"I think if you learn over and over from your parents that you do not get love from wallowing in hearbreak or failure, then you don't really have much of a habit of doing it."
-Nora Ephron
Okay, maybe not "THINGS" but, let's say, attributes, personality traits, skills, perspectives, values. I haven't had lots of quiet time to think about this lately, despite the fact that it is summer and I should have this kind of time. But an article in New Yorker (July 6&13 2009) magazine about Nora Ephron and this quote about her mother sparked me to try to get something down. Also next Friday is the day we gather the family- daughters, granddaughters, and sons-in-law for a memorial service at sea where I would like to have a few words thought out and ready to share. We will leave Mom's ashes and some flowers somewhere off the Pacific coast.
I am looking forward to this event, and maybe that is a place to start by crediting Mom with my own enjoyment of the ocean, boats and ships, and travel in general.
When I read Nora Ephron's quote about her own mother, I thought "this is it." This is exactly the salient trait I have gotten from my mother. Maybe more than anything else, this is what shapes me and gives me whatever strength I bring to my life. From my mother I learned that crying will get you exactly nowhere, and though I have been a crybaby all my life, I have never believed that it accomplishes anything, except to make my eyes sting for the rest of the day. For a good chunk of my adult life, I thought this trait came from Dad, but he finally showed himself in later years to be a very emotional man. I don't think I remember ever seeing Mom cry. There is a passage in my baby book that she wrote when I caught her crying over her dishwater (I don't think she elaborated on the reason for her tears) and I asked her what was the matter, did she forget how to wash the dishes? I don't remember this event, have only read about it. Even in her last days, she didn't want us "hoobooing" around her, and hard as it was, we mostly complied.
This no-nonsense approach to life kept us all from becoming vain or petty. I believe we were made stronger and more able to weather storms and life's downfalls by understanding that it is up to each of us to make it all work.
This is not to say that Mom was hard hearted. She brought her considerable skill and training to her job as a wife and mother, and took her role seriously. She gave us clear boundaries, consistent expectations, and plenty of love in the right doses at the right times.
From my mother I learned that my thick thighs, the bain of my vanity, are actually sturdy walking machines, and that I should consider myself lucky to be so strong. I learned that a sniffle and a cough is not a reason to skip school, but if you GO to school and that sniffle and cough becomes a raging fever and a case of strep throat, you will be well taken care of, with TV in your room, rainbow sherbet and a willing partner for string tricks.
I have an early childhood memory of Mom helping me with my piano practice. Whatever it was I was working on was not coming easily, and Mom kept at me to try again, till in angry tears I got it. "See," she said to me "you just weren't mad enough." I learned that sometimes getting mad makes for good art, and if you push through the frustration, you often come out the other side triumphant. This comes back to me now as a teacher of music, and I have said the same thing at times to my own frustrated students.
I learned from Mom that you can wait for good things. That anticipation is part of the fun. Traveling as a family was something that brought this lesson into sharp focus. Weeks before a long road trip, we would be allowed to pick out some special toy at the toy store. One year it was wonderful stuffed animals, or...what WAS that thing that jungle baby thing that clung to the trees in the home movies...another year we had Colorforms. The planning and dreaming about the trip was part of the fun of traveling. "This time next week we will be in BLANK" was something Mom said to reinforce the pleasure of this anticipation. I use this myself, as in "Two weeks from today we will be in Guadalajara" . The toys we picked would be put away, and forgotten about, the way you "forget" about the 500 dollar bill you hide under the Monopoly board.
Preparations for a trip intensified in the days before, and to this day the smell of Mennen's skin bracer still puts me in mind of the square blue "train case" that carried all our toiletries- the last thing to be packed.
Early in the morning of the trip, we would be wakened to climb groggily into the back of the station wagon and sleep till the sun rose, at which time we would stop for breakfast and change clothes. But those toys remained hidden, sometimes for a day or two. Finally the backseat bickering would get to Mom and she would reveal these forgotten treasures. I guess it worked. I have only the happiest recollections of these family road trips.
