The phone rang this morning at 0220. "It's done," my husband said, his voice low and broken. "She's gone."
On Sunday morning, as Ma declined all her regular medications and any treats but ice chips and ginger ale, after I'd picked the dead flowers out of bouquets covering every surface and brought in new blooms from her garden to freshen up her night table, I started thinking about what we as a culture do for ritual in death and dying, and what I came up with was sorely lacking. I hate funerals and always have; I swore the wake I attended at age 19 for my friend Tree was the last funeral I would be present at- I had lost 15 people dear to me in less than 7 years, and after multiple funerals accompanied by wracking sobs, perfumed black clothing, and waxy corpses, found that modern religious (and secular) death rituals kind of suck.
So. I googled it. I knew that I would not be present for Ma's death, knew that she would last maybe to Tuesday, but I wanted to do something to recognize this work of dying, something to celebrate the passing of her. Being an atheist, the rituals of most Christian groups didn't appeal to me, but I loved the simplicity of the bathing and wrapping of the body after death that turned up again and again in so many religious customs. I had been massaging Ma's swollen feet and legs with lemon and lavender essential oils every day, anyway, and so when I read that pagans give baths to their dead and dying with rosemary to cleanse and protect the body on its journey, it seemed natural to add that to the others. This time, though, I worked every bit of Ma's bare skin I could find. I gave her an angel bath of oil and fragrance and love, and she watched me, eyes locked on mine, and I couldn't help but cry.
Like most rituals of dying--in which the ceremonies are more for the living than the dying--this bathing was more for me than for her, my way of saying thank you and goodbye to this woman I've loved for a few years but have just recently grown to admire for her stubbornness and tenacity, her optimism and her great love of family, her unwillingness to complain even in the midst of great pain, and her wide open, forgiving heart.
Sunday's sun tipped toward the west and it was time for me to leave, to get back to Bend and the work of living. I leaned in close to tell her goodbye-- that I was leaving and likely wouldn't see her again. She said, "No." And held me close, and I told her that I didn't think her Jesus would come for her while there was a heathen in the house. She laughed and said she'd like to see me in heaven. I told her I didn't think that was likely.
I was so happy just knowing her here.
May 20, 2014
May 18, 2014
cancer is satan and other stories we tell ourselves to get by
It has been five days since I saw Ma last. We expect a physical decline, but really, she still looks pretty good. It is her medication changes and her vital signs that tell her story, her slide into sleep that isn't chemical sedation but rather an increase in CO2 and the metabolic changes as her body dies. Although medically competent to care for Ma, I feel judgement (where there likely is none) from family and her church members-- why should the heathen new daughter-in-law be caring for this woman? Sometimes I feel Ma's impatience, too-- that maybe the other daughter in law does a better job, or anticipates her needs more, or whatever. And then I feel really, horribly selfish, because of course Ma's frustration has very little to do with me. She is working very very hard doing exactly what she needs to be doing, and it is not easy. Death is a process, and my job is to be supportive of her and make her comfortable and give her whatever she wants and needs.
Today what Ma wants is cold. An ice cold wet washcloth for her forehead, ice chips and cold ginger ale to sip at bedside, a foot and calf massage with peppermint essential oil and a fan blowing on her feet after. Every window in this house is open. I'm shivering on the couch and she is complaining that she is hot. And then, inexplicably, she wants to sit up. I get her situated on the edge of the bed and await further instruction.
"Those plants out there need water," she says. And sure enough, they do. We are so focused on caring for her that things that aren't going to matter in a week when she is dead (like gift plants that will be thrown out) aren't high on the list of priorities. But what Ma wants, Ma gets. I remember her crowing exactly that two weeks ago, this woman who worked her whole life making sure everyone else got what they needed. She isn't saying that now; frankly, she is saying very little. The tumors are pressed up against the fundus of her stomach, which doesn't like things pressed up against it. Hence, the persistent nausea. They combine with the ascites in her belly and push up against Ma's diaphragm. She is out of breath now brushing her teeth or talking too much.
