I’d spent three months in Spain and I was coming home. Coming home to what I knew would be the dying process.
My mom’s functions and independence have slowly been taken away from her for years, and now it’s overcoming her. She’s still trying to hold on, but it’s apparent her days are limited. She has fought for so long and has been a complete warrior through it all. Really, we all, as a family, have become warriors through it all.
We have all been in fight mode.
Trying to fight death. The most elite doctors. The most expensive pills. The applications for trial drugs. The best yoga teacher. The healing massage therapist. The ‘Second Wind’ gym. The fancy technology.
….and then the most important things we could do.
The memorable family vacations and holidays. The medicine of our love.
So we’ve been fighting for years, but at the end of the summer we started to see a huge decline in my mom’s mobility and her speech.
Still, I came back from Europe a bit shocked. I mean, yes, I knew things were significantly worse so I thought I was prepared for it. But when I came home from the airport late at night I walked into the kitchen and heard this loud sound. It was a baby monitor and the TV was on in my parents room. Seeing that device just broke my heart. I immediately went over and turned it off. Then I went into my mom’s room and saw her hospital bed beside my parent’s bed, with a guard rail on one side. I almost lost it.
But I had to remember what I learned on the Camino de Santiago, the 900 km walk I had completed. I learned about service. Well, I learned about a lot of things, but service being one of them. And I realized that there is no greater gift than to be of service to my mother. To take this opportunity my mom and I have received to spend time together and hold onto all the lessons this challenge has brought us.
So I’ve been back now coming on seven weeks.
My mom goes in and out of presence. Sometimes she gazes into what I call ‘a different dimension’- eyes unfocused, mouth wide open, body limp. Most of the time she’s uncomfortable and restless or she’s mumbling away. But she has moments, moments where she is here and I can understand her words. She has moments where she stands up on the banister and does 5 squats. She has moments where she kicks away in her wheelchair when I take her somewhere she doesn’t want to go. She has moments where she smiles. Where she kisses me. Where she embraces me and gives me a gentle touch.
It’s not like it used to be. How she used to be. But pieces of her are still here. And so we hold onto that.
And we hold onto family.
Because family has been the miracle of her disease.
I was sure my mom was nearing her end a few weeks ago. So I told my brothers they needed to come sooner than Thanksgiving, and they were on a plane within the week. My mom’s three sisters came and my cousins. And I swear having family around transferred all this loving energy to my mom. She got to laugh, and I know deep down it was a confirmation that we all really do love her. She had a spark of life that lasted for a week after everyone left.
Fast forward one week to the present: she’s eating less, drinking less, and having less energy. So we’re starting to administer low doses of morphine for her pain. But she has more ‘different dimension’ expressions. And she’s shrinking before my eyes.
My heart used to drop when I would hear my mom fall. This was when she was still trying to be independent, years ago, and I’d hear a boom and her shriek. Now, my heart drops when my mom tries to drink fluids, because it sends her into a choking fit. The most simple things have become the most difficult. So now it’s not her ability to walk, but her ability to breathe that makes me crumble.
So this is suffering. And this is what we are dealing with. And the only way I can get through it is to be with family. Because we’ve all been in it for the long haul, for providing my mom the experience of passing away in the comfort of her own home. And it’s made us stronger, more grateful for the moments together.
I love my family. That’s why all of this is so hard, right? Because the woman who ‘ruled’ the family is dying. Our Queen. The one who orchestrated our lives and kept us in line. The one who entertained all the special moments. The one who wrote I L Y on our lunch bags. The one who we had the privilege of calling Mommy.
So Mommy. I’ve been by your side at battle. I’ve tried to be the best warrior for you. But now I’m worried our fight is over. And I just want you to know that I know you did your best. I know you tried your hardest. I’m sorry if I ever thought this disease was anything less than an ugly monster. I know you didn’t deserve this. But I also know how lucky I am to have this opportunity to be by your side. And to remind you that we will never be apart.
Because, Mommy, you’ll always be in my heart.