Here is an incomplete list in not any particular order of the legacy my Mom left me: A love of language and wordplay. This includes finding the humor in the daily grind and sharing a good story with a loved one. It includes desiring to understand and attempting to learn foreign languages. And it also includes, of course, the Daily Jumble, Scrabble, crosswords, in all of which she was an expert. Mom bestowed upon me an interest in trying new things and exploring the world. She taught me through example the values of honesty and integrity. Perhaps most lasting and important in my life she shared with me love of music, particularly the love of making music with other people. I may never have as good or fun a piano duet partner as she, and I will always treasure the endless hours she spent with me accompanying my various solos in my childhood and adolescence.
It seems trite to say, but Mom lives on in each of us. I can't say much about what my sisters feel are their inheritances, but I know that we all grew into adults that our mom was proud of, and have enjoyed success in our lifetimes, because of the great lady who raised us all. I will miss her for the rest of my life.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Monday, June 8, 2009
Dumb Girl.
In the morning hours of the day before Mom died, all three of us were gathered in her apartment along with the night nurse, and, I think, the hospice nurse. Mom had been resting quietly, in that state the nurses told us isn't really sleep, though it sure sounds like it and looks like it. Maybe my sisters will help fill in the details of this precious moment which is already jumbling and fading in my memory. Mom woke and through the monitor we could hear her rustling about. One of the nurses went to check on her, and came back out telling us that she was saying something about music which prompted me to go to her bedside.
That she wanted me to write something on staff paper was the nearest thing I could figure. What, what, what?! She rocked her bejewelled left hand weakly back and forth, as though making a bass fifth ostinato rhythm. She said"F" I asked "In the key of F?" She nodded -so I wrote a B flat in the key signature. She said "it starts on A". She kept the left hand weakly motioning in the ostinato and I wracked my brain. Then suddenly I knew! She wanted to hear the song called "The Spinning Song" by Albert Elmenreich which is in every child's piano book, and which I had learned maybe 45 years ago. I went directly to the piano and played as much of it as I could remember, and when I finished, I went back to Mom's bedroom, and she was calm. The song had been stuck spinning around in her head, and hearing me playing it on the piano let it stop.
So for a while I sat and held her hand and we talked musical nonsense. Just silly stuff about key signatures, and difficult things to do on the piano. Our favorite keys, some favorite songs. I can't remember because it was free flowing gibberish which seemed to calm her and make her happy.
At one point a childhood memory floated to the surface of my own mind and I said something about B Major being my least favorite key (Mom and I both tend to like the flat keys best). I reminded her of the Brahms piano, cello and violin trio (Op. 8 in B Major) that she, my dad and I had struggled with when I was a kid. She slapped both of her hands to her face and shook her head. It made me laugh to see this, because we had both been tortured by Dad's impossible slow tempo.
The Scherzo movement is a wonderful sparkling piece which demands a virtuoso pianist while mostly the cello and violin play islands of melody here and there surrounded by long pedal tones, which, when played at proper speed go by pretty quickly. It was a piece my dad dearly loved and really wanted to learn. But in order for Dad to get any of the piano chords in his hands, he had to slow down to about a tenth what the tempo should be. I have such a clear memory of sitting on my little stool, playing an endless F# while Dad found the next chord, and the next, and the next. This was a torture I endured as a child, because for as frought with musical pain as it was, I liked the IDEA of us all playing together, much as I am sure my parents did. The moment of sharing this unique experience with my mom in her last day still makes me smile. We hadn't ever talked about those sessions. But even after all these years, she got it. She knew EXACTLY what I meant and why I hate B Major!
As we talked along- talking being a loftier term than the mumbled and random things we both said deserve- she mentioned that Lee had always had a nice voice. I think Lee was in the room at the moment and we wondered if Mom would like to hear Lee sing. Mom indicated that she would like this, and so we set out to find the art songs book Lee had bought last summer on a visit. At that time, she had sung while Mom accompanied her on piano, and I am sure this was a huge delight to her.
