I've been thinking about my mom a lot lately. It's been almost four months since she died, but I find myself thinking about her more, not less.

If I hadn't been thinking about her, I'd have started when her nursing school graduation picture thudded to the floor from its resting place in the closet. It was night time, and I ran to see what had fallen in my room. And there was Mom, in her white cap, youthful beauty, and steady gaze, looking up at me from the floor outside the closet.

If she'd been able to speak, I know how her sentence would have started: "Tine, you really should. . ."

I had been in the kitchen thinking about avoiding cleaning, just as I am doing at the computer now. Mom disapproved of my preference for reading over doing. And one of her favorite "you really shoulds" had to do with getting California Closets(tm)  to organize my chaos. I suggested that I'd probably prefer to manage the part of the house people actually see first. But she always knew that you have to get to the bottom of the problem if you want to fix it.

But I digress. I'm really here to give you cleaning tips. Or one cleaning tip to get to the bottom of bathtub stains:

ZUD.

When we cleaned out Mom's apartment, I took the under-sink stuff, spray cleaners and an antique power box of ZUD, the Heavy Duty Cleanser. We'd always had it around the house, but I'd never adopted the habit.

So when I thought I'd better clean the tub in preparation for a nice soak after a long and sweaty walk, I decided to give it a try. None of the Scrubbing Bubbles or bleachy things had worked, and even when clean, the tub looked sad.

No longer. ZUD, an old-fashioned mix of oxalic acid, pumice, and quartz, did the job. I think it also polished my nails, as I didn't bother to wear gloves, figuring that any substance found in rhubarb, lambs' quarter, and chocolate (the oxalic acid) couldn't be too harsh.

Of course, I would be wrong about that: ZUD, the "800 lb gorilla of cleansers" is rated environmentally unfriendly. It kills too much bacteria, so you don't want to use it if you have a septic tank. And never mix it with other cleaners, especially those with chlorine.

But if you have an old, stained, porcelain tub, and you just need to feel like you've really accomplished something. . .listen to Mom.

Americans don't much like to talk about death. Which is odd, because it is both huge and universal. So I will write once more about my mother's dying. 

I went  to Oshkosh the morning of April 1st because my sister and I weren’t sure whether Mom, who had pneumonia, was getting any better. She’d also been having frequent episodes of cardiac arrhythmia that caused her implanted defibrillator to go off, shocking her, something she hated.

We’d asked her to give the powerful heart medication she also hated a month, and if she still wanted to, then she could stop it all.

When I arrived at the assisted living community where she lived, Mom was in her chair, very vacant. She’d fallen in the night, bruising her hip and elbow. She knew I was there and who I was but registered no emotion. Then her defibrillator went off (the second time that morning).

Her cardiologist had told her to call 911 next time it happened. We did, and I beat the ambulance, which wasn’t in a hurry, to the emergency department where my sister, Karen, was working.

The doctor asked what we were there for.

“We want you to turn off her defibrillator, stop her amioderone, and order home hospice for her.”

 I guess he thought I was a little direct, perhaps the merest bit bossy even. He checked with Mom, who was dozing.

 “What year is it?”

“Oh 8.”

“Who’s the president?”

Pause. Then, with a touch of distaste, the lifelong Republican said, “Bush.”

“Do you know what will happen if we turn off the defibrillator?”

“I will die.”

Karen called her son, Casey, to bring the new baby, William, so great-grandma Doris could meet him. Niece Molly came too, and Heather, Casey’s wife. Mom brightened with the baby, who’s named after my dad, the love of her life.

Karen and I sang some of the goofy songs mom used to sing when we were kids, Arthur Godfrey songs like Lonely Little Petunia and the Thousand Islands song. Mom smiled, while the kids listened in astonishment. I may be being a little generous in interpreting their reactions here.

The chaplain came, read some psalms and said the Lord’s prayer, which she repeated with him. “Thanks,” she said. I really needed that.” Then she asked, “What religion are you?”

“Catholic.”

“That’s okay. We won’t hold that against you.” Her last joke. You’ll just have to take my word for it that it wasn’t mean-spirited, and the chaplain laughed too.

There were many I love yous and kisses. When some who needed to leave left, we all pretended that the goodbyes were temporary.

The cardiac tech arrived and turned off the defibrillator. We took Mom back to her home, where hospice would be set up the next day. That was okay: I was staying overnight, and the assisted living aides would check in on her every hour.

Mom ate a little and seemed to enjoy it, especially the cream of tomato soup. Her brother called and they spoke a bit; so did my daughter Annie in Colorado.

Mom perked up some and was smiling, talking a little. We watched American Idol together. “I don’t like that Jason Castro,” she said.

