Illness and age served only to strengthen this mother and daughter’s relationship.
Through the years, life has been given a lot of metaphors. It’s been called a “passage” by some, a “journey” by others. It’s been compared to circles, cycles, symphonies, and songs.
I kind of like the symphony thing. To be able to write or play music seems like a nice way to spend your time on earth. Let’s face it, though, some are better composers than others. Some write songs that are melodic; some write songs that are discordant—and some never get to finish their songs at all.
One Prayer at a Time
When my father was diagnosed with lymphoma, our family was shocked and shaken. We saw the disease as a sentence, not a salvation. Dad was just the opposite. He saw those years as a gift, and was deter- mined to make the most of them.
When the disease went into remission, he and Mom didn’t waste a minute of it. They took trips, they visited friends, they talked and prayed and made memories together. When the lymphoma resurfaced, however, complicated by a bout with shingles, Dad sank pretty fast. I helped as much as I could, but Mom bore the brunt of the daily caregiving. I marveled at her courage. What kept her going? How did she get through it?
“I took it a minute and a prayer at a time,” she told me after Dad’s death. “To look any further ahead was frightening.” Would she have done anything differently? I asked. Given a choice of my father going fast, would she have chosen an easier end? She looked at me in disbelief. “Never. In many ways those years were some of the best of our lives. If he had gone earlier, we would have missed them.”
Mom lived 12 years after my father’s death, so I had time to ponder what she said. Would I have been able to do what she had done? Could I take care of someone selflessly and consider it a gift? The spirit might have been willing, but would the flesh obey?
And then I learned how strong the flesh can be.
The Journey Begins
It began with an early-morning phone call in September 1999. “Something’s wrong with my back,” my mother whispered.
“I can hardly move it’s so painful. And I’m having trouble breathing.”
A trip to the emergency room showed us that indeed something was wrong.
Somehow during the night she had broken a vertebra in her back. An Xray showed she also had the start of bronchitis. Then the doctor showed me her spine, which looked like someone had run down it wearing high heels.
“This is not the first break she’s suffered,” he said.
“The bronchitis just compounded her discomfort.”
Because she wasn’t in any immediate danger, he didn’t admit her to the hospital. He ordered a back brace to relieve pressure on the spine, painkillers to take care of her discomfort, and an antibiotic for the bronchitis.
“I know it’s easier said than done,” he said with a sympathetic smile, “but go home and try to rest.”
Now What?
Rest. The advice sounded good, but it was plain that Mom wasn’t going to be able to do it in bed. Lying down was too painful.
“We could turn my recliner into a bed,” she suggested and grinned when she saw my uncertainty.
“I spend half of the night in this chair anyway. Now I won’t have to get up to get to it.”
Read: A Prodigal Daughter Returns
There didn’t seem to be any other choice. So I made the chair up with sheets and a blanket and then turned my attention to another pressing matter. The doctor had told us that her back would take at least five weeks to heal. Mom could dress herself and get to the bathroom on her own, but any sudden movement was painful and threw her off balance. It was clear she wasn’t going to be able to stay in her house alone.
Luckily, help was close at hand. A female neighbor who was a home-nursing aide volunteered to stay with my mother while I was at work. And since I only worked mornings, I would be free to take care of her in the afternoon. Nights were the biggest problem. But that was solved when my mother- in-law agreed to alternate evenings with me staying at the house. My mother was grateful, but worried about inconveniencing us.
“Five weeks isn’t that long,” we reassured her.
“You just rest and get better.”
A Setback
In October, however, things worsened. When her bronchitis turned into pneumonia, she had to be hospitalized. It was during her hospital stay that a blood clot was found in her lungs.
“Forget the five-week healing time,” the doctor told us grimly. “This blood clot is going to take at least six months to dissolve. She’s lucky she’s still alive. If the clot had reached her heart, it would have killed her.”
Lucky? I looked down at my mother in the hospital bed. This latest setback had taken its toll. She had lost so much weight that she was little more than skin and bones. But her eyes were bright as she clasped my hand.
“I’m still here. I’m not going anywhere except home,” she said.
My heart sank as I looked into her face. I knew the doctor didn’t want to send her home. He thought she’d be better off in a nursing home where she could get physical therapy and have her progress monitored. But just the term “nursing home” put Mom into a panic.
“Can’t we just do what we’ve been doing? Can’t I just stay at home?” she asked.
“Of course you can,” I said. But my voice conveyed a lot more confidence than I felt. I made a silent prayer asking for help.
So far her expenses had been manageable. Now this setback had changed all that. She needed blood thinners and oxygen, inhalation therapy, and physical therapy. Medicare would have paid for a nursing-home stay, but it would cover only two weeks of home care.
After that we would be on our own. Mom clutched my hand. “I have a rider on my insurance policy to help pay for home care; the rest we’ll take out of savings. Please, I want to go back to my house.”
A Wish Granted
And so we took my mother home. We brought her home in an ambulance because she couldn’t walk up the stairs. The medics hooked up her oxygen tank and settled her back in her chair. She hadn’t been able to sleep in the hospital, but when Davy, her little cat, crawled into her lap, Mom smiled and fell right to sleep.
Those last weeks of her life were hard, but bringing her home was a decision I’ll never regret. We sat in her living room and prayed. We listened to music and talked. We made plans for the spring, even though we both knew she probably wouldn’t make it through the winter.
Read: Thank You, Mom
At the end, she was blind and her world had been reduced to a little brown recliner in her living room. But she never lost her zest for life. Friends and family visited and talked to her on the phone. My husband baked her bread to tease her appetite, and neighbors brought in soup and conversation. I found a bag full of letters in her cedar chest that had been written to her by her family when she was a young schoolteacher. We read them all. I learned about my mother through my grandmother’s letters. I saw the
Depression and the Second World War through my great-grandmother’s eyes. That afternoon was one of our happiest times together. The letters brought Mom back to herself and to me. We laughed at the good times and cried at the sad. When we were finished, we put the letters back into the cedar chest and said goodbye.
Mom was able to stay at home until the last two weeks of her life. When she broke her hip during a routine trip to the bathroom, that was the beginning of the end. She had to be hospitalized, and died four days after surgery.
Looking Back
No one has asked me this question, but after 12 years I am still waiting for it. No one has asked me if I would have chosen a different end for my mother.
My first impulse would be to say yes. But then I would have to rethink that answer. Because while those months were some of the hardest I have ever known, they were also many of the most beautiful. With life stripped to the bone, Mother and I could see it clearly and cherished each waking moment we had.
My mother gave me the greatest gift a parent can give to a child. She let me help her play out her song to the end. I only hope I can play mine as well.