We hunted high and low in her 400 square foot apartment. I went through all the sheet music she had left, which wasn't much. I could not find the book. I was looking for a yellow Schirmer Edition, as familiar a book cover as ever there was. Nowhere was it to be found.
It was crazy to think to ask Mom where it was, in her state. But I did, and she insisted it was on the piano. The only thing on the piano was a green book, some green piano book. I said the book we were looking for was yellow. Imagine this: an argument with your dieing mother about the color of a music book! We gave up the hunt, and I sat with Mom. She said "the book WAS green, IS green and ALWAYS WILL BE green! Dumb girl!" Her hands slapped limply into her lap in exasperation as she said this. One might think I would be going to my own grave wounded by my mother's (almost) dieing words. But quite the contrary. The resignation with which she pronounced upon my intelligence cheered me up and gave us all a laugh. We never did find the yellow book. And Lee didn't sing. That's the sad part.
That she wanted me to write something on staff paper was the nearest thing I could figure. What, what, what?! She rocked her bejewelled left hand weakly back and forth, as though making a bass fifth ostinato rhythm. She said"F" I asked "In the key of F?" She nodded -so I wrote a B flat in the key signature. She said "it starts on A". She kept the left hand weakly motioning in the ostinato and I wracked my brain. Then suddenly I knew! She wanted to hear the song called "The Spinning Song" by Albert Elmenreich which is in every child's piano book, and which I had learned maybe 45 years ago. I went directly to the piano and played as much of it as I could remember, and when I finished, I went back to Mom's bedroom, and she was calm. The song had been stuck spinning around in her head, and hearing me playing it on the piano let it stop.
So for a while I sat and held her hand and we talked musical nonsense. Just silly stuff about key signatures, and difficult things to do on the piano. Our favorite keys, some favorite songs. I can't remember because it was free flowing gibberish which seemed to calm her and make her happy.
At one point a childhood memory floated to the surface of my own mind and I said something about B Major being my least favorite key (Mom and I both tend to like the flat keys best). I reminded her of the Brahms piano, cello and violin trio (Op. 8 in B Major) that she, my dad and I had struggled with when I was a kid. She slapped both of her hands to her face and shook her head. It made me laugh to see this, because we had both been tortured by Dad's impossible slow tempo.
The Scherzo movement is a wonderful sparkling piece which demands a virtuoso pianist while mostly the cello and violin play islands of melody here and there surrounded by long pedal tones, which, when played at proper speed go by pretty quickly. It was a piece my dad dearly loved and really wanted to learn. But in order for Dad to get any of the piano chords in his hands, he had to slow down to about a tenth what the tempo should be. I have such a clear memory of sitting on my little stool, playing an endless F# while Dad found the next chord, and the next, and the next. This was a torture I endured as a child, because for as frought with musical pain as it was, I liked the IDEA of us all playing together, much as I am sure my parents did. The moment of sharing this unique experience with my mom in her last day still makes me smile. We hadn't ever talked about those sessions. But even after all these years, she got it. She knew EXACTLY what I meant and why I hate B Major!
As we talked along- talking being a loftier term than the mumbled and random things we both said deserve- she mentioned that Lee had always had a nice voice. I think Lee was in the room at the moment and we wondered if Mom would like to hear Lee sing. Mom indicated that she would like this, and so we set out to find the art songs book Lee had bought last summer on a visit. At that time, she had sung while Mom accompanied her on piano, and I am sure this was a huge delight to her.
We hunted high and low in her 400 square foot apartment. I went through all the sheet music she had left, which wasn't much. I could not find the book. I was looking for a yellow Schirmer Edition, as familiar a book cover as ever there was. Nowhere was it to be found.
