LOSING MOM - Part 14
Mom’s rally continued over the next couple of days which, depending on the particular moment we were in, was both a blessing and a curse.
She was eating again, which was a good thing, but the food that was going in was having trouble getting back out, causing Mom great discomfort and the nursing staff great concern. They tried everything they could to make it happen naturally - suppositories, prune juice, laxatives - but nothing was working.
“Maybe if I could sit on a toilet?” Mom finally suggested, frustrated more than anyone by her uncooperative body. "It’s just hard to go in my pants when I’ve spent my whole life trying not to.”
"It’s okay, Mom,” I assured her, smiling to myself to see a whisper of her fiery spirit. “You’re doing fine. Do you want to try the commode? It might be easier than getting you to the bathroom.”
She nodded her head, and while the aide went to set one up next to the bed, Julie shooed Sal, Lib and I out the door to give Mom at least a semblance of privacy.
There was a sunroom just down the hall from Mom’s room - a little oasis where family members and friends could sit and chat, maybe have a bite to eat, or talk on the phone so as not to disturb whoever they were there visiting.
Light streamed in through the multitude of windows lining the walls, and leafy green plants surrounded the several different seating areas scattered around. The space felt warm and inviting, despite the dreary, overcast weather outside.
But as we turned the corner to go in we realized it was already occupied by another family, all standing about, talking in subdued voices. Not wanting to intrude, we started to back out, when a woman separated herself from the others and came toward us.
“Are you Kay’s daughters?” she asked, and when we nodded that we were, said, ‘I love your mother so much! I was heartbroken when I heard she might be here. I’m Gretchen D...maybe we’ve met before? Kay and I were in Garden Club together for years. She’s always been such an inspiration to me!”
My sisters and I were used to hearing things like this about Mom - she had developed quite a fan club over the years. I guess her no-nonsense approach to getting things done, combined with her love for whatever it was she might be doing, was something that other women, especially those in the younger generation, like Gretchen, really appreciated.
“My husband's in Room 101,” Gretchen explained, gesturing to the room next to Mom’s. “My daughters and I are just having a little break.”
Oh dear. I looked over at the women behind her and felt my heart constrict upon seeing how young they were - I guessed in their early thirties, the same age that I was when my dad died. I felt sorry for them, knowing how hard it was to lose a parent at that stage of life, and for a minute their impending loss put my impending loss in perspective.
After all, Mom was 89. She’d lived a long, happy life. Her death would be sad, but certainly not a tragedy. Not like losing your 60-something-year-old dad, right?
Ummm, actually, no. Not right at all. Losing mom was very much a tragedy. My tragedy, to be exact. And selfishly, I didn’t want to put it into perspective.
This may sound horrible, but I found myself a little resentful of that poor, unsuspecting family for making me feel, even though they had no idea they were doing it, that the loss they were facing was somehow bigger and sadder than my own.
After all, I was losing my mom, my last parent, and not only was I beyond sad, I was also really scared. Contemplating my world without her physical presence was disorienting and I felt off-balance when I thought about finding my way around without her. She had always been there.
Ironically, it was the state of Mom’s physical presence that brought me back to the present just then, and seeing Julie poke her head out the door to look for us, we murmured our condolences to the D family and left them to their own sad story in the sunroom.
“Any luck?” Lib asked as we filed back into the room.
“I’m afraid not,” Julie reported. “Unfortunately, even with both of us helping, she didn’t have the strength to get off the bed. Just wore her out, poor thing. She’s asleep again.”
My sisters and I circled around Mom protectively, like wagons around a campfire, scared to ask what needed to happen next.
How does her body even work anymore? I wondered to myself. Everything about it is so incredibly old! Mottled with age spots, bruises, and bulging blue veins, Mom’s crepey, paper-thin skin seemed to be melting off her bones, hanging loosely in folds on her small, 98 pound frame.