The hospice nurse says that ideally, what will happen is that Ma's oxygen will continue to fall and her CO2 will continue to rise, putting her in a semi-euphoric state from which she will enter a coma and slip peacefully away.
* * *
It has only been a day. So much of what I wanted to remember to write down about her I have already forgotten--things that, when they happened yesterday, I already knew would never be happening again. Yesterday morning on a walk around the house, I found the most amazing moth. My husband brought it inside to show her, and I laughed at first, thinking, "how funny. He still brings bugs inside to show his mama." And how quickly that laughter turned so very bittersweet as I realized that, like so many other things, it would be the last time.
Two visitors yesterday, the pastor who comes by every day and then a couple of ladies from church. I wonder where the rest of them are; I know that in the church I grew up in, the members would have organized weeks ago, and there would be food loaded on tables and counters, the house would be spotless, the yard would have been weeded. This is a church Ma has devoted her life to, and it angers me that so few of its members are showing much supposed Christ-like love. Except prayer. They sure do pray a lot. They even mention on her facebook page, the one she has been too weak to check for almost 14 days, how much they are praying for her. A couple have even mentioned that they are praying for her to be cancer free. She rolls her eyes when I tell her about it and says, "they really don't get it, do they?" The pastor sits bedside; I give them what little privacy there is by sitting in the living room. I hear him say, "so your whole family has gone to Washington for the weekend!" And after a pause, her pointed reply, "not all of them. Some are still here with me." The pastor and the church ladies thank me profusely for being here, as have other church members who have stopped by. As if this is a chore. As if I could be anywhere else.
Last night, after her youngest son had gone to bed, I asked her, as I do frequently, if there was anything she needed. As she generally does, she shook her head and said, "no." But then she got this stern look on her face, and she said, "I need to die. Can you do that?" I went to her and held her soft, smooth hands, and she said, "can't I just have a whole bunch of morphine? Wouldn't that do it? I've thought about this." And I bit my lip to keep from crying as she looked at me and realization dawned on her that her god wouldn't approve. "That would be suicide, wouldn't it. And that would be wrong. I just can't do this anymore. I am done. I am done talking, I am worn out, I am so ready. But I don't know what else I need to do for Jesus to come get me." I had no answer for that that she would want to hear. So we talked about it, and I agreed that we could give her the maximum dose of morphine possible to keep her sedated without killing her. She said no more phone calls, no more visitors except family and pastor.
She is done. She is ready. And I cannot think of any compassionate god that would prolong the life of someone so miserable and so desperate to go back home to Him.
Today what Ma wants is cold. An ice cold wet washcloth for her forehead, ice chips and cold ginger ale to sip at bedside, a foot and calf massage with peppermint essential oil and a fan blowing on her feet after. Every window in this house is open. I'm shivering on the couch and she is complaining that she is hot. And then, inexplicably, she wants to sit up. I get her situated on the edge of the bed and await further instruction.
"Those plants out there need water," she says. And sure enough, they do. We are so focused on caring for her that things that aren't going to matter in a week when she is dead (like gift plants that will be thrown out) aren't high on the list of priorities. But what Ma wants, Ma gets. I remember her crowing exactly that two weeks ago, this woman who worked her whole life making sure everyone else got what they needed. She isn't saying that now; frankly, she is saying very little. The tumors are pressed up against the fundus of her stomach, which doesn't like things pressed up against it. Hence, the persistent nausea. They combine with the ascites in her belly and push up against Ma's diaphragm. She is out of breath now brushing her teeth or talking too much.
The hospice nurse says that ideally, what will happen is that Ma's oxygen will continue to fall and her CO2 will continue to rise, putting her in a semi-euphoric state from which she will enter a coma and slip peacefully away.