It was crazy to think to ask Mom where it was, in her state. But I did, and she insisted it was on the piano. The only thing on the piano was a green book, some green piano book. I said the book we were looking for was yellow. Imagine this: an argument with your dieing mother about the color of a music book! We gave up the hunt, and I sat with Mom. She said "the book WAS green, IS green and ALWAYS WILL BE green! Dumb girl!" Her hands slapped limply into her lap in exasperation as she said this. One might think I would be going to my own grave wounded by my mother's (almost) dieing words. But quite the contrary. The resignation with which she pronounced upon my intelligence cheered me up and gave us all a laugh. We never did find the yellow book. And Lee didn't sing. That's the sad part.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Mother's Day Come and Gone
I have been trying for several weeks to remember the password I used to access this blog. I have been wanting to write and had no way to do so. But finally today in a quiet moment it came to me. So here I am back again.
It is just over three months since our mom died. Almost daily, I think of things I would like to tell her, or things that I want to ask. I am able to share with other friends who now are facing the passing of their own parents. There are at least two students I see weekly who lost mothers this year, for whom I feel an extra measure of patience.
Mother's Day was tough. I kept getting reminders from Proflowers to send Mom something. She loved flowers and nothing brightened her day like a couple dozen roses. (Now I remember the little vase of yellow flowers I had sent just as she returned from the hospital this last time. They ended up on Lynn's kitchen table because Mom wanted them gone, saying that they were dead and smelled bad. Really though, they lasted at least the whole week that we were there....)But not sending flowers, and no phone call to make. I am not a mom, so the day passed with little fanfare. Watched a Dodger game on TV. Every time Mothers' Day ads came on TV in the week before, Jon muted them or switched the channel so I wouldn't have to keep hearing about it.
Sometime in the first weeks of March, I was cleaning messages off the answering machine, and one of them was from Mom, asking me to call her sisters to tell them what was going on with her. It was a shock to hear her voice. I have left it there for the moment. Not ready to erase the last sound of her voice I have.
Since February, I have participated in several concerts with my students, had a very romantic and memorable second anniversary, complete with car service horror story, put a new roof on the house (thanks to Mom) started a guitar class at one school, started taking Yoga again, created a hummingbird haven here in our yard, and done innumerable things that Mom would like to hear about. So many times she would call to find out how some show, recital or concert had gone, loved to hear about school activities (how she would have loved the cards from Mrs. York's class!). I know my sisters are having the same experience of wanting to tell Mom about things that interested her. She would be really interested to know about her daughter and granddaughter's trip to see us and other relatives in April. She would love to hear about her granddaughter's new condo and that her other granddaughter decided not to get married right now after all, and her third granddaughter has just broken up with her first boyfriend. She would also like to hear that her own sister who had been living with her son and daughter-in-law had moved into an assisted living facility.
Life goes on. It seems trite to say it. Each day that goes by we are farther downstream from where we left Mom sleeping on the riverbank. She doesn't get to see the next bit of scenery. At some point in the distant future, I too will step out onto the bank, and the river will pass me by.
Ocassionally I still cry.
It is just over three months since our mom died. Almost daily, I think of things I would like to tell her, or things that I want to ask. I am able to share with other friends who now are facing the passing of their own parents. There are at least two students I see weekly who lost mothers this year, for whom I feel an extra measure of patience.
Mother's Day was tough. I kept getting reminders from Proflowers to send Mom something. She loved flowers and nothing brightened her day like a couple dozen roses. (Now I remember the little vase of yellow flowers I had sent just as she returned from the hospital this last time. They ended up on Lynn's kitchen table because Mom wanted them gone, saying that they were dead and smelled bad. Really though, they lasted at least the whole week that we were there....)But not sending flowers, and no phone call to make. I am not a mom, so the day passed with little fanfare. Watched a Dodger game on TV. Every time Mothers' Day ads came on TV in the week before, Jon muted them or switched the channel so I wouldn't have to keep hearing about it.
Sometime in the first weeks of March, I was cleaning messages off the answering machine, and one of them was from Mom, asking me to call her sisters to tell them what was going on with her. It was a shock to hear her voice. I have left it there for the moment. Not ready to erase the last sound of her voice I have.
