Jim Olson

1/9/24

It is nearly a year now since mom’s passing and the solemn weight of any voicing of the phrase “thank you” has rested on my shoulders every day since.

Many of us were brought up with the ingrained use of “please”, thank you”, and “your welcome”.   It was taught, learned, refreshed, and finally embedded into our lives.  It became automatic, and while respect is the inherent trigger for the use of these phrases, the heartfelt use of these axioms ultimately always become lighter in weight as a measure over the years.

The 26 plus years of visiting Mom at her house since Dad’s passing had always ended with a “thank you” by her.  It was always associated with the specific visit, or a specific task completed, and having been so raised, a simple “your welcome” was returned.  Respect given; respect returned.    

One day shy of her 97^th birthday, with a returned cancer knowingly bringing an end to her life, she was forced into a hospice care center.   She would reside there for 25 days, with the last 10 or so in fast decline.  It was almost exactly 10 days until her passing, when upon getting ready to leave her for the night, that she very purposefully took my hand, looked me in the eye, and very intentionally said “thank you”.   It very much stopped me short, jolting me back into the chair I had just left.    

The clarity of her intent in that thank you was clear.  It had the solemn weight of a far greater purpose than our learned respectful exchanges.  She was thanking me, and for the next 10 days, would close each visit by thanking me, my sister Cindy, and brother Mike when he was present from out of town.  She was thanking us for our kind time and attention that sustained her over the years.  Each night, right before leaving, usually turning out her main light when she had become bed-ridden, she would utter, no matter how weak, that same clarifying “thank you”; and each night, I would return to her as best I could, a heartfelt “your welcome”. 

Leaving her on what was to be her last night, I gave her a kiss, and headed to the door.  She had been mostly non-responsive during our visit, slipping in and out of wakefulness.  I reached for the light, turned it off and was surprised when I heard a gentle but firm “thank you” …twice.  I said as gently but as firmly as I could, “your welcome mom”.    We never spoke again.  She passed in the early morning hours before the next daybreak.

The first time I heard “thank you” after that, I nearly burst into tears.  It remains a trigger, carrying all that solemn warmth and clear respectful purpose every time I hear it now.   I hope it never means less, becomes less.  “Thank you” deserves weight. It should not matter the cause. I have come to know and enjoy the heft of the phrase. It needs that respect.