LOSING MOM - Part 30 and 31

Part 30

Of course, as calming as it can be to watch a leaf make its unpredictable way to the ground, it can also be pretty frustrating, especially when you really want to be there when it finally lands. Turn away for an instant, and the leaf you’ve been watching so carefully might take a sudden dive, even though the moment before it had been peacefully swirling away in a crosswind.

So even though Mom’s second ‘rally’ gave us all a little boost of confidence that it would be okay to slip home for a few days, making the decision to actually go was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. What if she took a turn for the worse and died while I was gone? What if, after having been with her from the very beginning of this horrible journey, I wasn’t there at the end?

It seemed impossible that I would leave, that I would willingly sacrifice even one second of my time left with her, but it also seemed impossible that I would stay, because every day the pull from home was getting stronger.

I missed my husband. I missed our dog. I missed the ordinariness of my life before Mom fell. Before my world tipped off its axis.

And somehow, even though my mother was dying (dying!), the world outside her Hospice room continued to spin. Bills needed to be paid. Taxes needed to be organized. February had somehow turned into March, and April 15th was looming on the horizon. It felt ridiculous that I was worrying about taxes with my mother on her deathbed, but there I was. Worried.

Anyway, having no idea how long Mom would continue on her unpredictable path, my sisters and I agreed that, as much as we wanted to be there together, it just wasn’t sustainable, especially if Mom’s path turned out to be longer than shorter.

So we came up with a plan. Lib offered to stay with Mom first while Sal and I flew home to regroup. Then, because Sal and Paul were just about to pick up a brand new puppy, I would fly back early the following week, crossing over with Lib for a night before taking over as the sister-in-charge. Then Sal would come back a week or so after that and take over from me.

And so it would go, week to week, as long as was necessary...Lib, Peg, Sal; Lib, Peg, Sal; Lib, Peg, Sal...each of us taking our turn watching our tiny, frail, and oh-so-loved leaf swirl and dip her way to the ground.

Of course it was, admittedly, a little daunting to think about being the only one on the front line with Mom without my sisters there for support, but after almost 2 weeks of the three of us there together, well...maybe a little break wasn’t the worst idea.

Not that we’d been fighting, at least not outwardly. Sure, there were a few times when I found myself frustrated with Sal’s bossy big sister tone of voice, or Lib’s ‘I’m sadder than everyone because I’m the youngest’ attitude, but I found myself trying really hard to just shrug it off. Our mother was dying, after all - I needed my sisters more than ever.

And I know they were both trying really hard, too, because the fact of the matter was there hadn’t been a big blow up. At least not a big one. Not that I’m an angel here, I’ve been known to stir the pot myself, but most of our biggest arguments over the years tend to start between Sal and Lib.

I’m not sure why. It could be that, unlike me, they both inherited the ‘like to argue’ gene from our parents. They tend to embrace conflict while I avoid it at all costs.

Growing up, Mom and Dad loved to argue, especially during dinner. Every weeknight the five of us would gather around the beautiful mahogany table in our formal dining room - Libby and Sal sitting on one side next to each other, with me, much to my inner middle child’s dismay, alone on the other side, across from them. Mom and Dad, each at their own end, would ask us how our days had been, and then tell each other about their own.

I can remember one night in particular, I was probably around 10 or 11, when, a little bored with the adult conversation, I was picking at my food not really paying attention. Suddenly, though, a shift in Mom’s tone cut its way into my thoughts, and I peeked over my plate to steal a glance at her face. Her mouth was set as she stared defiantly at my father, whose mouth was similarly set, his blue eyes piercing as he focused his attention fully on Mom.

Across from me, my sisters’ faces faded away behind the flickering candles leaving me feeling even more stranded on my side of the table. My eyes drifted down to the paper napkin crumpled in my lap, and I wished I could somehow crawl under it, away from the storm I knew was coming.

My parents’ voices grew louder and louder, their words overlapping as the argument escalated, gaining momentum.

“You’re wrong, Kay!” my father barked.

“I don’t care what you think, Bill!” Mom hurled back.

Neither of them willing to concede, the argument built into a firestorm of bristling fury and, terrified I’d be swallowed up by it, I ran from the table, racing up the nearby hall stairs to my room.

