LOSING MOM - Part 17
One morning, a few days after Lib left, I woke up with a feeling of despair so heavy and thick that I couldn’t make myself get out of bed. I lay there looking disconsolately out the window at the gray, overcast March sky wondering how in the world I was going to get through another day at Hospice.
It was like I was living in some horrible, morbid version of the movie Groundhog Day, where every day was the exact same as the one before, and the only way to break the endless pattern was, unbearably, for my mother to die.
Which, of course, I dreaded happening, even as I, very guiltily, longed for it.
Every night I would put the phone on my bedside table in case Hospice called, praying that it would ring, while in the same breath praying that it wouldn’t. And every morning, when I realized that it hadn’t rung, that Mom had made it through yet another night, my heart would rise and sink simultaneously as I contemplated another day just like the one before.
The good me, the one who was grateful for every minute she got to spend with her dying mother, would say to herself, ‘Okay, well, even though I can’t believe Mom made it through another night, I guess I’ll just be thankful for another day with her.”
But then there was the not-so-good-me, the one who was overwhelmed and filled with self-pity, who would say to herself, “Oh my god...I can’t believe Mom made it through another night! I’m not sure I can bear another day of this.”
The two me’s were in a constant state of conflict; where one was accepting, the other was despondent. Where one felt grateful, the other felt guilty. One was content to sit with Mom for hours, the other restless and antsy.
Most of all, there was the me who was scared Mom would die, and the me who was equally scared that she wouldn’t.
It was horrible. And as I lay there that morning wallowing in self-pity, I felt horrible for thinking it was horrible.
But here’s the thing, walking into Hospice every morning was actually, pretty horrible.
First of all, the main entrance door was really hard to open, at least for me. I know this might sound ridiculous, but I honestly dreaded going through it. Especially early in the morning when I had my computer bag on my shoulder and a cup of coffee in my hand, having to pull the heavy, wooden door open toward me was, well...just really annoying.
Who ever designed it this way? I would wonder as I struggled to pull it open, and then keep it open while maneuvering my way through without banging my shin, or spilling my coffee. It would be so much easier if I could just push it in! My god, walking into this building is hard enough without having to deal with this stupid door!
The next thing I dreaded, and I’m pretty embarrassed to admit this, was talking to the oh-so-nice receptionist behind the front desk. Now don’t get me wrong, she was always very kind, greeting me every day with a warm, albeit sad, smile, and wishing me a good morning in her hushed, Hospice voice.
Early on we would exchange pleasant small talk as I signed the guest log, but as the days began to pile up on each other, I found myself hoping she might be on the phone, or away from the desk, so I didn’t have to talk to her.
I was just so weary. So tired of smiling, and being upbeat. Of making small talk with the same person, no matter how nice she was, day after day after day. It was just so much easier to not talk, awkward and unfriendly as it felt, and so I would keep my eyes lowered, hastily scrawling my name in the book, then shooting her a quick, apologetic smile as I hurried past the desk.
The worst part of the morning, though, and the thing I dreaded way more than pulling open the heavy door or talking to the friendly receptionist, was walking down the hall for the first time every morning.
Mom’s room was at the far end of a fairly long corridor, so in order to get to it I would have to pass at least 10 other rooms. And during the course of any given day I would probably walk up and down that corridor a dozen times, maybe more, on my way to the cafeteria, or the nurse’s station, or out for a walk to get some fresh air.
I would try not to look in the open doors as I passed by, but oftentimes I just couldn’t help myself, and would catch glimpses of the people inside. Some would be sitting up in bed watching TV, or staring out the window. Some would be visiting with friends or family. Most would be asleep, slack-jawed and pale.
And though I didn’t know anything about any of them (other than their names, from the plaques outside their doors), I felt like I did. Not their individual stories, of course - who they were, what they did, why they were there - but I knew how their stories were ending.
In a room. At Hospice. Just like my mom.
The morning after Mom was admitted, I was walking down the hall in the early hours, lost in thought, when I noticed an empty bed in a room that I was certain had had someone in it when I’d left the night before. For a brief moment I was confused…had the person been moved to a different room?
Then it dawned on me that no, of course they hadn’t been moved. How silly of me to think that, even for a second. Obviously, the person had died. This was Hospice afterall. That’s what people came there to do.
But still, that empty bed really gave me pause. At some point, in the middle of the night, the person who had been in that bed just hours before had taken their last breath. Their story had ended and poof, they were gone.
The undertaker had come and rolled the body out on a stretcher. Perhaps the family, their arms laden with all the things they'd brought to make their loved one more comfortable, had followed behind, heads bowed in sadness. Housekeeping had been in to clean everything up, sterilizing the room for the next patient.
There wasn’t a trace left of the person who had been there.
The bed was neatly made, the sheets and blankets tucked in tightly, the pillowcase crisp and smooth. The nightstand was free of clutter, the tray table carefully pushed in at the end of the bed. There was a faint odor of disinfectant, not entirely unpleasant, but different than anything I had noticed the day before. The nameplate was empty.
And so it was almost every morning in the weeks to come, one empty bed after another. I dreaded seeing them. I dreaded their reminder that death was hovering in every corner, and one day it would be my mom’s bed that would be empty.
So yes, the days at Hospice were pretty horrible, and that particular morning I was feeling pretty sorry for myself. Sal poked her head in the door, and sensing that something was up, came over and sat next to me on the edge of the bed.
“What’s going on?” she asked. “Are you okay?”
I shook my head, tears welling up in my eyes.
“I’m just so tired. And I feel like a horrible daughter that I’m wishing she would go. So this would be over.” I put my head in my hands, tears spilling over as I let myself cry.
“It’s okay,” Sal rubbed my back, ‘we’re all going to have days like this. Don’t feel bad, Peg...this is really hard!”
She sat there quietly next to me until my tears dried up. I blew my nose, and gave her a wan smile. “I think I’m okay now...thank you. I feel better.”
“Are you okay to go over? I can reschedule my call if you’re not.”
After Lib had left, Sal and I decided to try tag-teaming when we could, in order to give each other little breaks. Often I would take the early shift at Hospice because Sal, unlike me, actually had a job, and the mornings were a good time for her to make phone calls and catch up on emails.
“No, no...I’m fine. I can go,” I assured her, and, trying to convince us both that it was true, finally pulled myself out of bed.
As I was getting dressed, I remembered reading in a self-help book once that a good way to shift your perspective on something that you ‘had’ to do, was to tell yourself that you ‘got’ to do it, instead. For instance, rather than saying ‘I have to go to the grocery store’, saying 'I get to go to the grocery store’ can make it seem less of a burden and more of a privilege. It can shift your outlook from ‘woe is me’ to ‘lucky me’.
Amazing the power of words.
So that morning, as I got my things together to go spend another day with Mom at Hospice, I decided to try it.
‘It’s not that I have to go see Mom today,’ I reminded myself. ‘I get to go see her.'
And it made all the difference.
*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!