Her hands, with fingers bent and crooked from years of untreated rheumatoid arthritis, gripped the edge of the tray table in front of her, as though she was trying to keep it from rolling away. Her chest was hard and bony underneath the hospital gown, her once ample bosom now sagging and flat.
One time, after getting Mom back home after some hospital visit or another, she needed a shower, but wasn’t able to maneuver getting in and out by herself.
“I can help you, Mom,” I offered nervously. Having not seen my mother naked in about 50 years I wasn’t exactly thrilled at the prospect, and I could see her struggling with misgivings of her own. Maybe modesty, although back then, when we were only just setting off down the 'Aging Mother Road', I think it was more pride than anything else.
I followed her into the bathroom, and seeing her hesitate realized she was also going to have trouble getting out of her clothes by herself, too. Taking a deep breath, I forced a smile onto my face, and stepped forward to help as matter-of-factly as I could.
Off came the turtleneck, and the black, elastic waist pants - her standard uniform in the winter months. I watched as she awkwardly unclasped her white, no-nonsense bra with her crooked fingers, always amazed at what she was able to do despite their misshapenness. I turned away to check the temperature of the water, scared to look as she stepped gingerly out of her even more no-nonsense underpants, the same kind she’d been wearing since I was a little girl.
“Okay, ready?” I took her arm and led her over to the tub, letting her put her weight on me as she stepped over the edge. My heart nearly broke at the sight of her aging body, her breasts sagging to the middle of her belly, the skin around her now shapeless bottom drooping in folds. Her beautiful white hair lay flat, revealing patches of pink scalp normally concealed by her weekly visit to the hairdresser. Even her feet looked old, distorted as they were by hammer toes and bunions.
Talk about putting things into perspective! I take after Mom in shape and size, so getting that glimpse of my body’s future made me laugh at my own current insecurities regarding my aging self.
I perched myself on the toilet seat to wait as she showered, and tried to remember how Mom looked when she was younger. Memories of her at different ages flickered across my mind, finally settling on one from her surprise 40th birthday party. I could see her clear as day, dressed in a black and white polka dot dress, her once jet black hair accentuated by a skunk-like line of white as she had recently decided to just let the grey have its way.
I remember being a little embarrassed by that skunk-line, because, at 10-years-old, I just really wished she could have normal colored hair, like all the other moms I knew. Now, of course, at age 60, I am in a bit of awe at how brave she had to be to let the grey take over at such a young age.
Because take over it did, eventually turning Mom’s head into a beautiful cloud of snow white hair that, rather than making her look old, seemed to bring out the blueness of her eyes, and the dark tone of her complexion. Somehow Mom seemed to get prettier with age.
Another memory suddenly flashed through my mind of me sitting on my parent's bed, watching as Mom got dressed to go out to a party. I was probably about 12 years old...young enough that it didn't feel awkward for me to be there, but old enough to watch very carefully as she put on her bra, and then slipped her stockings on up over her legs and hook them to the garter belt around her waist.
Her body was so familiar to me back then. So Mom.
And it amazed me as I stood to help her out of the shower, that this unfamiliar body dripping before me was the same one I was remembering from so long ago. What an incredible machine the human body is that it keeps doing what it has to do no matter how old and feeble it might get.
Until, of course, it doesn't.
Sadly, things can start to get pretty complicated (and uncomfortable) when the body stops cooperating with itself, and so it was with Mom.
“What now?” Sal asked Julie as we stood around watching our mother sleep.
“Well, as much as I don’t want to put her through it, I'm going to have to go in and remove the blockage, so it doesn't cause even more problems.”
Jesus. As if this whole experience hadn't been humiliating enough. Poor Mom.
So yes, rally days were definitely a blessing and a curse, depending on the particular moment we were in.
And we were in a bad moment.
*Note to Reader: This is a story in progress, so I am sharing it as I write it, as a way to spur me on. If you're interested in following along, here is the link to the others I've written so far. Thanks!