Since February, I have participated in several concerts with my students, had a very romantic and memorable second anniversary, complete with car service horror story, put a new roof on the house (thanks to Mom) started a guitar class at one school, started taking Yoga again, created a hummingbird haven here in our yard, and done innumerable things that Mom would like to hear about. So many times she would call to find out how some show, recital or concert had gone, loved to hear about school activities (how she would have loved the cards from Mrs. York's class!). I know my sisters are having the same experience of wanting to tell Mom about things that interested her. She would be really interested to know about her daughter and granddaughter's trip to see us and other relatives in April. She would love to hear about her granddaughter's new condo and that her other granddaughter decided not to get married right now after all, and her third granddaughter has just broken up with her first boyfriend. She would also like to hear that her own sister who had been living with her son and daughter-in-law had moved into an assisted living facility.
Life goes on. It seems trite to say it. Each day that goes by we are farther downstream from where we left Mom sleeping on the riverbank. She doesn't get to see the next bit of scenery. At some point in the distant future, I too will step out onto the bank, and the river will pass me by.
Ocassionally I still cry.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Roses are red....
One of the treasures of this time is a booklet a teacher friend had her third graders put together- a book of sympathy notes from children to whom I teach violin every Monday. Here is a sampling of those letters, which made me laugh and cry at the same time. 
Vince is the class troublemaker and knows it. He has a heart of gold though and always wants to do right.Sophie wants to be sure that we can tell the difference between three dead dogs and three dead cats. 
Isabel wants to make it up to me. And I wonder if her poem -and several others- had to do with the proximity of this assignment to Valentine's Day
Isabel wants to make it up to me. And I wonder if her poem -and several others- had to do with the proximity of this assignment to Valentine's Day
George had overheard some of his classmates talking about a grandma who DID swim in the Arctic, etc. and somehow he thought that was my mom and ME! If only! 
Aaron knows the value of a keepsake. My amethyst and opal ring has new special meaning for me as a keepsake from the last week with Mom.
An outpouring of love
Back at home now, and back to work for the last week, I have felt loved and supported by peers and friends. When Jon and I got married nearly two years ago, I felt much the same sort of out-of-the-woodwork responses from all around. It is wonderful to behold and I am so grateful now for the kind words and hugs from friends. The love has come in many forms. A crazy plant from a friend who knows how much I love crazy plants, cards and notes, gentle phone calls, invitations to dinner, and chicken soup brought by on a Sunday afternoon. This is all part of the process, and part of the fabric of humanity that surprises me every time. Maybe that's where the grief goes. It gets absorbed by the living souls who love us. Each one who reaches out takes a little bit of it away- a burden much easier carried by many. I hope I am as good a friend. I don't think I am.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
This too shall pass
So where does it go, the grief? What is the chemical thing happening in me? Is it hormonal, or some endocrine function?
Losing my mother is not the first time I have felt deep sadness. And I have always wondered how it is that thoughts and images which, a few days ago, would have me melting down into a puddle of tears, now can invoke simply quiet sadness and reflection.
The day before Mom died, the Hospice nurse sat us three girls down and told us we needed to tell Mom, one by one, that it was okay for her to go, whenever she was ready. We needed to give her permission to leave us. She acknowledged that this would be very difficult. And she also told us that, even though Mom had been adamant that we not "blubber" over her, that if we cried it was okay.
When my turn came, I sat with Mom and held her hand. She was awake and responsive. I told her I loved her and would miss her, she had been a great mom, and it was okay for her to go, whenever she was ready. "Go where?" She asked. Tears came and I said, "Gee I don't know. Wherever it is you are going next." She sort of nodded, and then asked why I was crying. I said I couldn't help it, and she opened her arms to hug me and comfort me. This made me cry all the harder and I think I even saw a tiny tear squeeze out from Mom's own eye. She was never one to cry for anything, anytime. That's another whole story.
But even this memory over the last week has been one of the most powerful emotional provocations to tears ever, now, after conjuring it up, consciously at times, unbidden at others, it is losing its fire and bite, and I can almost reflect on the moment without the deep sorrow.
I want to learn more about the biochemistry of this transition.
