These 6 days in July are a tough time for me. July 4, 2008 was the last time I talked to my mother, saw her smile, held her hand and felt her squeeze mine back. July 5, 2008 was the day she had a massive cerebral hemorrhage, likely wiping out at least the meaningful consciousness we identify with healthy brain functioning, except for that part that keeps a body breathing. July 10, 2008 was the day she died, hanging on far longer than doctors, nurses, or Hospice workers thought she would.
So, these bright summer days so associated with fireworks, parades, picnics, and beach-going remind me instead of shock, sadness, loss, and grief.
My relationship with my mom had historically been a complicated one from my perspective. She was complex -- at turns rigid, judgmental, and opinionated, while also generous, creative, loving, and gentle. She loved her family above all else, and what felt like judgement came from a place of worry and care. She often had a glass half-empty perspective on life, expecting the worst. She came by this stance honestly, based on the hard times of the Great Depression, which formed her, as well as life experiences she'd encountered as an adult. I felt, at times, that she was hard to please, hard to know, hard to understand--at least when I was also trying to find myself, my way, my identity. In my youthful arrogance, I was determined NOT to be like her. (The laugh's on me, of course.)
After my dad died in 1994, she seemed to mellow, and allowed herself to be more vulnerable, admitting she was lonely and depressed. I lived 2000 miles away. Together we made a plan, in 1996, for her move to the Northwest, finding a home for her 2 miles from my house. For several years we were able to finally have a relationship based on mutual love and respect. I guess we'd both mellowed -- me into a middle-aged realization that life doesn't always go as planned; she into elder years of more ease and acceptance. We had fun together -- women sharing and connecting about "woman stuff".
And she seemed content. She spent her time with a few friends in her neighborhood, went to church, took the bus to the Mall, worked in her garden, decorated her home, wrote her historical fiction, walked 2 miles a day, ate well, did her crossword puzzles, sewed, read voraciously, spent lots of time with me and my family. In other words, she did everything "right" in terms of commonly reported tips on remaining healthy and active into our elder years.
Still, I started to notice the changes in 2003, when she was 83 years old. Over the next two years she gradually started sleeping late into the morning, not eating well, neglecting her housework, sitting in the same chair for hours on end, forgetting to take her medicines, having trouble with her finances, and becoming addicted to sending money to any charity and sweepstakes "come on" she received in the mail. At each change, along with an increased number of medical issues, I was vigilant in trying to find the cause and to mediate any deficits. I was DETERMINED and CONVINCED she would return to "normal" once we figured out what was causing this disruption in the mom I knew.
Finally it became clear we were dealing with a "new normal" -- one with the name "vascular dementia". The neurologist said the changes in gray matter he saw on MRI and CAT scans were consistent with the damage a life-long smoker does to their brain. My mother never smoked, but she lived with smokers for most of her life, from childhood until my dad died. Don't believe second-hand smoke isn't harmful to those around you; it is.
She moved from her small home to an assisted living facility until she needed even more assistance than they could offer, then again to an Adult Family Home. I was so fortunate to find absolutely lovely and loving places for her to live in both instances, close to my home. Over the 5 years of her gradual decline into increasing dementia I suspected, as did the doctors, that she may have been having small strokes. Eventually she could not walk unaided and her confusion at times was profound. I was often sad and disbelieving that this was happening to her. It didn't seem fair; she'd always been the picture of health and vitality.
Gradually, however, I gave up on the "fairness" argument and began to see the gifts in the new mom before me. She was unfailingly polite and even happy, no longer worrying herself with the "what if's" that had plagued her throughout her life. She was always delighted to see me and my family, joked with her caregivers, enjoyed her housemates for the most part, had a childlike joy and wonder over the most mundane of events, was up, dressed, and a part of the life of the home in which she lived every single day.
Until that day when she wasn't. She always said she didn't want to "linger" and hoped the end would be fast and painless. It was. She had that massive stroke while getting ready for bed and never regained consciousness. She hung on for several days, quite unexpectedly, until the Hospice nurse suggested there might be some "unfinished business". Indeed.
The rest of her family had become geographically far flung; she had not seen most of them in many years. The day before she died, I called each of them on the phone and asked them if they wanted to talk to mom/grandma. The Hospice nurses said we never really know what a comatose person can understand -- words, the sound and cadence of a voice, a gentle touch -- maybe on some level beyond our comprehension there is a consciousness still aware. I held the phone to her ear as each member of her family spoke to her, offering her their love and gratitude. It might be coincidence, I know, but I choose to believe this connection allowed her to let go peacefully and with assurance that all was well in the world she was leaving.
So I think of her these early July days and of that time 4 years ago when I sat vigil at her bedside, holding her hand, resting my head on the pillow next to hers, singing Happy Birthday to her a month shy of her 88th, telling her how much I loved and appreciated her, asking her forgiveness for my naive judgements of her, and telling her I would do my best to be happy, which is all she ever wanted for any of her children.
It's all any mother wants.
So, these bright summer days so associated with fireworks, parades, picnics, and beach-going remind me instead of shock, sadness, loss, and grief.