 “He’s a weak singer, but he sure is pretty,” I said.

About ten to 8 she said, “I’m tired now.”

“Should I call the aide or can you wait until 8 when she’s planning on coming?”

“I can wait.”

The aides came, walked her to the bathroom, cleaned her up. She was smiling. Walked her to her bed. I put her favorite pajamas on her and was just laying her down to sleep when her heart went into ventricular fibrillation. The aide came in to help. I called Karen and told her to get over fast.

I was saying the Lord’s Prayer again, King James style,  when I heard Karen’s voice join in behind me: “Thy will be done. . .”  We finished, and moments later, around 8:30, Mom softened and took her last breath.

It was as good an end as you can hope for, I think.

Then the same paramedics who took her to the hospital earlier came—a legal thing. Their arms were loaded with equipment. I told them if they tried to resuscitate her I would jump them and wrestle them to the ground. They assured me they weren’t going to do any such thing. A young woman police officer arrived and ended up staying the rest of the evening, in a companionable way. Then the coroner showed up—a friend of my sister’s. He stuck around, too. The facility administrator came. The funeral home guy.

Everything that needed doing was done by 10:00.

I went to Karen’s house to toss and turn. I couldn’t stop wondering where all that love Mom had for us went. Then I realized it hadn’t disappeared: it was in me, in all of us, just getting bigger. Then I could sleep.

The Norwegian solje pin commemorates special occasions. This is a wedding solje, given to a bride by her husband on the morning of her first day as a wife.

My mother, Doris, died on April Fool's Day, also the birthday of her oldest grandson, Casey.  As deaths go, this was a good one: more about that later.

But yesterday was a whirlwind of meeting with funeral directors and bankers. Mom had things carefully lined up, and by noon my sister and I were done with what needed doing right away.

We met Karen's grown children, the aforementioned Casey and his sister Molly, for lunch.

Casey's forearm, a pretty massive one, was bandaged. We'd been forewarned, but we feigned ignorance and asked what was up. He lifted the gauze to reveal a tattoo, about six inches long, with a shamrock and in large script, "Doris." 

"Oh, that's just what Grandma would have wanted you to do," said Karen, sarcastically. Mom was not fond of tattoos, especially Casey's "sleeve," an elaborate design covering his entire arm.

"Casey, you look like you were in the Navy during the Big One," I said. "Nobody younger than that has 'Doris' on his arm. And what's with the shamrock?"

 "Grandma was Irish, wasn't she?"

"No, she was Norwegian. A little bit Irish. Her grandpa Duffy was."

Casey's dad, brother-in-law Larry, has a St. Patrick's Day birthday, so the tattoo will do double duty in the memorial and honoring departments. 

"You could have gotten one of those Norwegian pin designs," said Molly, no stranger to the inked needle herself. "But that's pretty complicated."

Like life--and death--I thought. 

I'm writing this wearing my great grandmother Sofie's wedding solje--even more lovely than the one pictured--and a boiled wool jacket my mom gave me just before she died. Like her, they are warm and beautiful.

Casey's tattoo, not so much, if you ask me. But it will raise delight and laughter each time we see it. Grandma would have laughed, too, after scolding him for having no taste and less judgment.

"So how'd it go," I asked Mom.

"It was wonderful. We had so much in common! We just talked and talked and talked. I think we closed the place down."

The "place" was not a restaurant but the dining room at Gabriel's Villa, the assisted living community where Mom now lives.

Some of you know that she had recently been in a nursing home. It was touch and go, and for a while we thought we were going to lose her. But remarkable woman that she is, she rallied. And now she's doing better than she has done in three or four years. She navigates her small but attractive apartment without a walker and is managing a complicated drug regimen. If it weren't for the swollen ankles, she'd feel as good as you can at 87 with a bad heart and arthritis.

One reason for Mom's new zest for life is Inez. The same age as Mom, she also moved into the building a week ago. She's bright, cares about her appearance. Both are widows, still in love with their husbands. Both have two daughters, one near and one far, and nearly enough grandchildren for all the love they have to lavish on them.

Between them was that instant spark that leaps between two people now and then, if you are lucky, that happens with soul mates. Not only the one who is destined to become your partner: a friend. Someone you met at school or in the sandbox before that. At work or on a picket line. Even, it seems, in a "nursing home."

I just got off the phone with one of mine. We met by chance when our daughters spied worthy adversaries and raced across the Sunday school room to wrestle each other to the ground.

Mom's a great adapter. She's adjusted to everything that's come her way with great heart and good attitude. Her last deep friend died 20 years ago. So many other friendships, solid but not quite the same, have been made and then lost to death.

It's so wonderful that she has this chance once more for a friend of the heart.

In life, that makes all the difference.