Burrowing into the safety of my bed, face down on the pillow, I put my hands over my ears, tears spilling out the corners of my tightly clenched eyes as I tried to shut out the angry voices echoing up the stairs and into my room. I could feel my parents’ anger swirling around me, poking at me, trying to get under my hands, so I would squeeze them harder against my ears, holding my breath, a voice in my head saying over and over, ‘Stop, Stop. Please stop.’

Then suddenly it did. As quickly as the argument had begun, it was over, my parents’ angry voices replaced by the sound of dishes being cleared, the television being turned on. I tiptoed to the top of the stairs and listened closely, just to make sure, heaving a big sigh of relief when I realized everything was back to normal.

I’m not sure why I was so scared by my parents’ argument that night because my sisters didn’t seem to be - at least I don’t remember either of them running from the table in tears. In fact, what I do actually remember is them teasing me pretty mercilessly about being such a cry-baby.

And maybe I was. Maybe I still am. I know Sal and Lib get frustrated with my overly sensitive nature, my tendency to run away rather than confront a disagreement. But in my defense, as the middle child and therefore, according to many birth order experts, the ‘family peacekeeper’, I think I feel a certain responsibility to not rock the boat, and if the boat is rocking, to try and steady it as best I can.

So when Lib and Sal butt heads my first tendency is to keep the boat steady by straddling the middle, holding my breath that whatever the issue is will blow over of its own accord and I won’t have to get involved. Of course, more often than not, I usually have an opinion, too, so end up taking one side or the other which, unfortunately, only results in the boat rocking harder. And because there are three of us, someone is, sadly, always alone on their side of the boat.

And so it was the last day we were all together before Sal and I were leaving. It started out just like any other morning with the three of us filing into Mom’s room one by one, hanging our coats one at a time on the hooks just inside the door, then fanning out to claim our seat for the day, rotating between us who would get the recliner, the most comfortable chair.

Mom was asleep, so we took turns carefully kissing her forehead and whispering hello softly in her ear, just so she would know, maybe, that we were there.

“Hey look you guys,” Lib was sitting in the chair closest to Mom, and pointed to the oxygen flowmeter on the wall over her bed. “It’s down to 8! Do you think that’s a good sign?”

One of the main reasons Mom had to go into Hospice rather than a skilled nursing facility after her fall was that her congestive heart failure had worsened in the hospital, increasing her oxygen needs from around 4 litres all the way up to 10. Hospice was one of the few places around that could provide that level of oxygen, and though we would have loved for Mom to be in skilled nursing where there was at least a hope that she might get better, Hospice was, at the time, the only viable option.

“I’m guessing it’s probably lower because she’s not moving very much,” I said, feeling badly that I couldn’t share Lib’s hopefulness, but honestly, Mom had hardly moved an inch in almost 10 days. “I’m sure if she tried to stand up, or even sit up, it would go back to a 10.”

“But it might be worth asking the doctor, right? I mean if she’s not needing as much oxygen now maybe there’s a chance she could still try skilled nursing?” Lib’s eyes darted between Sal and me, then came to rest on our sleeping mother. “Maybe we shouldn’t give up on her yet.”

Second guessing our decision to admit Mom to Hospice was something each of us had struggled with at some point the past couple of weeks, and it was especially tempting during a ‘rally’ when we could see a glimmer of her old spark.

What if we’d given up on her too soon? we would worry. What if she was having these rallies because she just wasn’t ready to die? What if we should be pushing her to do more rather than less?

What if, what if, what if.

Sal glanced at me surreptiously before clearing her throat and saying, in a tone that was maybe just a tiny bit big-sisterish, ‘I think Peg’s right, Lib...it’s not like her lungs are miraculously getting better.”

“Well I don’t see how it can hurt to ask,” Lib retorted crossly. “We should give Mom a chance if there is one!”

I looked down at my hands to hide the flash of irritation Lib’s seeming denial was triggering in me. What does she think? my indignant-self groused. That we don’t want to give Mom a chance? That she loves Mom more than us?

But because it was unusual for me and Lib to be on opposite sides of the boat - she and I are typically united in our younger sister indignation at something Sal has said or done that we’ve deemed irritating - a different, calmer voice was cautioning me to go easy.

“She’s just really scared,” my big sister-self reasoned protectively. ‘And sad. Tread carefully, here” she urged. “You’re all very fragile.”