I know there are stages of grief, steps we go through to reach a state of acceptance. But I am interested to know how the body does this. It seems to be biological and involuntary, though we can control the timing of it some.
Losing my mother is not the first time I have felt deep sadness. And I have always wondered how it is that thoughts and images which, a few days ago, would have me melting down into a puddle of tears, now can invoke simply quiet sadness and reflection.
The day before Mom died, the Hospice nurse sat us three girls down and told us we needed to tell Mom, one by one, that it was okay for her to go, whenever she was ready. We needed to give her permission to leave us. She acknowledged that this would be very difficult. And she also told us that, even though Mom had been adamant that we not "blubber" over her, that if we cried it was okay.
When my turn came, I sat with Mom and held her hand. She was awake and responsive. I told her I loved her and would miss her, she had been a great mom, and it was okay for her to go, whenever she was ready. "Go where?" She asked. Tears came and I said, "Gee I don't know. Wherever it is you are going next." She sort of nodded, and then asked why I was crying. I said I couldn't help it, and she opened her arms to hug me and comfort me. This made me cry all the harder and I think I even saw a tiny tear squeeze out from Mom's own eye. She was never one to cry for anything, anytime. That's another whole story.
But even this memory over the last week has been one of the most powerful emotional provocations to tears ever, now, after conjuring it up, consciously at times, unbidden at others, it is losing its fire and bite, and I can almost reflect on the moment without the deep sorrow.
I want to learn more about the biochemistry of this transition.
I know there are stages of grief, steps we go through to reach a state of acceptance. But I am interested to know how the body does this. It seems to be biological and involuntary, though we can control the timing of it some.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Farewell
Tuesday February 17, 2009
Mom passed away Sunday morning at 7:14. At that moment, I was writing the last post, and my sister Lynn was standing in the doorway saying to me that she thought we should get over to Mom's house. She didn't believe that the night nurse was going to do what she had said she'd do, which was call us if she suspected the moment of death was near, or, missing that, she would call us before she called Hospice when she passed. We had left Saturday night fully expecting to be wakened before morning by a phone call. But none had come, and I was feeling I had at least time to finish writing and then grab a much-needed shower. I reassured Lynn that the wonderful night nurse would not fail us, and if we hadn't heard from her, it meant Mom was still hanging in.
A few minutes later the phone rang with the news. Mom had passed away about 10 minutes before. Lynn's instinct had been right on. The nurse HAD been trying to call us for the last many minutes, but somehow had wrong numbers. (Lynn later looked at the slip of paper she had left her cell phone number on and realized she had written it wrong). Lynn left right away, since she had been up since three or four.
When Lee and I arrived a little later, the woman at the front desk of the retirement home asked us who we were. This was so absurd as we had been coming and going all week with just a hello to the gals on shift there. So we told this woman that we were going to our mom's and she had passed away earlier this morning. She said something like she already knew that, and we were to keep her posted. It was almost as if she was in a hurry to finish up whatever needed to happen and free up the apartment. Cold.
When we got to Mom's apartment, the Hospice nurse greeted us, and placed herself between us and Mom's bedroom door. She wanted us to sit and talk with her first. She and the night nurse explained how the end had come: peacefully, with the night nurse holding her hand, and talking to her, telling her it was okay to let go of the pain and accept the peace. The Hospice nurse took over here telling us we could see her if we wanted to and that she looked, well, dead. She described this look: no color, mouth and eyes open.
Lee and I both wanted to see her. We went into the bedroom where her one reading lamp was lit, and the blinds closed. The night nurse had straightened the bed and arranged Mom in it. She really did look peaceful. Lee and I touched her and talked to her. I had never seen any dead person before this and it was less gruesome than I thought it would be. This was not our mother anymore than the desk was, but she had recently inhabited this shell, and somehow it seemed she might still be around somewhere, just not there.
After a few minutes of quiet tears and loving words, we were done.
