LOSING MOM - Part 15
Though it hadn’t even been a week since Mom fell, I felt as though I’d been in Ohio forever. It was like I was in some kind of bubble where time had become inconsequential, and anything going on outside of that bubble was inconsequential, too.
Like my life.
It was strange being so detached from what was going on at home in Connecticut, but honestly, every ounce of my energy was so intently focused on Mom and her well-being there just was not much left for anything or anyone else.
Even for my husband, John.
God, how many times had I dropped everything over the past few years to fly out to Ohio to take care of my mom? And yet John had never once complained, or made me feel anything but totally supported. Luckily, we were at a stage of life where he was more able to pick up whatever ball(s) I had to drop at the last minute, which helped make things a little easier, at least for me.
Also, we thankfully didn’t still have three young children at home, like we did the night I got the call that my dad had died. That was a horrific few hours as we scrambled around trying to figure out what to do.
We'd been startled out of sleep around midnight by the phone’s shrill ring, my heart pounding with dread even before I heard Mom's voice on the other end.
"Peg?"
"Mom? Are you okay?"
"I'm okay, but Peg, Dad just died. They took him back to intensive care but it wasn't in time. His heart just gave up."
"Oh, Mom. Oh no. Are you alone? Is anyone with you?"
"The doctors are here. The nurses are wonderful."
"Okay, okay. Do Sallie and Libby know?"
"I’ve called Sal and I’ll call Lib now. "
"I’ll get there as soon as I can. Will you be alright tonight?"
Mom assured me that she’d be ok, so I reluctantly said good-bye, knowing she still had many calls to make. But the thought of her there all alone, with Dad gone forever, was too much for me to bear, and as I hung up the phone, the tears that I’d been holding in erupted from what felt like the bottom of my soul.
My cries sounded inhuman, even to my own ears, and though John tried to comfort me, I kept pushing him away, pacing the bedroom and sobbing with uncharacteristic abandon. Part of me knew I was being selfish...I mean, John was obviously really sad, too, but I just couldn’t get myself under control, even for him.
It was as though my fear of the deep, dark nothing that I’d been keeping at bay my whole life, had finally found its way out of its box, and there was no way I could get it back in.
But then it was over. As fiercely as the tears had begun, they stopped just as abruptly, leaving me shaken and unsure what should happen next.
Luckily, John took over, getting on the phone with the airline and booking me on the first flight out in the morning. I attempted to pack a few things, and we talked about who we could get to help with the kids, who, at that stage in our lives, were all under the age of 5.
And then we tried to get some sleep. Exhausted in a way I’d never been before, my body melted into the soft, cool sheets. But as tired as I was, my mind would not be still and kept bouncing around to all the things I needed to do before I left.
Lying there in bed, fretting and worrying, I noticed a little niggly voice in the back of my mind telling me not to take that early flight. ‘Wait', it whispered, ‘go later. Change the reservation.’ I tried to ignore it, and when that didn’t work, I tried to argue with it. Tossing and turning, I went through all the reasons why I had to go early. Mom was all alone. I needed to get to her. John had made the reservation. The plan was all set. Don’t rock the boat, Peg.
But the more I argued with the voice, the more insistent it became, until finally it got so loud that I climbed out of bed and went downstairs to the kitchen. Pacing the cold floor in my bare feet, I realized that I really had no choice. Whatever this voice was...intuition, premonition, gut-instinct...I just knew deep down that I had to listen. So I did.
Not wanting to wake John and have to explain what I was doing, I picked up the phone and called the airline myself to change the ticket.
Amazing the things we could do back in 1991!
The sun was just starting to peek its way over the horizon, and as I stood at our living room window sipping my coffee, numb with grief and worry, I watched its beautiful light turn the sky from pink, to silvery crimson, to the palest of blues. Lights came on in the house across the street, and the newspaper boy flashed by on his bike.
How is it possible, I wondered, that everything’s the same, but so totally different?
I heard John and the kids begin to move around upstairs, so I turned away from the window and took a deep breath, steeling myself for what lay ahead. One step at a time, I remember thinking. I’ll just take this one step at a time.
And step by step I made it through that endlessly long day. Changing my plane reservation turned out to be a godsend, because Mom decided at the last minute that she wanted all the grandchildren to come, too. Had I been on that earlier flight, it would have been almost impossible to get our kids to Ohio without me. I knew John could have handled it, but it was just so much easier that I was able to bring them with me.
I like to think that the voice in my head that night was Dad. That the energy of his soul was still very much around us and he knew it would be better for everyone if I took the later flight. And just as he would have in life, he nudged me and nudged me until I did exactly what he wanted me to do. He was always so frustratingly good at that!
Anyway, I guess my point is that leaving home was never uncomplicated, with young children at home, or not. But John loved my mom a lot, so no matter what may have been going on in his life, he always helped me figure out how to get out to her as fast as I could.
And this time, having no idea if I’d be there another day or another month, John was especially understanding, always saying to me at the end of our calls: “Stay as long as you need to, Peg. Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”
So I didn’t worry. At least not very much. And even though I’ll never know for sure exactly what went on for John on his side of the bubble, I will be forever grateful that whatever it was, he took care of it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Being in the Hospice bubble was definitely hard, but I have to confess I didn’t really like getting pulled out of it. Not by well-meaning friends calling to check in. Not by my kids. Not even by John. Most times I found myself just letting the calls go straight to voicemail, maybe sending a quick text: ‘Sorry! Can't talk now! I'll call later!"
I felt kind of bad when I did that, but truthfully, it was just too exhausting trying to explain what was going on inside the bubble to someone on the outside.
Even the simplest of questions like "How are you doing, Peg?" could sap the strength right out of me.
"Oh, I'm doing okay. Hanging in there," I might answer, trying to sound strong.
But, honestly, what I really wanted to say, and what took a lot of my energy not to say, was something more like; "Are you f...ing kidding me? How do you think I'm doing? My mother is dying and it's horrible! I can't bear another day of this. But if there isn't another day of this then that means my mom will be dead, and I can't bear that either. I don't want to talk to you. I don't want to talk to anyone. Please just leave me alone."
So as sad and scary as it was to be in the bubble, it somehow took much less effort to just stay inside it. With people who understood what was going on, like Mom, and my sisters. The doctors and nurses.
Because with them, I didn't have to explain a thing.
*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!