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James Bennett column: A time to live, a time to remember

By James Bennett | Independent Tribune

Published: December 27, 2008

My father called last night with a devastating medical update on my mother.
His voice was cracking as he described dialing 9-1-1 and sending my mom to the hospital in the gravest of condition. He wondered if she ever would come home again.
I momentarily tuned out on the details and found myself facing an unfamiliar dilemma.
Should I drop to my knees and pray for her recovery?
Or should I hope for an end to her immeasurable suffering?
I've gotten only one similar call from my dad in the past. Two years ago, on New Year's Eve, the doctors told him congestive heart failure was killing my mother. They doubted she would make it through the week, let alone two years.
Over her doctor's objections, my father checked her out of the nursing home where she was staying. He moved her back home to our property off a scenic highway near Cookeville, Tenn.
If she was going to die, my father reasoned, it'd be at home, surrounded by all her favorite things - her family, her comfortable bed, precious doll collection, Dolly Parton songs, nicknacks and her painting of the Lord.
I visited my mother at Thanksgiving and watched her struggle for every breath. I saw pain in her eyes, a final sense of desperation, as she battled the odds for one more miracle. I sat next to her bed as my mind raced back 30 and 40 years, remembering a great mother's hardscrabble life.
Carol Jean Kirchner Bennett has been a fighter all of her life. The daughter of a foreman and inventor at Ford Motor Company moved kicking and screaming to Tennessee with my father in the 1950s and eventually fell in love the South.
It took a while to make the adjustment to the slower pace of rural life. My mother grew up with buses and trolleys in Detroit, so she never learned to drive. She relied on family and friends for transportation, meaning she stayed home with her four hard-headed boys most of her life. She relished the job and made our lives special, filled with love and discipline, if not fancy meals, toys or trips to the mall.
My mother's kindness was subtle and pure. She kept the house cleaner than humanly possible. She taught us to take care of what we had. She would put inexpensive items in layaway and pay for them for months before bringing them home.
Visions of Christmas 1971 came flashing to mind as I spoke with my father. To me, it's as memorable as if it were yesterday. That year, I told my mother I was hoping for a bike under the tree. She told me it would not happen. Sure enough, I found a small transistor radio and $5 in my stocking. I was a little disappointed but not surprised. Later, she asked me to go look in our barn. There was the $25 department store banana-seat bike I had shown her. She never told me where she got the extra money.
The spirit of Christmas always ruled in her heart. She loved to play holiday music by Elvis and country singers, a far cry from her Detroit roots. She once told me she wanted Dolly's "Hard Candy Christmas" played at her funeral. I was looking for the CD when I was at the house in November but could not find it. But I will.
Mom has done exciting things. She grew beautiful gardens and loved five gorgeous grandchildren. She rode on a houseboat amid the grandeur of an Arizona desert lake. She saw Michael Jordan play in person. She celebrated on the street corner when the Tigers won the World Series in 1968. She won a $125 jackpot with one quarter at an Indian casino. She moved into her dream house nearly 11 years ago. She had the dedication of a husband who never gave up on her.
Mostly, the tender moments, not just the exciting ones, come back to me. In fall 1979, she and my late brother, Tom, drove me to Knoxville for my freshman year at the University of Tennessee. She unpacked my bags, cleaned the dormitory bathroom and quietly slipped me a $50 bill. Outside Clement Hall on the tree-lined campus, she hugged me harder than ever. I didn't want to let go, just like I don't want to let go now.
My uncle T.J., a Methodist minister of 30 years, helped the family (and me) battle grief when my grandmother (his mother) died in 1996.
"If you believe God has a perfect plan in giving life," T.J. said at her funeral," you have to have faith he has a perfect plan for death, too."
I'm taking those words with me as I prepare to see my sweet mother, possibly for the last time, later this week.