The author with her mom, circa 1967 or 1968
Yesterday, August 9th, marked the one-year anniversary of the last thing my mother ever said to me. The day after tomorrow will mark the anniversary of her death.
In the past year, I’ve run the gamut of emotions regarding my mother’s passing – sadness, guilt, anger – and everything in between. Recently, I’ve replayed her last few months in my mind, wondering if there was anything I could/should have done differently. Should I have been more present (yes), was I loving and kind when I was with her (yes as well) – you know – things we all struggle with when a loved one dies. All the things we can’t change.
We got Mom into hospice care about eight months before she
died, and that was a true blessing because I didn’t have to be the “first
responder.” When she tried to get out of bed and fell (again), the assisted
living’s staff first call was to the hospice nurse, who could determine whether
or not Mom needed to go to the hospital.
Two weeks before she died, a substitute/contract med tech
found Mom on the floor and couldn’t immediately get in touch with the hospice
nurse. She told me she “wasn’t losing her job just because I didn’t think she
needed to call 911.” So off to the hospital Mom went, with me following soon after.
This was the first time that Mom clearly didn’t know who I was. When I told her
I was Maryann, she said, “You don’t look like Maryann.” I pulled down my facemask,
and I guess that was enough to convince her, but it was unsettling. In the car
on the way back to her Assisted Living facility, she told me she was glad she
didn’t have to go to work that night because she didn’t feel good. I’m not at
all sure she knew who was driving her home.
Looking back, there were times when I’d walk into her room, and
her face would light up. She’d say, “Oh. It’s you!” I now know that she was
likely giving herself time to get my name into her mind, but she at least
recognized that I was someone she should know. That trip to the hospital marked
(or caused?) a big, and what was to be the final, decline in her mental state.
For the two weeks after the hospital visit, her grasp on the
here and now got weaker. She spent a lot of time in the past – things like telling
me her homework was in the drawer and to make sure she didn’t forget it when
she went to class and wondering if she had completed her nightly paperwork
before she signed out from her shift as a nurse. I just played along.
The Monday before she died, I went to visit her. She was
very agitated, and her restless legs were at a peak restlessness. She was also
talking, talking, talking, but I couldn’t understand much of what she was
saying. She did ask me where her cigarette was (she quit smoking about 50 years
prior), and I told her I put it out.
The most striking thing that happened that day was that, for
a period of time, Mom was having a lovely, quiet conversation with someone who
was right in front of her. I could tell she was looking directly in front of
her face, not off into the distance. And she seemed so happy to see that
person. I wish I could have understood what she was saying. Dementia and mobility
issues had robbed her of so much joy, and it would have been nice to hear her true
sweetness one more time.
Besides the question about the cigarette, the only other
thing I understood that day was her saying, “Bye, baby!” when I left. I kissed
her cheek, told her I loved her, and that I’d be back soon. I wish I had known
that was the last time she’d talk to me. I would have said more.
I went back two days later, at about 3:30 in the afternoon.
Her room was dimly lit, and Mom was awake but completely still – a stark
contrast from the previous visit when she had been so agitated. A couple of
people were in the room, including the regular med tech and the hospice social
worker. I asked what was going on, and the med tech said, “She’s transitioning.”
Mom’s breathing was labored and loud, but otherwise, she seemed completely at
ease.
I thought I was prepared for this next step, but I really
wasn’t. Thank God for my brother, Phillip, who jumped in the car and drove down
from Knoxville as soon as I called, and the social worker, who stayed all night
with us.
Phillip and I held Mom’s hands and spent the night telling
the social worker stories about our childhood and ones we knew about Mom’s life.
For a time, we were sure she was aware we were there. I’m sure she enjoyed
listening to us talk. She liked nothing better than to hear people’s stories. I
hope it made the transition easier for her, knowing we were there.
Eventually, Mom’s breathing slowed and then finally stopped altogether.
We stayed for another hour or so and then went home to get some sleep. Her cat,
Nike, who lives with me now, curled up on the bed with me, keeping watch like
he always did for Mom.
And now, a year later, I don’t know any more about how to
live without her. I have to resist the urge to take the exit that would take me
to her assisted living facility. I have questions only she can answer –
forgotten names or events I’m sure she’d remember. Time can be generous and blur
out the hard spots, and I know it wasn’t all roses and sunsets, but I sure do
miss her.