* * *
It has only been a day. So much of what I wanted to remember to write down about her I have already forgotten--things that, when they happened yesterday, I already knew would never be happening again. Yesterday morning on a walk around the house, I found the most amazing moth. My husband brought it inside to show her, and I laughed at first, thinking, "how funny. He still brings bugs inside to show his mama." And how quickly that laughter turned so very bittersweet as I realized that, like so many other things, it would be the last time.
Two visitors yesterday, the pastor who comes by every day and then a couple of ladies from church. I wonder where the rest of them are; I know that in the church I grew up in, the members would have organized weeks ago, and there would be food loaded on tables and counters, the house would be spotless, the yard would have been weeded. This is a church Ma has devoted her life to, and it angers me that so few of its members are showing much supposed Christ-like love. Except prayer. They sure do pray a lot. They even mention on her facebook page, the one she has been too weak to check for almost 14 days, how much they are praying for her. A couple have even mentioned that they are praying for her to be cancer free. She rolls her eyes when I tell her about it and says, "they really don't get it, do they?" The pastor sits bedside; I give them what little privacy there is by sitting in the living room. I hear him say, "so your whole family has gone to Washington for the weekend!" And after a pause, her pointed reply, "not all of them. Some are still here with me." The pastor and the church ladies thank me profusely for being here, as have other church members who have stopped by. As if this is a chore. As if I could be anywhere else.
Last night, after her youngest son had gone to bed, I asked her, as I do frequently, if there was anything she needed. As she generally does, she shook her head and said, "no." But then she got this stern look on her face, and she said, "I need to die. Can you do that?" I went to her and held her soft, smooth hands, and she said, "can't I just have a whole bunch of morphine? Wouldn't that do it? I've thought about this." And I bit my lip to keep from crying as she looked at me and realization dawned on her that her god wouldn't approve. "That would be suicide, wouldn't it. And that would be wrong. I just can't do this anymore. I am done. I am done talking, I am worn out, I am so ready. But I don't know what else I need to do for Jesus to come get me." I had no answer for that that she would want to hear. So we talked about it, and I agreed that we could give her the maximum dose of morphine possible to keep her sedated without killing her. She said no more phone calls, no more visitors except family and pastor.
She is done. She is ready. And I cannot think of any compassionate god that would prolong the life of someone so miserable and so desperate to go back home to Him.
May 04, 2014
so this is hospice
Ma is dying. She says she is ready, that she isn't afraid, that she is pretty sure that what will happen is that she will to go to sleep and then wake up to the voice of Jesus calling her name. This gives her comfort. Yesterday she grabbed my hands, asked me to open my heart and let Jesus in. I smiled and listened, but I won't lie to a dying woman. She tells me she loves me even though I don't believe in god.
This is awkward. Dying is awkward, and messy, and beautiful. And it doesn't matter how good your intentions are, toes are going to get stepped on (literally and figuratively), feelings are going to get hurt, tempers are going to snap, and commodes are going to tip. Ma urps every now and again, even with her nausea meds. I think she is surprised at how much the nausea is getting to her.
All the people who love her gather in clumps around her. They trip over each other in bedroom and kitchen. I stand helplessly with two of Ma's friends in the kitchen, waiting to throw away the lid of a pudding cup. If this were my family, I'd give a playful nudge on their tushes and say, "'scuse your butt!" But they aren't family. They are strangers to me and the only thing we have in common is Ma.
They are in there now, saying goodbye. The grief is frightening, is explosive. It is as messy as the dying is, as messy as love. Ma is comforting them, absolving them for leaving in the middle of this. And they are desperate to stay. I have no part of this. I am the daughter in law, and I have only been in the picture 7 years, not the 30 years of these friends, definitely not the decades of the other daughter in law.
I am here because I love this woman and I love her son. I am here to offer emotional support and my medical training. And in the middle of the night, as Ma is waiting to go to the bathroom and I am struggling with the legs of the commode, trying to get the stupid notch locked evenly on each one, I wonder what the hell I am doing and how I am failing so spectacularly. But we do the best we can.
