My mother Jeanette Marie Snyder passed away early this morning and though I am very sad to lose her, I am relieved that her long suffering with cancer has also passed. And she picked a remarkable day for it is also the date on which Miguel de Cervantes and William Shakespeare died. And it is the feast of St George -- which according to my daughter -- is celebrated in Barcelona by exchanging roses and literature. Perfect, and to add a Tucson twist, we will drink a few celebratory shots of tequila.
It has been a long journey for her -- and the last month was really hard. She was of the "do not go gentle into that good night" sort of woman so it was a slow dying, with moments of angry rebellion, and then finally with enough morphine to remove the pain, a more peaceful, but still determined resistance to cast off the mortal coil. I know this about her -- she was stubborn. Even as her systems shut down, her heart was still strong. I awoke yesterday morning with the image of her, somewhere in her head conversing with a group of confused angels, refusing to leave until she had fully explained to them the intricacies of Tibetan culture...a last and long lecture...to get out all she had wanted to say and write about these last years. Only when she was done talking, only when the light of understanding reached those heavenly and patient faces, would she then rise and go with them. I loved that about her.
