The Hard Work of Dying is Done

My mom and I eleven years ago.  I have very few photos of her, as she hated having her picture taken.

Two nights ago, I became an orphan.

Even writing that makes me wince, and yet, here I am.  Maybe writing more here will help me move through the fog of complicated emotions that are overwhelming me. 

I received a call two weeks ago that my mom had been admitted to the ER from her nursing home.  A day later I spoke with her doctor, who casually said he thought she might be in the hospital for a couple of days, would be stabilized, and then moved back to the nursing home.  After a short discussion with Dominick, I made the choice to make a quick trip out to California for a couple of days to visit with mom and check in on her.  At 82 years old, her memory was beginning to fail, as was her ability to have real conversations, and after Dominick saw her in June we realized we may not have many more opportunities for me to be with her where she would fully realize who I was, so off I went. 

Arriving in California I picked up my dear friend, Candi, who had been planning on being with us in Colorado for the week, but changed her plans to accompany me while I visited my mom, then we would both head back home afterward.  Walking into mom's hospital room, it was clear something was not right, and a nurse met us and gave us an update.  Within the first five minutes, hospice care was mentioned, and my heart sank.  My mom's condition had changed drastically overnight, and her chronic kidney disease had progressed to the point where dialysis was necessary, and that was something she had made clear she never desired to have, and her nephrologist also stated that in her poor health, it was not recommended and would do little good at this stage.  At that moment, I was so glad I was not alone, and that Candi was with me to help me walk through what was going to be a week and a half of bedside visits and steady decline.  There were no real decisions to be made, there was nothing that could be done, the only action to take was being present.

Mom was always terrified of medical treatments and settings, and so I did my best to reassure her in her confused and panicked stated that she was fine, she was going back to the nursing home to her own bed, and they were just giving her medication to make her feel better.  While in the hospital before hospice becoming involved, mom cried frequently, whether from pain or from fear is not totally clear, but it seemed to reassure her to hear my voice.  Once medication was on board with hospice, she was far more comfortable and relaxed.

Sitting beside her bed at the nursing home, I stared at photos of my family on her wall.  Though she didn't know them well, she was proud of her grandchildren, and I heard from others how she talked all about them.  Daily, we witnessed her features change, as happens when someone is at this stage, and the mom I knew grew ever more distant, eventually looking nothing like herself.  I contemplated her life, and our life together. 

My family of origin was lower middle class, and a pretty broken one in many ways.  The happy family of my childhood changed drastically around my middle school years, and my brother, a mere year and six days younger then me, slipped into drug and eventual alcohol addiction that lasted his entire life, cut short at age 37 as he succumbed to liver failure.  My dad passed away at 58 years old due to a heart condition.  Mom, always an introvert, grew more reclusive in her later years.  We never had any real relationship with any outside relatives, my dad's family was unknown to us in any way, and my mom's brothers were distant and I was around them only a handful of times my entire life.  We were a family who had virtually no community at all, a lack I have felt my entire life.  Mom was a hard woman to get to know, her heart walled off and guarded to the hilt to protect her from some unnamed harm.  She was a good woman, but one who struggled mightily with affection.  Hugs were not offered nor were they comfortable for her, and trying to hold her hand in these last days resulted in her pulling away even while barely responsive.  I respected that, as it was uncomfortable for her, but I ached to offer some sort of tangible physical support.  It was not unfamiliar to me, but in these moments, I wished so much more for her.

Over the years, I became an enigma to my mom, a product of her quite intentional parenting that led me to be someone very different from her...a goal she spoke of often...but also created an end product she didn't quite know what to do with.  When young, she pushed me to be brave, to try new things, to be social, all things she found almost impossible.  She stated often that she wanted me to be the opposite of her, but when she was successful at that, she was faced with a young adult who felt almost foreign.  I am grateful for the ways in which she challenged me to overcome my own introversion, but I was left confused when she then also said multiple times, "I don't know why you would want anyone to know you that well, people just hurt you and you can't trust them."  That she walked through the world with that as her mantra was one of my most painful understandings in life, and her fear of intimate relationship created a distance between her and the world...and those closest to her...that left holes inside all of us that may never quite be filled up.  But I always knew the biggest hole was inside her, and no matter how hard I tried, there was no way I could shovel enough love in to bring it to level ground.

Sometimes the lessons we learn are from seeing something that doesn't work well in the lives of others, and my greatest lesson from my mom was to love with infinite openness, to dive in as deep as possible, and to never, ever withhold affection.  I also discovered how God can heal our open wounds, how inviting God to be present in my life and the life of our family, has literally changed everything.  I have seen first hand how walking in daily gratitude leads from a sense of lack to an inner trust in abundance, something I never learned in my youth.  I learned a great deal from my mom, and I say with all sincerity that I am deeply grateful to have learned it at all, regardless of how the lesson was taught. 

Mom on her 80th Birthday

There were many other lessons she taught me...how to be frugal and wise with money, how to "hear" music differently, how to stand up for myself and that NO ONE was better than I was regardless of their background.  I was taught to be respectful to others, to value education and to develop a love of reading from the time I was four years old.  My mom taught me to stop and think things through before jumping, to project outcomes, and to never feel the need to keep up with the Jones'.  My mom insisted on honesty, and had a work ethic second to none. 

Despite the challenging relationship with my mom, I loved her deeply.  She was the sole person left in this world who shared memories of a family who literally no longer exists, of my earliest years, of my elementary school antics and my middle school angst.  No, the irony does not escape me that, just like each of our five children, I too now have no one I am biologically connected directly to in my life.  Perhaps that is also an important feeling for me to experience, and a way to better understand those I love most.  It hurts.  A lot.  It all hurts.

What hurts the most is the sadness that existed in my family, the loneliness that pervaded and drove each person to a place that was unhealthy in one form or another.  There was a lack of peace and a hollowness for my dad, my brother, and my mom that I will never quite be able to shake or be able to avoid feeling guilty over.  Misplaced guilt, I get that, but sometimes we really are not in control of that, are we?

And then, in the depths of my dark despair, my own husband and children reached out.  Through gentle, tender words beautifully expressed in emails I will cherish forever, each and every one of them hugged me virtually, found words to comfort me, knew exactly what to say to help me begin to heal.  Matthew called me from camp late the night she died, and softly whispered to me as I sobbed, more and more a man with each passing day.  Friends messaged me, reminding me I am not alone in the world and that I matter to them.  Candi was present to keep pulling me toward a center that seemed elusive and kept me from feeling quite as raw as I could have.  And God was there with my mom each and every moment as well, in the ways she needed it, through her caring roommate, through the caretakers who were truly impressive in their work, and maybe...just maybe...through my presence as well.  I pray that is so.

I wish you great peace and love, Mom.  The hard work is over.  I will miss you, and I am who I am because of you.  Give Dad and Ronnie a hug from me.