My husband's father showed up today with the woman he left Ma for all those years ago. Left her with three boys to raise all by herself. I think they were seeking forgiveness, even though they wouldn't admit it. Bless Ma. I think she had forgiven them long ago, and told them so. They left, finally, had someplace they suddenly had to be. And she has been sleeping ever since.
All these people calling, crying, praying at her. And she receives them, listens to them, loves them. Prays with them. And then sleeps, because they exhaust her.
Ma is dying. As we all are.
This is awkward. Dying is awkward, and messy, and beautiful. And it doesn't matter how good your intentions are, toes are going to get stepped on (literally and figuratively), feelings are going to get hurt, tempers are going to snap, and commodes are going to tip. Ma urps every now and again, even with her nausea meds. I think she is surprised at how much the nausea is getting to her.
All the people who love her gather in clumps around her. They trip over each other in bedroom and kitchen. I stand helplessly with two of Ma's friends in the kitchen, waiting to throw away the lid of a pudding cup. If this were my family, I'd give a playful nudge on their tushes and say, "'scuse your butt!" But they aren't family. They are strangers to me and the only thing we have in common is Ma.
They are in there now, saying goodbye. The grief is frightening, is explosive. It is as messy as the dying is, as messy as love. Ma is comforting them, absolving them for leaving in the middle of this. And they are desperate to stay. I have no part of this. I am the daughter in law, and I have only been in the picture 7 years, not the 30 years of these friends, definitely not the decades of the other daughter in law.
I am here because I love this woman and I love her son. I am here to offer emotional support and my medical training. And in the middle of the night, as Ma is waiting to go to the bathroom and I am struggling with the legs of the commode, trying to get the stupid notch locked evenly on each one, I wonder what the hell I am doing and how I am failing so spectacularly. But we do the best we can.
My husband's father showed up today with the woman he left Ma for all those years ago. Left her with three boys to raise all by herself. I think they were seeking forgiveness, even though they wouldn't admit it. Bless Ma. I think she had forgiven them long ago, and told them so. They left, finally, had someplace they suddenly had to be. And she has been sleeping ever since.
All these people calling, crying, praying at her. And she receives them, listens to them, loves them. Prays with them. And then sleeps, because they exhaust her.
Ma is dying. As we all are.
January 14, 2014
sometimes it feels as if all the grief in the world has settled in my heart
You know how sometimes, if you can ignore something or pretend it away, you can stave off the inevitable?
Yeah, me neither. That doesn't, however, prevent me from trying.
Jem died at the beginning of November, peacefully, at home, in my arms. Just the daughter and I were here; the males in the family were over in the valley-- Rock Star at work, the son with his dad. It was almost anticlimactic, really. I don't understand sometimes why death, which is the second most momentous occasion in life aside from birth, seems to be a slipping away and then a sudden closed door, regardless of the violence or the length of the process leading up to it. I do know that Jem's dying and death that morning was beautiful and gentle and near perfect, and I think even at the time I recognized and was grateful for that.
Ma's cancer is this ridiculous uncontrollable thing that I am still trying to make sense of. I write that and it is a complete sentence, paragraph, story unto itself. Cancer never makes sense, does it? I am worried that she will be in this frame of hope and optimism for so long that she will put off doing what she wants to do because she keeps hoping that there will be another spring, another summer, another autumn. I want to shake her and tell her, "Live this. Right now. Recognize the preciousness of what you are experiencing every single day."