Next we needed to remove all her jewelry and catalogue it for the hospice people, so that no one would be accused of stealing anything. Lee and I helped the Hospice nurse do this task, and I am glad we did. It was a way of helping us say goodbye, and a way of connecting with Mom even now.
Mom had donated her body to a research program called Science Care, so they got a phone call next. The wonderful Hospice nurse took care of all the details here, including talking to the front desk person about what was happening. Lynn had to redo some of the paper work and run to Kinko's to fax it all in. The home care night nurse (Who had agreed to work a double shift since it was Mary's day off and they wanted Mom to have the continuity of caregivers whom she knew and who knew her) left at this point with hugs and thank yous and a few more tears. These people really are amazing and gifted.
After a little while a young man in a black suit came with a narrow gurney covered with a flowered quilt. As the Hospice nurse and this gentle man worked to transfer Mom to the gurney, they talked to her as though she was still around. This gesture touched us deeply. Finally it was time for Mom to leave. There was some difficulty getting the little gurney around the corners and out the door. The hospice nurse joked that this was the one time in the whole process that Mom had not cooperated. We laughed.
Everything else about this transition timed out as though Mom wanted to be sure we, none of us, were inconvenienced. This is so typical of the way she behaved through her whole life. She passed in early morning, not middle of the night, so no one had to be summoned from sleep. Lee and I had airplane reservations for the following day, and had been wondering to ourselves all week if we should change them. Since there will be no memorial until we receive Mom's remains in 2-4 months, and Lynn wants to tackle the packing and storing of Mom's worldy goods herself at her own pace, we could make good on our flight plans and leave the next day. And at 2:00 Sunday afternoon, we were all scheduled to see Lynn's daughter in a musical. Mom would have gone too, if she was still with us, if there was any way. She so loved that her granddaughter was a singing, tap dancing actress. The nurses seem to think that people do have some control over the timing of their own deaths, and after this experience, I can't help but think so too.
My loving husband sent for some books to help us understand these processes. I would like to share them here, though I have not read them all yet. The first and maybe most relevant is Gone From My Sight The Dying Experience, by Barbara Karnes. This is a little pamphlet which outlines very simply what to expect in the months, weeks, days, hours, and minutes before death. It is a quick read, and gave me much comfort knowing that what our mother was going through was a predictable process, much like the development of a child.
Expanding on the ideas of the pamphlet is a larger book, also by Barbara Karnes called The Final Act of Living. This book is also a very easy read, and fills in the details the pamphlet touches. There is good information here for the loved ones of a dying person, as well as for caregivers working with terminally ill clients.
The other two books, which I will read now in my leisure for a deeper understanding are Final Gifts, by Maggie Callanan and Patricia Kelley, and Dying Well, by Ira Bock, M.D.
I will keep writing here, as a memorial to a wonderful mother, a loyal sister, and a good friend to all who knew her. There are more stories to share, both of her last days, and of the 82 years of her rich and full life.
Mom passed away Sunday morning at 7:14. At that moment, I was writing the last post, and my sister Lynn was standing in the doorway saying to me that she thought we should get over to Mom's house. She didn't believe that the night nurse was going to do what she had said she'd do, which was call us if she suspected the moment of death was near, or, missing that, she would call us before she called Hospice when she passed. We had left Saturday night fully expecting to be wakened before morning by a phone call. But none had come, and I was feeling I had at least time to finish writing and then grab a much-needed shower. I reassured Lynn that the wonderful night nurse would not fail us, and if we hadn't heard from her, it meant Mom was still hanging in.
A few minutes later the phone rang with the news. Mom had passed away about 10 minutes before. Lynn's instinct had been right on. The nurse HAD been trying to call us for the last many minutes, but somehow had wrong numbers. (Lynn later looked at the slip of paper she had left her cell phone number on and realized she had written it wrong). Lynn left right away, since she had been up since three or four.
When Lee and I arrived a little later, the woman at the front desk of the retirement home asked us who we were. This was so absurd as we had been coming and going all week with just a hello to the gals on shift there. So we told this woman that we were going to our mom's and she had passed away earlier this morning. She said something like she already knew that, and we were to keep her posted. It was almost as if she was in a hurry to finish up whatever needed to happen and free up the apartment. Cold.
