I sat close to my Mom in her Hospice bed with my laptop where laptops usually sit – on my lap. She was unconscious, still; yet she looked like a passenger comfortably sitting in the seat of the plane, waiting on the tarmac for her plane to take off.
I’m not intuitive enough to make such a leaping prediction. The Hospice nurses who came and went every 20 or so minutes answered my only question with the same answer, ” it could be any time, She’s actively dying.” For all the traveling she did in her life; she packed, unpacked and packed again during our Dad’s military transfers, this was looking like her last trip with a one way ticket.
For the past few years I’ve heard “any time”, but to hear “actively dying” coupled with a Hospice bed now, I knew she was closer to leaving and this time maybe she would.
Thinking back, she told me four years ago after our Dad died that she didn’t want to be here anymore. That’s when she knew me, when she knew she didn’t want to be here, when the horrid phase of Alzheimer’s brings panic and fear. They were terrible days for her and terrible days to witness.
In Emergency rooms where we’d end up due to occasional episodes, she’d scratch imaginary worms off her body until she bled and insist that the flecks in the linoleum were worms. She’d lean down to the floor and try to rub them out with her fingers. I learned to agree with her no matter what she said, heard or saw. I agreed that Frank Sinatra was singing in the walls behind her bed, that there was commotion upstairs. There was no upstairs. Correcting her upset her even more.
I learned to agree with her that her mom, brothers and sisters were still in Philly. Reminding her that they had died years ago only lasted for a few minutes in her puzzled panicky mind anyway and she’d just ask the same question again within minutes. And worse, it upset and confused her.
I rarely said “good-bye” at the end of a visit without her begging me to drop her off at the bus stop to catch the trolley to the city so she could go home. That was over two years ago. She forgot who I was last year. Some days I was her childhood best friend. On other days I was her neighbor or a co-worker from the late 40’s. Recently, I’d been just a nice stranger who dropped by, smiled a lot and smoothed her hair away from her face. She forgot she hated having her hair close to her eyes. I didn’t.
I agreed to be whoever she thought I was.
I sat in her Hospice room and in-between holding her hand, I worked on a childhood story I wrote; a story that included her. Given the circumstances, the story changed from the story it was to a story that is now in bits and pieces. I decided to file it away for another day.
I took my eyes off of the keyboard to gaze at her still face and her quiet hands. I thought about her life, I thought about my life with her. Every memory of her came alive, every line on her face told a story but her hands held the strongest of memories. Now so soft from lack of use, so limp, so thin skinned and yet if love could be seen with the eye, I saw love in her hands. I saw decades of her hands hard at work; homemaking, mothering, packing, unpacking, creating, grand mothering, nurturing, hugging.
I decided to be who I am, her daughter. I whispered truths into her ear. No more make believe stories to prevent angst and worry. She didn’t look anxious and worried anymore. I whispered every possible thing I could think of that might leave me full of regret if I didn’t.
I told her how much I loved her, how grateful I was for her constant devotion as a mother. I thanked her for instilling in me the true meaning of faith. I told her that her mom, her brothers, her sister, my dad were waiting for her. I told her the trolley was finally here.
Note to reader~ That night my mom flew but on the wings of angels.
Un-file that old story, relive the memories! A reminder to remember while we still can. You are selfless and full of love, able to give your Mom what she needed. You make me want to be a better citizen on this planet.
xx
B
wow…so grateful to find you, to read about your mom/daughter relationship…what’s ur twitter handle? i’m @tresha…
loved where you offer
I decided to be who I am, her daughter. I whispered truths into her ear. No more make believe stories to prevent angst and worry. She didn’t look anxious and worried anymore. I whispered every possible thing I could think of that might leave me full of regret if I didn’t.
the lessons you are sharing are so powerful…in ways you’re ensuring her story…
grateful for your honesty…
Wow. Although I can relate somewhat to Alzheimer, I cannot imagine what that must be like. I agree with B, you are selfless and full of love.
I have walked with my grandfather as he slowly passed due to Alzheimer. He played the trumpet and was a huge jazz fan throughout his life. I remember going to visit him and my dad playing some old jazz music he used to listen to (and play) growing up.