That's what I need to be telling myself, of course. I seem to have got myself caught in my own little perfect storm. Clarity will come, I'm sure. Something will make sense eventually. And I'm sure that my mind and my heart and my soul will eventually line up and start communicating, because there are some serious mixed wires in there right now. I look at all I have and know I should be grateful. I look at the raw beauty of this place and the way it chisels the people who live here, and I know in my head that it is amazing. But my soul doesn't recognize it. My soul looks into the chasm on the drive over the pass and thinks, "I could drive my car right off of that." And the depth of despair that is driving this subconcious feeling is so hidden and deep I don't know quite what to do with it, or how to fix it. I am sure I could go all metaphorical and realize that this desire to drive off the road is my soul's way of telling me it is time to jump into the chasm of the unknown. Mostly it just feels like depression, when it feels like anything at all.
What do you do when home isn't a place, but a person? My home-- my heart-- drives over the mountains every week to work. This suddenly feels like a long-distance relationship, and I have never been very good at those. Rock Star tells me nothing about us has changed, and this is necessary since my first job here didn't turn out to be all that the person who hired me said that it would. Not to mention that my body feels as though it is betraying me-- pain in my hands and forearms (nerve compression and apparently no-longer-dormant arthritis) that make it difficult to massage, the onset of perimenopause. And while Rock Star greets this with great humor and gentleness, I feel so very alone sometimes. Alone and at fault because this was his dream, and yet he is here only half the time.
I wish I were as gentle with myself as he is with me. I am grateful for his patience, for his support. But oh, how I miss him when he is gone, my chosen one. My heart and soul.
Yeah, me neither. That doesn't, however, prevent me from trying.
Jem died at the beginning of November, peacefully, at home, in my arms. Just the daughter and I were here; the males in the family were over in the valley-- Rock Star at work, the son with his dad. It was almost anticlimactic, really. I don't understand sometimes why death, which is the second most momentous occasion in life aside from birth, seems to be a slipping away and then a sudden closed door, regardless of the violence or the length of the process leading up to it. I do know that Jem's dying and death that morning was beautiful and gentle and near perfect, and I think even at the time I recognized and was grateful for that.
Ma's cancer is this ridiculous uncontrollable thing that I am still trying to make sense of. I write that and it is a complete sentence, paragraph, story unto itself. Cancer never makes sense, does it? I am worried that she will be in this frame of hope and optimism for so long that she will put off doing what she wants to do because she keeps hoping that there will be another spring, another summer, another autumn. I want to shake her and tell her, "Live this. Right now. Recognize the preciousness of what you are experiencing every single day."
That's what I need to be telling myself, of course. I seem to have got myself caught in my own little perfect storm. Clarity will come, I'm sure. Something will make sense eventually. And I'm sure that my mind and my heart and my soul will eventually line up and start communicating, because there are some serious mixed wires in there right now. I look at all I have and know I should be grateful. I look at the raw beauty of this place and the way it chisels the people who live here, and I know in my head that it is amazing. But my soul doesn't recognize it. My soul looks into the chasm on the drive over the pass and thinks, "I could drive my car right off of that." And the depth of despair that is driving this subconcious feeling is so hidden and deep I don't know quite what to do with it, or how to fix it. I am sure I could go all metaphorical and realize that this desire to drive off the road is my soul's way of telling me it is time to jump into the chasm of the unknown. Mostly it just feels like depression, when it feels like anything at all.
What do you do when home isn't a place, but a person? My home-- my heart-- drives over the mountains every week to work. This suddenly feels like a long-distance relationship, and I have never been very good at those. Rock Star tells me nothing about us has changed, and this is necessary since my first job here didn't turn out to be all that the person who hired me said that it would. Not to mention that my body feels as though it is betraying me-- pain in my hands and forearms (nerve compression and apparently no-longer-dormant arthritis) that make it difficult to massage, the onset of perimenopause. And while Rock Star greets this with great humor and gentleness, I feel so very alone sometimes. Alone and at fault because this was his dream, and yet he is here only half the time.
I wish I were as gentle with myself as he is with me. I am grateful for his patience, for his support. But oh, how I miss him when he is gone, my chosen one. My heart and soul.
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