David:
Friday, February 29, 2008
Thursday, February 28, 2008
The Last 10 Ten Days, Days 2 and 3
We all got settled in and prepared for the great wait. We didn't know she'd hang on 10 days, though, and the entire time we thought it would be any day, any minute, any breath. Daniel slept in the living room, N in the red room, my dad down on the couch in the basement, David, Grace, and me in my parents' room, and Kate right there beside Mama the whole time. K with Hospice spent many hours with us in the white room talking about everything under the sun, but Kate was truly the one who nursed Mama. She administered the pain-killers and orchestrated all the elements of Mama's care barely leaving her side.
We didn't have anywhere to go so we basically camped out in the white room talking to Mama (we were told the hearing is the last to go), talking to each other and listening to a Joanie Madden cd, "Songs of the Irish whistle." that would later serve as an anthem to that time.
People brought plenty of food but no one felt much like eating. I take that back. My dad seemed to enjoy the endless supply of nourishment that kept appearing at our doors. The phone rang a lot and we took turns giving family and friends updates. We knew the end was nearing we just didn't know exactly when the end would come. As hard as it was being right there, it must have been even harder for our dear family members across the states who had only those brief and not very conclusive telephone updates on which to make sense of the very sad situation.
Mama rallied once to say, "I love everybody," and we made out that she had "a wish" for Daniel. We can only assume that her wish was for him to give faith a fair try as I believe she believed he wasn't a believer. She also called for David, specifically, and that makes sense because she loved him as her own. David met my mom post-diagnosis, so he never knew her cancer-free. It was 1994, and I was two weeks into my year as a VISTA volunteer in DeFuniak Springs, FL when I got the news. David, my brand new friend, was the first person I told. Thankfully, most of the following eight years were full of lots of living and doing and laughing, and not the devastating sickness that we all encountered those last 10 days.
Kate is haunted much more than I am with the horrors of Mama's deterioration that she witnessed first-hand. In fact, much of it has been blocked out. We all want to think that Mama wasn't in pain at the end (at least I do), but she was, and only Kate knows the truth about how bad it got. Kate was our hero, taking on the physical duties and never leaving Mama's side. I didn't feel jealous or resentful towards Kate for taking on this intimate role, but I did yearn for my therapist, as I felt she was the only one to whom I could tell my innermost thoughts and feelings. We were all dealing with our loss in our own way, and no way was the right way.
So we circulated in and out of the white room sometimes having alone time just to be with Mama, sometimes being with her with a roomful of others. During my alone time with Mama as I lay beside her, I said my last peace. I hope she heard me.
We didn't have anywhere to go so we basically camped out in the white room talking to Mama (we were told the hearing is the last to go), talking to each other and listening to a Joanie Madden cd, "Songs of the Irish whistle." that would later serve as an anthem to that time.
People brought plenty of food but no one felt much like eating. I take that back. My dad seemed to enjoy the endless supply of nourishment that kept appearing at our doors. The phone rang a lot and we took turns giving family and friends updates. We knew the end was nearing we just didn't know exactly when the end would come. As hard as it was being right there, it must have been even harder for our dear family members across the states who had only those brief and not very conclusive telephone updates on which to make sense of the very sad situation.
Mama rallied once to say, "I love everybody," and we made out that she had "a wish" for Daniel. We can only assume that her wish was for him to give faith a fair try as I believe she believed he wasn't a believer. She also called for David, specifically, and that makes sense because she loved him as her own. David met my mom post-diagnosis, so he never knew her cancer-free. It was 1994, and I was two weeks into my year as a VISTA volunteer in DeFuniak Springs, FL when I got the news. David, my brand new friend, was the first person I told. Thankfully, most of the following eight years were full of lots of living and doing and laughing, and not the devastating sickness that we all encountered those last 10 days.
Kate is haunted much more than I am with the horrors of Mama's deterioration that she witnessed first-hand. In fact, much of it has been blocked out. We all want to think that Mama wasn't in pain at the end (at least I do), but she was, and only Kate knows the truth about how bad it got. Kate was our hero, taking on the physical duties and never leaving Mama's side. I didn't feel jealous or resentful towards Kate for taking on this intimate role, but I did yearn for my therapist, as I felt she was the only one to whom I could tell my innermost thoughts and feelings. We were all dealing with our loss in our own way, and no way was the right way.
