Reflections on a life

The process of processing a parent's death

My mom died on Monday.

It was not entirely unexpected. She had been suffering with dementia for at least three years, though she still knew who all of us were. Her brand of the disease had stripped her of almost everything else: the ability to talk beyond saying “yeah”, the ability to feed or dress herself, the ability to walk, or even go to the bathroom alone. Arguably the only thing she still enjoyed was eating even though someone had to help her with that too. That someone was often my dad who cared for her until it became too much last year, when we all had to make the painful decision to move her out of their home and into foster care where others became responsible for feeding her. And everything else.

In the end, what got her was infections, which also seem to go hand-in-glove with dementia. Or maybe it’s just old age. The brain and body just get tired and can’t fight back anymore.

While it was sad, my brother, sister, and I had all prayed and hoped for her release from this mortal plane. She had told us many times that’s what she wanted should she ever end up like she did, so we all knew what to do without giving it a second thought. That day came last Sunday afternoon, as we sat in a consult room with her doctor at the hospital where she had been in ICU for five days, ironically — or perhaps poetically — the very hospital she was born in almost 85 years ago. After hearing everything out — diagnosis, treatments, prognosis — we heard our dad tell the doctor through tears, “Stop everything.”

Within an hour they had stopped her antibiotics and high-flow oxygen, and we all prepared to give her a good death. 33 hours later, late at night, she slipped away into a peaceful permanent sleep. We were not with her, having said our goodbyes earlier, but it was about as good as anyone could hope for. People she loved and trusted to do right by her and her wishes did just that. In the end everyone, including her, just wanted the suffering to stop.

These past few days as I start to process her loss have been a strange mix of a return to normalcy mixed with little waves of grief. Her long decline helped us all to prepare, but then nothing really prepares you for the loss of a parent. Especially when it’s the first one. It’s a song that you think of that she liked or glancing outside and seeing the hydrangea bush she gave me in full bloom. Or just saying her name out loud to myself….”her name was Lynne.”

Part of the processing involves the fact that my mom was a different sort. We had lots of good times together, but just as equally we were foreign to each other — our personalities just about as opposite as you could get in many ways. Over the years when I’d hear people remark about how they talked to their mom everyday or that their mom is their best friend, or when it comes to life advice their mom is their first go-to, it would always be a curious thing to me. Our relationship was never like that. It wasn’t anybody’s fault. For whatever reason it wasn’t the hand we were dealt.

And the complexities of a human life mean grieving someone you loved but who also drove you nuts half the time. There were so many things about her I just could not understand like her fearfulness, her always giving up on things, her ability to hold a grudge, and her jealousy that made her petty and judgmental. She almost never apologized for anything she did or said even when she knew it was wrong or hurtful. Happiness and gratitude more often than not seemed to elude her even though she lived a very privileged life.

But our good moments were great. Like getting a text from her at 4:09am, the very moment I was born, every year on my birthday. Or when I would leave hidden notes saying how much I loved and was thankful for her on her pillow on Christmas Eve. We showed love in ways that were unique to us.

She could also be really fun. She loved music and dancing and stupid humor — I Love Lucy was a perpetual fave, you know “vitameatavegamin” and all that. She also liked raunchy things; the refrain “our mom’s dirty” became an inside joke for us for a few years. Where my dad is more quiet, bordering on stoic at times, mom was outgoing and could be counted on to blurt out the things no one else would say; her internal editor usually asleep on the job. She hated secrets and could never keep one. She loved animals (probably more than people) and taught all of us to do the same.

Despite her many flaws, there was life to her. Even though she never risked much, she did believe life was meant to be lived. That good, expensive bottle of wine? Don’t save it in the cupboard, drink it now. That’s what it’s for, to be enjoyed. I learned that from her.

When she turned 80 I started taking her out every couple weeks so we could spend time together. She was getting forgetful but at least could still walk (with assistance) and talk, but I knew she was slipping away and wanted her to enjoy the time she had left. I wanted to enjoy her too. We had fun going to lunch, IKEA, the park, or I would drive by the high school where she met my dad. Happy memories always lived there for her. She loved birds, so one time I surprised her and took her to our local Audubon Society where we saw birds that were being rehabilitated and spent a long time looking at everything in the gift shop. It was a good day.

For what would be our last outing, though I didn’t know it, I took her to Costco. A couple of years had gone by and she was more feeble. She was quiet in the car on the way home but then out of the blue asked me what I would think if she told me she wanted to die. I was surprised and, to be honest, kind of angry. It was just the type of selfish thing she would blurt out without warning. But I couldn’t stay annoyed for long because I knew it was the simple honesty of a person who knew what was happening to her, couldn’t stop it, and didn’t want to live that way.

Because we all knew she felt that way, it made the end easier. She was alive, but not living. It was time for her to get a little peace.

The babies with a baby. My very young parents and me, their first born.

I’m sure I’ll be processing and pondering mom’s passing for quite a while to come, likely for the rest of my life as she pops in and out of my thoughts. She was Catholic and believed in heaven. I am not and not entirely sure what I think about what happens to people after they die. I do find myself wondering from time to time “where are you, mom?” She was always a vivid dreamer, and I am too. I hope some day she comes to me in a dream and tells me she’s okay. That would be just like her.

I do believe that once born, the universe never gives you up. Atoms get rearranged and change shape but you never ever ever completely disappear. I think it’s just physics. But it means she’ll always be in me and all around me. Stardust.

And I take comfort in that.