share

my life with my mother, and how my mother shared her life with me. I giggled as I remember a

story she told me many years ago. One blistering summer day, she was outside with my oldest

brother, who was a toddler at the time. As she glanced away for a bit, she looked in the pool and

saw something floating. Thinking it was my brother, she dove into the pool, only to find that it

was a rodent, but could not longer be saved. I couldn't quite remember what animal she thought

it was. Suddenly my mother moved around and looked up at me. She was finally conscious. I had

no clue what I wanted to say to her, there was too much that had happened since the last time I

had seen her, so I told her about all of the good things that had happened to me.

She returned the smile, “I am so happy for you.” and she fell back unconscious. Those

were the last words she spoke in this world.

    I always wanted her to be proud of me no matter what. I did my best, and did as she

asked. Looking back, I guess in the moment, I told her all of the good things that had happened

so that she could still be proud of me. So that I really knew in the end she was always proud of

me.

    I refused to sleep. I was too worried that I would miss another time that my mother would

wake up. I wanted to keep talking to her. I wanted one more conversation; to tell her how much I

loved her and how much I would miss her.

    As the night went on I became more drowsy, almost asleep. I couldn't remember the

exact time, maybe 3 or 4 a.m. Moaning with pain, my mother pressed the help button. Nurses

came rushing into the room. My mom couldn't find the words to tell them how much pain she

was in. The nurses gave her morphine, and the moans began to die down.

    Every few hours she would toss and turn in discomfort. It killed me to see her like this.

10:36 A.M. I was up by her right side. Curled up in a ball, covered in the white crinkly

hospital blanket. I saw her pale, ghostlike face. A nurse knocked on the door.

    "Is everything alright in here? I'm just checking in to see Melanie."

    She looked at my mother, and swiftly walked over. She touched her arm and pulled back.

    My brother and I looked at each other with confusion.

    “I’m sorry guys, your mother has passed.”

    The world stopped revolving. The room sat in complete silence. All that was left was an

empty feeling in my heart. She's really gone.

 _________________________________________________________________________


    Melanie saw Sarah at her first prom. She will miss her graduation, but I hope through my eyes, some of Melanie's spirit will come through. I am proud of Sarah, as I am of all the children in our lives that have become adults. Sarah went to her second prom last May. She may have one more yet to come, her senior prom. Through the camera I will capture these moments, as I knew her mother would have if she were here.

Sarah, Ryan and dad Dave, 2015 prom.

                 

Sarah 2015

   

My daughter, Kathleen Mita - Summer Stories at 27 Metcalf Rd. in Tolland. CT,.

Kathleen, ca. 2010.  Photo by Dan McGann

     Kathleen Linnea Mita was born on Aug. 2, 1986.  She is the only daughter of June Sundgren Mita and Michael A. Mita.  We are proud to say she graduated from Eastern Connecticut University in 2008, and is a manager for the Gamestop Corp of which Barnes and Noble is one of their subsidiaries.  She currently manages a Gamestop in Tolland, CT.  We cannot say enough how proud we are to have her as our daughter.  She is bright, humorous and we love her dearly.
     Life growing up with Kathleen was always a treat.  We never knew how her mercurial nature would be on any given day.  For our first family installment regarding the life and times of Kathleen, I am adding 3 summer stories from letters I kept for her to give her one day.  Once again, I hope I inspire parents to write letters to their children as things happen, or as they have especially memorable vacations or family gatherings.  If I had not kept these letters, I would have lost these three lovely and sweet events that I can read now with great fondness.

                

                                  The Monarch ca. 1994           

Kathleen ca. 1994.  Photo by June Mita

  The clear chrysalis had come to the Wheelers on a Saturday.  Inside, it held a Monarch butterfly.  By a thin string they hung it from their maple tree.  On Tuesday a storm worth writing about came.  The thunder and lightning crashed louder than fireworks.  The rain was so strong that in five minutes we had five inches of water in the wheelbarrow.  How the chrysalis continued to hang without injury is a miracle.

