I know that, for many in my demographic, the first decade or so of our lives was spent fretting about whether our underwear was clean enough. This obsessive thought came directly from our mothers and their insistence that we never, ever leave the house in anything less than pristine panties. Why? Well, we could be involved in an accident. This was a puzzling reason but, since it came from our mothers, we dared not question the logic.
As I grew into an adult, I worried less about the state of my underwear and more about my ghost outfit. What about that, Mom? Why was my ghost outfit never deemed critical? Or was clean underwear the only way into the Afterlife Outfit Boutique?
I took my mother seriously when it came to clean underwear. I took it so seriously that, when I watched a classmate tumble off our school’s giant metal slide, my immediate concern was not the 90-degree turn in her lower leg, but whether or not she was wearing clean underwear. An ambulance was summoned (a 1970’s ambulance, so a white station wagon with a red cross on its doors), and yet all I could think about as the sirens approached was, “Oh gosh, I sure hope she’s wearing clean underwear.”
I watched as two people leapt from the wagon, talked to a few of the grownups, and zipped around the injured girl before sliding her into the back of their rig.
“Oh, what a relief! She did have clean underwear!”
Sadly, those words were not just in my mind, and I faced a few quizzical looks from my fellow seven-year-old rubberneckers.
My mother insisted on clean underwear in case of an accident. She failed to mention that this was not a deal breaker for the receipt of that care, a fact that should not have been neglected. I feel the same way about ghost outfits – something that should have been thoroughly addressed but never was.
It’s no secret that whatever we are wearing upon death will be with us for all eternity as we wander the next world, reconnecting with friends who arrived earlier and visiting with those we left behind. This may be a controversial view, but I consider our ghost outfits to be infinitely more important than the state of our underwear.
Ghost outfits finally entered the conversation only when it became apparent that my mother’s days were coming to an end. One of the things we had insisted on while she spent nine months in a nursing home, was that she wear her own shirts rather than hospital gowns. Ordinary clothing gave Mom a tiny piece of normality and removed just a sliver of the clinical feel that comes with full-time residential care. The staff very kindly honored this request, although getting the shirts onto my mom was a bit more challenging than a hospital gown. We tried to make it easier by cutting a slit up the back of each shirt, which gave Mom something tangible to complain about.
It should be no surprise that a few of the shirts had funny little sayings on them. Mom loved an outfit that was also a conversation starter. Some of her favorites said, “I Do My Own Stunts” and “Adulting: One Star; Do Not Recommend”.
I entered Mom’s room at the exact moment she drifted into the awkward pattern of Cheyne-Stokes respiration. She was wearing a royal blue “Life is Good” shirt that made her eyes turn the color of topaz. This moment has seared itself into my brain: Mom struggling to breathe, brilliantly beautiful eyes that had lost the ability to focus but, hey, life is good. I learned later that she was likely unaware of what was happening, thank goodness.
I also learned that Cheyne-Stokes often marks the beginning of the end. Within seconds of my discovery, the room filled with staff members rushing to make Mom comfortable while explaining gently, but urgently, that Mom was now actively dying. It was time to summon the family. An aide removed Mom’s soiled shirt and asked if I wanted to grab a new t-shirt or if a hospital gown would be okay.
“A gown is fine.” The aide tilted her head as I continued, “I mean, it doesn’t really matter now, does it?”
It did matter.
Once Mom was comfortable, our hospice nurse asked if we had travel clothes picked out. By then my dad had arrived, and every single question felt like a Rubik’s Cube.
He blurted out, “Travel clothes? Why?”
Our nurse explained that it can be nice to have a favorite outfit ready.
Dad’s answer: “I don’t know. I don’t know.”
Mine: “Yes, I have them ready. I’ll bring them over later.” Bear in mind that this was my second go at this in six months.
We forgot all about the question for nearly 48 hours until we arrived at Mom’s bedside just minutes after she had passed. She looked so peaceful, finally, with her battle complete. The room was quiet at last, without the pumping of an oxygen machine. And the traveling clothes? They were perfect. She had on a long-sleeve UNC shirt and her favorite off-white vest. It was the first time in months, I thought, that Mom looked like her. I hope that makes sense.
My dad exclaimed, “Oh! She’s dressed! Where did those clothes come from? Judy, you look so nice!”
Those words were everything.
At first it was a challenge to excise some of the last, less pleasant images of Mom from my brain – especially the Cheynes-Stokes moments. When one’s life shuts down over the course of days, it truly is a full-body process that includes bizarre benchmarks like blood-pooling at pressure points, skin becoming clammy, and eyes sinking in. Like birth, death is laborious and not at all pretty.
Today, three weeks later, my brain is in full protection mode. I can hardly remember Mom in anything but that final outfit, her ghost outfit. It wasn’t chosen at random. She and I had talked about it once or twice and her primary request was, “Make me look like me.” Her second request was that she enter the afterlife without shoes (they made her feet hurt), without a bra (she hated them), and without underwear (this seemed like a trick). Was she testing me?
After a childhood filled with “Make sure you have on clean underwear”, now I was being directed to make sure that she had on none at all? What?
Mom did look nice. She did look pretty. She did look like her.
No, she did not leave this earth wearing underwear, clean or otherwise, but she did have on the most perfect ghost outfit.
Jyl Barlow is an American writer whose humor is often lost on, well, Americans. Jyl’s second book, Sparent, released this year to rave reviews, caused readers to spit out their tea while reading. Jyl navigates life as a (second)wife and (step)mom with inappropriate laughter and near-perfect hindsight. She resides just outside of Richmond, VA in a newly empty nest and works as a travel planner when not writing. Get to know her at JylBarlow.com.
Story illustration via Unsplash (edited)