Epilogue to Asolando: Madison, Wisconsin

"Mom will be ok now. She has agreed to the feeding tube," my sister assured me. Feeling a great weight off my shoulders, I boarded the plane for Chicago, the first leg of my trip to the Northern Plains LeatherSIR/Leatherboy contest.

My daughter had called two days before, informing me that my mother had been admitted to the hospital with complications from a sinus infection. And, even though she did not look well, she should be fine. That was Wednesday. On Thursday, my mother was up, shuffling about, sitting in a chair. I called and talked briefly to her, her responses a quiet whisper.

Three hours later as I made my way to my connecting flight, I noticed three messages in queue. A sense of foreboding told me that things were not good. "She has refused the feeding tube and was not expected to last more than one week," my sister said.

I immediately called my mother's bedside. "Please put the phone up to her ear," I pleaded. And to my mother, I chanted over and over, "I love you. I love you. I love you." I could not stop. Then I turned my face toward the wall and cried.

I decided to continue on to Madison, Wisconsin.

Early the next morning I searched for flights. Nothing seemed to work. I sat quietly over my morning coffee. Nothing else to do but complete my commitment to the producer at Northern Plains, return to Seattle, and then fly out again to be at my mother's side.

Hours later I received the news that she was unresponsive. A half an hour after that, I glanced at the clock. "My mother just passed away," I said to Solomon, the boy accompanying me.

I am my mother's son. She was a woman of fortitude. A matriarch who taught me to be independent and strong like herself. Although I knew she disagreed with the life I led, she acknowledged my deep-seated belief in myself and my strong direction.

Saturday night I asked myself what my mother would have done in my shoes. I knew that she would have finished what she started. She was a woman of her word. With this in my heart, I dedicated my evening to her. I did an impact demo on my boy Solomon with boy Ian assisting, and then an intense whip demo on redwarrior. "If you aren't going to do it all the way, don't do it at all," my mother said again and again during my adolescent years.

As I write this, I am on a plane flying to my mother's funeral. I listen to her favorite music, Tchaikovsky's Violin Concerto. I am empty and focus my energy on writing down my feelings. My partner sits next to me. He has made all the travel arrangements. Now securely by his side, I feel the intensity of my loss.

Intense play often requires us to go to a dark place and then be led back to the light by a trusted Sir. This type of play becomes a paradigm for facing death. During the nineties, I recall dungeon parties where we would acknowledge the loss of a close friend in play. Today, I draw on my Leather and my Zen to help me through each moment, trusting that this darkness will transform itself soon. I cannot escape the pain of this loss. And this is correct action.

A great deal of thanks to my Title Family boy Ian and redwarrior for their support in Wisconsin. To my boy Solomon for his deep sense of loyalty and compassion. And to my partner, Michael, for his constant strength.