     The monarch began to stir on Wednesday, turning to a bright blue.  All night the butterfly swung its cocoon back and forth, its visible birthing sac waiting to be breached.  Thursday dawned with bright sun and there was much excitement as Jamie dashed over here to tell Kathleen the butterfly had broken the sac.  Two flushed faces peered with intense concentration as they witnessed the mystery of a butterfly leaving its cocoon.  At last the monarch cleared the sac.   His wings rolled in a tight spiral they dried and opened up while  Kathleen and Jamie watched.

     A new monarch is more beautiful than anything I've ever seen.  The colors are so new and bright.  His under wing had a dull orange color but when he opened them, the brilliant orange vibrated and breathed, etched in the blackest black.  The body had some white spotting.  His legs and antennae looked like black velvet.  They were soft looking with a fuzzy nap to them.

     As he hung from a twig holding on with dear life, he flexed his wings to get used to their feel.  A new monarch does not know right away what to do with the wings.  He rested so long, but Jamie and Kathleen grew anxious and picked him off the twig.  The monarch had wrinkles like veins forming as he continued to dry and flex his wings.

     As time went on, four hours had passed and he still had not flown.  We placed him on a butterfly weed but he seemed too tired and weak to move much.  As morning turned to late afternoon the monarch had still not taken a single flight.  Jamie kept throwing him in the air and like a rocket he dropped to the ground.  I was sick with grief as I began to suspect the butterfly had been injured and would never fly.

Photo by June Mita, ca. 2011

     I did not want the children to touch him but they kept holding him and irritating his wings by rubbing them.  All of us adults lost hope, believing that the butterfly would die in the maple tree where Jamie had put him several hours after plucking him from the butterfly weed.  Such a beautiful creature did not deserve to die.

     With the enthusiasm and undying hope all children have, Jamie and Kathleen would not believe the monarch would never fly.  They kept saying "He will fly.  You'll see."  As dusk came, Jamie and Kathleen went for a bike ride.  When they returned, the monarch was gone.  He had finally learned how to use his wings and flew to the nearest flower.  They were so happy and I said a prayer of thanks that the butterfly persevered and did not give up.

     According to Kathleen, he has visited both our butterfly weed and our beebalm to have the nectar.  I have not seen him in flight, but I shall hope they did indeed see this butterfly and that he is not in some grassy shady place flexing his wings no more.

                                The Night of the Meteor shower. ca. 1995

     August 13, 1995  we spent looking at shooting stars. It was the night of the Perseid meteor shower.  Up on the backyard hill we lay on a blanket, our heads comfortably nestled on pillows.

Kathleen and Jamie, ca. 1988.  Photo by June Mita

     Jamie Wheeler was with us too.  Ah, Jamie.  Her and Kathleen had been together since they were born.  Luz always noted how blond Kathleen's hair was in contrast to Jamies dark brown hair.  Fair be Kathleen and full of laughter, dark and exotic be Jamie and at times sullen.  Still, their friendship to each other worked well.

     We all peered into the blue black of the sky and we picked out the Big Dipper patterned obviously amongst the many stars.  We picked out the north star at the handle of the little dipper, and found Orion.  Then we waited for our first shooting star.

     We all saw it at the same time.  A streak of light which was bright and long, a panther in the sky, as it sped fast across many miles.  Kathleen was so excited.  She yelled out "OH MOMMY!' and hugged me deliciously.  I will always remember that thrill she received from her first shooting star sighting with me and the hug, unhindered, clinging, and oh so strong. 

     Kathleen was strong.  Much stronger than I ever was.  When she was just past a year I took her down to visit Mrs. Thorpe's new house on Tolland Marsh.  She had cannonballs decorating her fireplace and as small as Kathleen was, she picked up those cannonballs and carried them over to Mrs. Thorpe.  One ball must have been at least 10 pounds.  I'll never forget that first real show of how strong she would grow to be. 