So we circulated in and out of the white room sometimes having alone time just to be with Mama, sometimes being with her with a roomful of others. During my alone time with Mama as I lay beside her, I said my last peace. I hope she heard me.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
The Last 10 Days, Day 1
I'm not always good about keeping my cell phone charged and with me and on and stuff like that. I had it with me that day when Daddy called. I was at work down in the research room when he called. He was calling to tell me he thought that "this is it" and he thought I should come home. The day was February 26, 2003. It was Wednesday.
I burst out crying right there at work and was glad that J was there to help me get out the door. I usually kept to myself and didn't get too personal with J--she had a bit of a rough edge that wasn't entirely pleasant to be around. But at that time I was glad she was there. Crying, I told her that my mom was dying and that I'd be leaving and didn't know when I'd be back. She helped me put my paperwork away, turn my computer off and put my jacket on. She kept saying, "Just go" and I kept saying, "Sorry, I'll try to keep you posted."
Kate is the first person I called. I remember I hadn't even made it to the first stop light yet. I was devastated that I might not make it back in time. She said just to get here safely and that she would fill me in on what was going on with Hospice, the nurses, especially K, with whom Kate was especially impressed. Kate sounded strong and I was glad because I wasn't.
I called David next and told him to please help me get my things and Grace's things together. He asked no questions and was ready to go when I got back from work. I was quiet on the drive to Boone, not crying or talking, just thinking. Hoping that I'd see my mom alive at least one more time. I was so glad I'd stayed the extra night on Sunday and that David covered for me in the nursery at church. And that he'd taken good care of Grace. She was 18 months old. On Sunday, N, Kate and I washed Mama's hair in the living room and then we all watched "My Big Fat Greek Wedding." It was funny, but I didn't feel well. I had a mild fever when I got back home on Monday and remember talking to Mama on the phone that night. She hoped that I'd feel better.
On Tuesday I called Mama from work and I remember her saying something about just wanting to be normal. I'm sure she did in some ways, especially if normal meant in its most basic definition being healthy and alive. But Mama was far from being normal.
I'd been going to therapy for at least a year and I knew the end was near. My therapist and I were working through ways to have that final conversation with my mom that was right up there with the most difficult things I've ever done. The previous Saturday when I was visiting my mom in the hospital, I mustered up all the courage I had and tried to bring up saying goodbye. I'll never forget the look in her eyes...beady, scared, but unflinching. She just didn't want to go there. I made the very best effort I could but it wasn't good enough. I wanted to tell her that I was sorry for back-talking and being snippy as a child, as a teenager, and even as a grown-up, and I wanted her to tell me it was ok, that she forgave me. I wanted to tell her how much strength I got from watching her battle this eight-year illness with every last ounce of fight in her until the bitter end. I wanted her to know how much our road trips to CO meant and that how I found it an honor when people told me I looked like her. I wanted her to be proud of me and I wanted to hear that from her. I desperately wanted her to know that I would bring up Grace Elizabeth knowing about her Grandmama, and also the baby growing in my tummy for whom I silently wept for I knew they'd never meet.
My mom looked at me and told me her stomach hurt and she wanted to talk about cute things Grace was doing lately. I left the room in tears telling N and Mrs. C. that I didn't think she knew how sick she was. Looking back, I think she knew.
On February 26, 2003, I made it back home in time to see my mom alive. She was already back in the "white room" decorated with soothing sights, the most soothing of all, the quilt that S made. My mom's eyes were open, but barely. I stood beside her, held her hand, and smiled and said, "It's Bird, Mama. It's Bird. And Grace and David are here too." My mom said very softly--so softly I wasn't quite sure she said what she said. She said, "Bird Seed." It made me smile. Those were the last words she ever spoke to me.
I burst out crying right there at work and was glad that J was there to help me get out the door. I usually kept to myself and didn't get too personal with J--she had a bit of a rough edge that wasn't entirely pleasant to be around. But at that time I was glad she was there. Crying, I told her that my mom was dying and that I'd be leaving and didn't know when I'd be back. She helped me put my paperwork away, turn my computer off and put my jacket on. She kept saying, "Just go" and I kept saying, "Sorry, I'll try to keep you posted."
Kate is the first person I called. I remember I hadn't even made it to the first stop light yet. I was devastated that I might not make it back in time. She said just to get here safely and that she would fill me in on what was going on with Hospice, the nurses, especially K, with whom Kate was especially impressed. Kate sounded strong and I was glad because I wasn't.