Luckily, the doctor appeared in the doorway just then and, not wanting to disturb Mom who was still asleep, we filed back out into the hall to talk to her. After getting a quick update that Mom’s condition seemed to be stable, Lib asked her why the oxygen had been lowered.

Now whether Dr. B answered I honestly can’t remember at all because, unfortunately, Sal chose that moment to commandeer the conversation, waving Lib’s question away like a pesky fly.

Uh oh. Knowing how much we both hate it when Sallie dismisses us out of hand, my eyes darted over to gauge Lib’s reaction. Not surprisingly, her jaw was set, her green eyes staring fixedly out the window at the grey, March day.

Lib, as Lib is wont to do, had turned inward, shutting out Sal and me as definitively as if she’d closed a door in our faces.

Sadly, things went downhill from there. Dr. B left us to continue on her rounds and Lib, without a word, disappeared down the hall, her anger leaving a trail of tension that wrapped itself around my heart and, I think, Sal’s too.

The two of us slipped quietly back into Mom’s room, tiptoeing around her bed to our respective seats, both lost in our own thoughts. The hiss of the oxygen and the tick, tick, tick of the wall clock seemed louder in Lib’s absence, the room somehow unbalanced without her in it.

I couldn’t bear that she was so upset, that our last day together was now edged with friction. I thought about going after her and somehow trying to fix the situation, but deep down I knew that it wasn’t really my situation to fix.

Suddenly, though, Sal stood up and, walking purposefully toward the door, grabbed her coat from the hook. “I’m going to find her,” she whispered over her shoulder, leaving me in surprised silence.

Oh thank god, I couldn’t help thinking as I watched her go, my inner middle child heaving an enormous sigh of relief that someone, other than me, was going to try and steady our rocking boat.

PART 31

“I won’t be gone long,” I promised, leaning over to kiss Mom goodbye the next morning. “I’ll see you in a few days.”

“I love you,” she whispered, her cloudy blue eyes focused on me intently, her gnarled, dry hand squeezing my own. Gently squeezing hers back, my heart dipped precipitously at the enormity of what was happening.

Breathe, Peggy, I heard my stoic-self urging. You can do this. Be brave. It’s going to be okay.

No it’s not! my panicked-self snapped back. It’s never going to be okay again! Don’t tell me I can do this! I might never see Mom ever again!

Time stood still for a moment as I stared back at my mother, her face still so beautiful though creased and sagging with age. Could it be possible I might never see it again, this face that I’d known longer than my own? It was like I was standing at the edge of a steep cliff, and by saying goodbye I’d be consciously stepping off, plunging myself into the unknown emptiness of a world without Mom in it. I was terrified.

But then, miraculously, my brave self somehow found her way forward through the paralyzing fear, tamping down the rising panic that was threatening to bubble out all over the room.

“I love you too, Mom,” I smiled reassuringly, my voice surprisingly calm even to my own ears. “And Lib will be here...you won’t be alone.”

“You girls are too good to me,” she murmured. “I don’t know how I got so lucky.”

“We just love you, that’s how.” Gently kissing her pale, gaunt cheek one final time, I forced myself to stand up from the edge of the bed, reluctantly letting go of her hand in order to smooth the bedcovers over her tiny, frail body.

“I’ll call when I get home,” I promised, more from reflex than anything else. Growing up Mom had always been a ‘no news is good news’ kind of parent, but in her later years she had turned into a bit of a worrier when any of us were traveling, so we made a point to call when we were home safe and sound.

But her eyes had closed, so I wasn’t sure she heard me. I guess it doesn’t really matter anymore, I thought sadly, my throat constricting tightly as a fresh wave of grief tried to find its way through. No, no, no, I swallowed hard, forcing back the sob pulsing to escape, my throat throbbing from the pressure of keeping it from erupting out of me.

“Ready?” Lib poked her head in the door, and I nodded numbly, hoisting my bag over my shoulder as I followed her out of the room.

It was surreal. And I mean that literally because the truth is I can’t remember a single thing about saying goodbye to Mom that morning. Honestly, not one thing. It’s like someone took a paintbrush and whitewashed over everything that happened, and the more I try to wipe it clear so I can remember, the blurrier it all gets.