Like you, I was forgotten by my grandfather. My dad, my grandfather’s son, was forgotten. We learned to agree. We learned to love. I partly understand your situation. His memory was fading. There were days where he wouldn’t eat. His body was decaying because his mind was failing. He was losing weight. Hair. It was one of the more difficult situations in life my dad had to deal with.
But when my dad played that jazz music… my grandfather somehow remembered the artists. He remembered who played what. His mind came back to him. I tear up just thinking about it.
Life is precious. When we learn to accept that, and live that out, we begin to live a deeper life. Too often our society becomes spoiled with all that we have and often we’re reckless. But life is precious. My graduating class from high school has lost 4 people. Each death could have been avoided had more care been taken. My graduating class has only been out of high school for four years.
Life is precious. We should spend more time with the people we love. And spread love. And be more loving.
Thank you for sharing your story.
Thank you for your kind words and sharing your memories. They are indeed precious. You clearly know the mystery of this complicated disease. I highlighted what came to my mind but I was at the tail end of my Mom’s journey of over four years when I wrote that. So many events, some so puzzling I have no words. Predictably unpredictable and painful to watch during the phase when my mom was distraught. I was grateful when she progressed to the next level of this daunting disease. No more anxiety and panic but I could see confusion in her eyes all the time. In the last few months, she simply existed. It took falling and breaking her hip- five days later she was gone.
I’ve heard of stories similar to yours. Music, nature, something familiar that brings them back to the present. Our Mom had similar moments too. My mom was selfless. She introduced unconditional love to me- for 58 years that was the essence of who she was. I must give her the credit for teaching me to give back all that she gave me.
Thankyou again, Suzi To: suzikressler@comcast.net Sent: Monday, January 4, 2010 5:20:15 PM GMT -07:00 U.S. Mountain Time (Arizona) Subject: [Under the Tucson Sun] Comment: “0”
I must give her the credit for teaching me to give back all that she gave me.
loved this line Suzi ~ many of the loved ones I have lost have been sudden ~ hard because I didn’t have a chance to say much that I may have liked ~ kind of left with an unfinished business ~
The closest I got was when I stayed with my Aunt who did not know she was end stage ~ I wished I cold have said much to her but then she would have known ~ but that was the close familys choice ~ I watched her get increasingly bewildered and frightened in that small hospital room ~ her daughter had to be sent for ~ I had always been close to my Aunt (Dads sister) and she did not want me to leave I assured her I would not ~ within an hour she went from being lucid to unconsciouness ~ but still hearing ~ by then her daughter had arrived into that dim room ~ now occupied by myself and my daughter ~ who she too adored ~ and I began to sing a lullaby ~ I knew she could hear as |I mized up some of the words ~ a frown ~ I corrected them ~ and she slowly began to relax and as I sang I stroked her head ~ something she always loved ~ (having her hair brushed she found so relaxing) ~ the rest of her family had not yet arrived but i had been there all day ~ I could not stop singing or stroking ~ and I thought at this point I then whispered in her ear that she was the best Aunty ever ~ she passed not knowing much but she passed knowing that ~ and I am so glad I said that and was able to be there for her ~ those we love an hold close do become a part ~ by sharing who we are we are sharing a little of them too ~ and the good that they imparted ~ your first line sure holds true of your hearttouched write Suzi ~ I answered after reading your orange blossom ~ Inhaled the wonderful perfume and aroma ~ Mmmmm and Chicken soup My fave ~ sending much love winging your way xx Lib
I am on twittr @libithina
I just read your comment Libi~ Sorry to be remiss. I’ve rarely re-visited this post. Now that it’s almost a year I find myself able to not only read this again, but see with different eyes what I wrote, what my friends have written.
We, all of us, tend to keep our deeper, sad thoughts to ourselves & yet we all have them for one reason or another.
We hesitate to write about sad things; we don’t want to be seen as doom & gloomers… whiners full of self-pity.
I believe in both. A balance. To only share what is heavy on our hearts is draining to others. And to only share light and fluffy things borders disbelief that anyone could possibly have a “happy” life every day.
And this is within our own personal lives. God forbid we acknoweldge the suffering all around us in our world. We’d drown in resignation.
I keep this one line in mind. It stuck. I read it one of the many pamphlets sitting on the table by our Mom’s bed.
“We are the closest we’ll ever be to God when we hold the hand of the one who is dying”.
After reading what you wrote, I believe you know exactly what I mean.
Thankyou for sharing your experience~