I called David next and told him to please help me get my things and Grace's things together. He asked no questions and was ready to go when I got back from work. I was quiet on the drive to Boone, not crying or talking, just thinking. Hoping that I'd see my mom alive at least one more time. I was so glad I'd stayed the extra night on Sunday and that David covered for me in the nursery at church. And that he'd taken good care of Grace. She was 18 months old. On Sunday, N, Kate and I washed Mama's hair in the living room and then we all watched "My Big Fat Greek Wedding." It was funny, but I didn't feel well. I had a mild fever when I got back home on Monday and remember talking to Mama on the phone that night. She hoped that I'd feel better.
On Tuesday I called Mama from work and I remember her saying something about just wanting to be normal. I'm sure she did in some ways, especially if normal meant in its most basic definition being healthy and alive. But Mama was far from being normal.
I'd been going to therapy for at least a year and I knew the end was near. My therapist and I were working through ways to have that final conversation with my mom that was right up there with the most difficult things I've ever done. The previous Saturday when I was visiting my mom in the hospital, I mustered up all the courage I had and tried to bring up saying goodbye. I'll never forget the look in her eyes...beady, scared, but unflinching. She just didn't want to go there. I made the very best effort I could but it wasn't good enough. I wanted to tell her that I was sorry for back-talking and being snippy as a child, as a teenager, and even as a grown-up, and I wanted her to tell me it was ok, that she forgave me. I wanted to tell her how much strength I got from watching her battle this eight-year illness with every last ounce of fight in her until the bitter end. I wanted her to know how much our road trips to CO meant and that how I found it an honor when people told me I looked like her. I wanted her to be proud of me and I wanted to hear that from her. I desperately wanted her to know that I would bring up Grace Elizabeth knowing about her Grandmama, and also the baby growing in my tummy for whom I silently wept for I knew they'd never meet.
My mom looked at me and told me her stomach hurt and she wanted to talk about cute things Grace was doing lately. I left the room in tears telling N and Mrs. C. that I didn't think she knew how sick she was. Looking back, I think she knew.
On February 26, 2003, I made it back home in time to see my mom alive. She was already back in the "white room" decorated with soothing sights, the most soothing of all, the quilt that S made. My mom's eyes were open, but barely. I stood beside her, held her hand, and smiled and said, "It's Bird, Mama. It's Bird. And Grace and David are here too." My mom said very softly--so softly I wasn't quite sure she said what she said. She said, "Bird Seed." It made me smile. Those were the last words she ever spoke to me.
Monday, February 25, 2008
What a Week
I haven't posted since last Monday...the start of a quite memorable week. But out of respect for all involved, I've decided not to post the details here. Let's just say that I have my material if I ever decide to write a novel.
I said: I've got a fundraiser luncheon to go to that starts at 11:00, but maybe I can swing by on my way there for a cup of coffee.
She said: Yeah, and maybe we can watch a movie. A scary movie.
She said: You don't have to lift that box down the steps. You can slide it down.
I said: Oh, you're right. You've obviously done this before.
I said: I'll buy dinner tonight. What would you like?
She said: Sesame chicken. And could you pick up some wine coolers?
I said: I've got to make an important conference call. Please excuse me.
She said: Can I paint your toenails while you're on the phone?
I said: Maybe you can give me some pointers on how to accessorize my bedroom.
She said: You're going to flip when you see your kitchen.
I said: I kind of feel like Thelma and Louise minus the murder and getting to sleep with Brad Pitt.
She said: You are really a good person. I hope David realizes that. I'm really going to miss you. You'll have to visit me. We'll go to Baja, Mexico.
I said: I'm not as perfect as you might think I am. Trust me. We'll still keep in touch.
She said: I'm not going after all.
I said: I've got a fundraiser luncheon to go to that starts at 11:00, but maybe I can swing by on my way there for a cup of coffee.
She said: Yeah, and maybe we can watch a movie. A scary movie.
She said: You don't have to lift that box down the steps. You can slide it down.
I said: Oh, you're right. You've obviously done this before.
I said: I'll buy dinner tonight. What would you like?
She said: Sesame chicken. And could you pick up some wine coolers?
I said: I've got to make an important conference call. Please excuse me.
She said: Can I paint your toenails while you're on the phone?
I said: Maybe you can give me some pointers on how to accessorize my bedroom.
She said: You're going to flip when you see your kitchen.
I said: I kind of feel like Thelma and Louise minus the murder and getting to sleep with Brad Pitt.
She said: You are really a good person. I hope David realizes that. I'm really going to miss you. You'll have to visit me. We'll go to Baja, Mexico.
I said: I'm not as perfect as you might think I am. Trust me. We'll still keep in touch.
She said: I'm not going after all.
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