When we got to Mom's apartment, the Hospice nurse greeted us, and placed herself between us and Mom's bedroom door. She wanted us to sit and talk with her first. She and the night nurse explained how the end had come: peacefully, with the night nurse holding her hand, and talking to her, telling her it was okay to let go of the pain and accept the peace. The Hospice nurse took over here telling us we could see her if we wanted to and that she looked, well, dead. She described this look: no color, mouth and eyes open.
Lee and I both wanted to see her. We went into the bedroom where her one reading lamp was lit, and the blinds closed. The night nurse had straightened the bed and arranged Mom in it. She really did look peaceful. Lee and I touched her and talked to her. I had never seen any dead person before this and it was less gruesome than I thought it would be. This was not our mother anymore than the desk was, but she had recently inhabited this shell, and somehow it seemed she might still be around somewhere, just not there.
After a few minutes of quiet tears and loving words, we were done.
Next we needed to remove all her jewelry and catalogue it for the hospice people, so that no one would be accused of stealing anything. Lee and I helped the Hospice nurse do this task, and I am glad we did. It was a way of helping us say goodbye, and a way of connecting with Mom even now.
Mom had donated her body to a research program called Science Care, so they got a phone call next. The wonderful Hospice nurse took care of all the details here, including talking to the front desk person about what was happening. Lynn had to redo some of the paper work and run to Kinko's to fax it all in. The home care night nurse (Who had agreed to work a double shift since it was Mary's day off and they wanted Mom to have the continuity of caregivers whom she knew and who knew her) left at this point with hugs and thank yous and a few more tears. These people really are amazing and gifted.
After a little while a young man in a black suit came with a narrow gurney covered with a flowered quilt. As the Hospice nurse and this gentle man worked to transfer Mom to the gurney, they talked to her as though she was still around. This gesture touched us deeply. Finally it was time for Mom to leave. There was some difficulty getting the little gurney around the corners and out the door. The hospice nurse joked that this was the one time in the whole process that Mom had not cooperated. We laughed.
Everything else about this transition timed out as though Mom wanted to be sure we, none of us, were inconvenienced. This is so typical of the way she behaved through her whole life. She passed in early morning, not middle of the night, so no one had to be summoned from sleep. Lee and I had airplane reservations for the following day, and had been wondering to ourselves all week if we should change them. Since there will be no memorial until we receive Mom's remains in 2-4 months, and Lynn wants to tackle the packing and storing of Mom's worldy goods herself at her own pace, we could make good on our flight plans and leave the next day. And at 2:00 Sunday afternoon, we were all scheduled to see Lynn's daughter in a musical. Mom would have gone too, if she was still with us, if there was any way. She so loved that her granddaughter was a singing, tap dancing actress. The nurses seem to think that people do have some control over the timing of their own deaths, and after this experience, I can't help but think so too.
My loving husband sent for some books to help us understand these processes. I would like to share them here, though I have not read them all yet. The first and maybe most relevant is Gone From My Sight The Dying Experience, by Barbara Karnes. This is a little pamphlet which outlines very simply what to expect in the months, weeks, days, hours, and minutes before death. It is a quick read, and gave me much comfort knowing that what our mother was going through was a predictable process, much like the development of a child.
Expanding on the ideas of the pamphlet is a larger book, also by Barbara Karnes called The Final Act of Living. This book is also a very easy read, and fills in the details the pamphlet touches. There is good information here for the loved ones of a dying person, as well as for caregivers working with terminally ill clients.
The other two books, which I will read now in my leisure for a deeper understanding are Final Gifts, by Maggie Callanan and Patricia Kelley, and Dying Well, by Ira Bock, M.D.
I will keep writing here, as a memorial to a wonderful mother, a loyal sister, and a good friend to all who knew her. There are more stories to share, both of her last days, and of the 82 years of her rich and full life.
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