     The shooting star search lasted for about 40 minutes with many squeals of delights and oohs and aahs as either Kathleen or Jamie spotted another meteor.  Between all of us we spotted about 15 of them streaking across the sky.  Finally the mosquito bites sent us all indoors to enjoy some lemonade and sugar cookies.

     I will always be grateful that I could enjoy the wonders of the earth together with my daughter and her friends.  Kathleen always was good company for those treks into the mysteries of our being.  Her wonder and joy  would seep into me and I'd feel the complete abandon and joy she did.  Our star experience was just one of many delights we shared together as she grew into the woman she became, responsible, loving, and caring.  That is the best I could ask.

                                                   The Cricket Incident ca. 1990

    It began as an annoying "chirp, chirp" which reverberated off the cement walls of the basement.  Another cricket had breached the solid cement foundation through their ability to defy all explanation.  Crickets seemed to go with basements.  Ever since I was a little girl I remembered our annual cricket hunt to track down and release the producer of the high-pitched harping which would awaken us in the dead of the night  Often the offender eluded capture and sometime in December the serenade ended.

     To a pre-schooler a cricket in the basement is not something to raise eyebrows and say curses under the breath.  A cricket in the basement becomes a conquest.

     It started in the usual way.  During some very hot, sticky weather at the end of July, I was downstairs doing some laundry when the chirping began, in the same room.  I searched the area where I thought it was coming from, but the elusive creature was not to be found.

Kathleen, Jamie and friends.  Photo by June Mita ca. 1990

     It did not take long for Kathleen, just shy of 4, and her friends to discover there was a coveted prize somewhere in the basement if they could only catch it.  Once again, the cricket led them on a chase, goading them to follow its chirps but staying well hidden.                                                                                                                   Kathleen, Jamie Wheeler, and Erin Beale decided to set traps.

     They went out and pulled up some grass and set about to make little nests all over the carpeted cellar floor.  There was one put under the play sink, another placed beside the freezer, two or three placed in the rec area, and a few other traps placed in places I probably still have not located.  Their reasoning was crickets live in grass so the cricket would find a grass nest and stay in it until they could gather him up and jail the poor creature in a glass home.

     The traps did not work.  They did sight the cricket several times but in the scramble to procure a container, the cricket disappeared under a loose floor tile or behind a register, or where ever crickets go to hide. 

     They never did find the cricket and it stopped chirping a few weeks later.   A month later, Kathleen and Jamie began screaming in the basement.  "Mommy there is a horrible black animal crawling on our toys.  HELP!  It's awful."

     I ran down expecting to see a mouse, but instead it was our elusive cricket laboriously navigating the rug.  He was obviously waning.  When I said, "Why, it's the cricket," Kathleen leaped off the couch and began skipping a dance of triumph.  She then began chanting, "The cricket, the cricket, we've finally caught the cricket." 

     I went into the back room for a canning jar while Kathleen pounced on it and let him climb her arm.  I felt the hair standing up on the back of my neck as I rounded the corner and imagined all those squiggly legs crawling on my arm. 

     Safely in its jar, the cricket was dubbed Hopper.  We layered the jar with some dirt, some grass, some bark, some moss and a rock.  Then I threw in a piece of leftover spinach which Hopper devoured.  He seemed happier in his new home.

     The cricket still didn't chirp, even after condensation began forming in the jar.  I wondered what crickets really ate, so we called a pet store that sold crickets for food to iguanas and I asked what they fed them.  Apparently crickets like gold fish food, so we bought some, and Kathleen and Jamie fed that cricket so much food, that within 3 days he doubled in size.  He then began to chirp.  Kathleen sat for hours watching the cricket, and she would add new things to his jar that she picked up from the yard or the woods.  Each addition just seemed to make him even happier and more chirpier. 

     Though the seasons changed from summer to fall, then winter, and all the crickets outside had long been silenced, we kept a little piece of summer by keeping a happy cricket in our midst.  

Outdoor Kathleen, Michael Mita, and Twinkie, ca. 1990.  Photo by June Mita.