I like to believe it happened the way I just imagined, though, because even the most vivid imaginations rely on some snippets of truth, right? For instance, I know with absolute certainty that Mom told me she loved me that morning, because over the course of the past three weeks she must have said “I love you” to me about a hundred million times.

She would say it when she woke up, and when I kissed her good night. She said it after I’d give her a sip of water, or dab ointment on her chapped lips. She’d whisper it when I rubbed her arm, or straightened her sheets, or untangled her oxygen tubing.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too, Mom.”

Again and again and again. She couldn’t say it enough.

Neither could I.

Another thing I am also quite certain was true that morning would have been the struggle going on between my brave self and my scared self, as the two were ever present doing battle in my mind.

The brave me was always calm, confident in the belief that death wasn’t an ending but a transition, so even though I was losing Mom, she wouldn’t ever really be lost. That even though I wouldn’t see her anymore, she would still be around me if I looked hard enough.

The brave me was so sure about this that I had actually made a deal with Mom several months before she fell. Over the past couple years she and I had had several conversations about death and dying and I had, not very well as it would turn out, tried to articulate my layman’s understanding of certain spiritual and scientific laws that had helped me overcome my own crippling fear of death.

Not that Mom was scared of dying, at least as far as I knew. If she was, she never let on. But she did wonder if it was just an empty black void, so in our conversations I would try to explain why I didn’t think so.

“Have you ever heard that we’re not human beings who have spiritual experiences, but spiritual beings who are having human experiences?” I would ask, quoting Wayne Dyer, one of my most favorite spiritual authors.

Or, if I was feeling particularly brave, I would go with a more scientific approach: “They say everything is energy in the universe which means that we must be energy, too. And because the law of relativity says that energy can never be created or destroyed, only transformed, then we can’t be created or destroyed either! We must transform into something else! And if we transform into something else, then death just can’t be an empty, black void - our energy has to go somewhere, right?”

I know Mom tried to make sense of what I was saying, nodding her head now and then at my feeble attempts to explain things I didn’t fully understand myself, but then with a slight shrug of her shoulders would murmur, ‘Well, it is certainly food for thought” and move us on to safer topics.

About a month before she fell I had signed up for a local memoir writing workshop with the ambiguous idea of taking these conversations with Mom and turning them into something that might actually make sense to someone. And the way I decided to do that was by writing my thoughts out in letters to her which, in addition to sharing with my class, I would also email to Mom each week, in hope they would spark even more conversations.

All in all there were four letters, one for each week of the workshop, the last one sent just 4 days before the fall that would turn out to be the beginning of the end.

And in that last letter, in fact in the last paragraph of the last letter, my very brave (but in hindsight perhaps somewhat reckless) self reminded Mom of something we had agreed on in one of our earlier conversations:

“...So I think the reason I am sharing this with you is because I want to remind you of the deal we made the last time we talked about all this. That when you die, and you realize that I was right, that you are still very much around us and aware of us, and haven’t disappeared into a deep, dark nothing, you will send me a sign.

I promise I'll know it when I see it.

Love, Peg”

Jesus, looking back now I can’t get over my own arrogance! Who did I think I was acting like I had the answer to what happens when we die? Even worse, that I would try to convince my aging, not-in-the-best-of-health, 88-year-old mother that I was ‘right’, so she should listen to me!

I’m embarrassed that I let my brave self get so pushy, that I went so far as to insist that she should send me a ‘sign’ when she died. I mean, I do believe in signs (and in retrospect I wish we’d perhaps agreed on what the sign would be!) but my poor mother...I can’t imagine what was going through her head!

How could I have not ever asked her about her beliefs? Or about what brought her comfort?

Of course, in my defense, it was easy to let my brave self take charge when Mom’s death was still some far off future event and not something imminent, like it had suddenly become. Back then, before her fall, the confidence and certainty of my brave self’s voice easily drowned out the whispers of doubt and fear from my scared self.

Until that morning when I had to say goodbye. I’m guessing now that the reason I can’t remember anything that happened is because my scared self’s voice had escalated from a whisper to a scream, and it took all my conscious energy to block it out so I could hear the calm, confident voice of my brave self reminding me that it was all going to be okay.

And I’m pretty confident that I must have listened to my brave self that morning, because otherwise I’m not sure I could have ever walked out the door.

To be continued...