My relationship with my mom had historically been a complicated one from my perspective. She was complex -- at turns rigid, judgmental, and opinionated, while also generous, creative, loving, and gentle. She loved her family above all else, and what felt like judgement came from a place of worry and care. She often had a glass half-empty perspective on life, expecting the worst. She came by this stance honestly, based on the hard times of the Great Depression, which formed her, as well as life experiences she'd encountered as an adult. I felt, at times, that she was hard to please, hard to know, hard to understand--at least when I was also trying to find myself, my way, my identity. In my youthful arrogance, I was determined NOT to be like her. (The laugh's on me, of course.)
After my dad died in 1994, she seemed to mellow, and allowed herself to be more vulnerable, admitting she was lonely and depressed. I lived 2000 miles away. Together we made a plan, in 1996, for her move to the Northwest, finding a home for her 2 miles from my house. For several years we were able to finally have a relationship based on mutual love and respect. I guess we'd both mellowed -- me into a middle-aged realization that life doesn't always go as planned; she into elder years of more ease and acceptance. We had fun together -- women sharing and connecting about "woman stuff".
And she seemed content. She spent her time with a few friends in her neighborhood, went to church, took the bus to the Mall, worked in her garden, decorated her home, wrote her historical fiction, walked 2 miles a day, ate well, did her crossword puzzles, sewed, read voraciously, spent lots of time with me and my family. In other words, she did everything "right" in terms of commonly reported tips on remaining healthy and active into our elder years.
Still, I started to notice the changes in 2003, when she was 83 years old. Over the next two years she gradually started sleeping late into the morning, not eating well, neglecting her housework, sitting in the same chair for hours on end, forgetting to take her medicines, having trouble with her finances, and becoming addicted to sending money to any charity and sweepstakes "come on" she received in the mail. At each change, along with an increased number of medical issues, I was vigilant in trying to find the cause and to mediate any deficits. I was DETERMINED and CONVINCED she would return to "normal" once we figured out what was causing this disruption in the mom I knew.
Finally it became clear we were dealing with a "new normal" -- one with the name "vascular dementia". The neurologist said the changes in gray matter he saw on MRI and CAT scans were consistent with the damage a life-long smoker does to their brain. My mother never smoked, but she lived with smokers for most of her life, from childhood until my dad died. Don't believe second-hand smoke isn't harmful to those around you; it is.
She moved from her small home to an assisted living facility until she needed even more assistance than they could offer, then again to an Adult Family Home. I was so fortunate to find absolutely lovely and loving places for her to live in both instances, close to my home. Over the 5 years of her gradual decline into increasing dementia I suspected, as did the doctors, that she may have been having small strokes. Eventually she could not walk unaided and her confusion at times was profound. I was often sad and disbelieving that this was happening to her. It didn't seem fair; she'd always been the picture of health and vitality.
Gradually, however, I gave up on the "fairness" argument and began to see the gifts in the new mom before me. She was unfailingly polite and even happy, no longer worrying herself with the "what if's" that had plagued her throughout her life. She was always delighted to see me and my family, joked with her caregivers, enjoyed her housemates for the most part, had a childlike joy and wonder over the most mundane of events, was up, dressed, and a part of the life of the home in which she lived every single day.
Until that day when she wasn't. She always said she didn't want to "linger" and hoped the end would be fast and painless. It was. She had that massive stroke while getting ready for bed and never regained consciousness. She hung on for several days, quite unexpectedly, until the Hospice nurse suggested there might be some "unfinished business". Indeed.
The rest of her family had become geographically far flung; she had not seen most of them in many years. The day before she died, I called each of them on the phone and asked them if they wanted to talk to mom/grandma. The Hospice nurses said we never really know what a comatose person can understand -- words, the sound and cadence of a voice, a gentle touch -- maybe on some level beyond our comprehension there is a consciousness still aware. I held the phone to her ear as each member of her family spoke to her, offering her their love and gratitude. It might be coincidence, I know, but I choose to believe this connection allowed her to let go peacefully and with assurance that all was well in the world she was leaving.
So I think of her these early July days and of that time 4 years ago when I sat vigil at her bedside, holding her hand, resting my head on the pillow next to hers, singing Happy Birthday to her a month shy of her 88th, telling her how much I loved and appreciated her, asking her forgiveness for my naive judgements of her, and telling her I would do my best to be happy, which is all she ever wanted for any of her children.
It's all any mother wants.
At least, that's the view from here....©
You know that my husband and I both have aging mothers (94 yrs and soon-to-be-90) and this entry touched me in so many, many way. Thank you for being open with the conflicting emotions with which we struggle. And the demands on time and the occassional bursts of laughter.
ReplyDeleteYou are wonderful. Grandma is wonderful. I love you both.
ReplyDelete<3 BH
Beautiful Ivy. Brings joy and sadness to my heart all at the same time. Grandma was a teacher of sorts and I will be forever grateful for all she did for me. Love
ReplyDeleteFROM AN EMAIL SENT TO ME:
ReplyDeleteThe 'Mom' piece brought memories as my mother slipped. She also stayed friendly and glad to see us. Friendly is a relative term as she was a bit shy, but at least she was sweet and smiling. I find myself having changes in health and brain power. So now I have turned into my mother. She even left me her arms!