I wrote this story years ago when my mom first passed away. I have never been able to bring myself to edit it. My dad sent me his autobiography this week and it reminded me of how important it is that I document this story.
It’s
amazing how one little word formed of two harmless syllables can turn you life
upside down. It was a day just like any
other in Southern California. The weatherman could have prerecorded his
forecast for all the changes that take place in this coastal town. 75 degrees and sunny. The parks were filled with smiling mothers
pushing their toddlers in swings, secretly wondering if bedtime would ever
come. Overly anxious fathers lined the
bleachers of the ball field, eager to live their boyhood fantasies through
their children. Dogs barked, content to
be able to hear the sound of their own voice over the distant traffic. To the casual observer it was as close to
Utopia as one could find. But at the
outskirts of this town lay a stone building a place where dreams are born and
destinies realized a place where futures were determined -- Pleasant Valley
Hospital.
I sat in the waiting room doing just that --
waiting. I knew the instant the doors
opened my life could completely change.
My mother, Kass, lay on a table through those doors. Doctors, whose years of medical training
taught them nothing of tact, worked methodically to see into the abdomen of my
mom. For some time now, they’d done
batteries of tests, each meant to rule out one condition or another. Each test came back inconclusive. Because of the quick onset of my mother’s
symptoms we never fully understood the possible cause of her intense pain. We spent months on a roller coaster ride,
each up swing us to a doctor who would ultimately lead us to the next low. Our
need to discover once and for all the cause of this vibrant woman’s
deterioration.
The
last time my mom and I had been in a hospital together had been to welcome the
youngest of my children into the world.
The smile on her face was no less stunning than the first two times we
welcomed a child together. Kass lived
her life for her grandchildren. Having
wanted twelve children but having been blessed instead with two of Heavens
finest, she soaked in every opportunity to wrap her gentle hands around one of
mine. To her the very smell of her
children was a testament to the fact that God lived. It was for this reason she hesitated before
being wheeled into the O.R. She feared
she’d miss the baseball game her seven year old grandson was to play. What she
didn’t realize was that across town that same little boy was explaining his
reason for missing the game, “Baseball’s
just not fun without Grandma,” he’d said.
Grandma hadn’t missed a game yet.
“Team Miller” as we referred to ourselves wore matching tee-shirts with
our star’s picture emblazoned across the front.
Together she and I would pace behind the other parents, coaching from
the sidelines screaming excitedly as our seven year old wonder would make a
spectacular play.
The
page of the intercom jolted me back to reality.
I watched anxiously for the door to swing open. The expected hour surgery had turned into two
and I found myself silently praying -- pleading -- with my Father in
Heaven. I found comfort in praying and
relying on his strength to get me through the hours of uncertainty.
The
specialist, tall, lean and a specimen of health emerged from the sterile room,
his brown furrowed with anticipation as he made his way across the room toward
me. He sat across from me, obviously
trying to maintain his professional distance.
Hands held steady by years of surgeries reached into the manila envelope
that held the clues to our future.
This,
“ he said, “ is your mom’s pancreas. The
green mucus colored masses- those are cancerous growths.” When we opened her we found that everything -
her liver, her spleen, her pancreas- they’re all covered in cancer and there is
nothing we can do.” My mind was racing,
question blurring together: how could
this woman who could outrun my two year old be sick? How could me vegetable eating mom have
cancer? What do you mean there is
nothing you can do -- “what kind of doctor are you? You went through twelve years of schooling
only to stand before me and say there is nothing you can do?” I screamed
silently. I was amazed at the anger
that engulfed me. This was not the
answer I was waiting for - it wasn’t an answer at all it was an unjust verdict
rendered and a life sentence passed before its time. The doctor left, his job was done he had no
need to stay because as he said, there was nothing he could do.
I
stumbled toward an exit, my heart pounding so fiercely I feared it might burst
through my blouse without notice.
I sat at the nearest curb
oblivious to the cars making their way to the parking lot. Many carried balloons to celebrate the new
lives being ushered in on the third floor.
They seemed ignorant of the fact that just one floor below lives were
being lost. Somehow I regained my
composure and focused on what to do next.
I had a job to do. My mom, the
once proud matriarch, was in a way passing the torch to me and I was soon to
take over. My first task would be to
tell her husband, my daddy the news. I
called him on the cell phone - he had been picking our European relatives at
the airport because mom would not hear of them taking a shuttle. I couldn’t not bear to tell him the news
while he was driving so I simply said, “She’s out of surgery. I’ll fill you in when you get here.”
I walked into the recovery room where my mom
laid coved in tubes. Her speech slurred
by medications was unsettling as she repeated over and over, “Summer, Summer,
do I have cancer, is it cancer?” Fearing
her reaction while on meds I simply stated, “there were no complications mom,
you went through the surgery well, we’ll talk tomorrow.” I was chocking on my own tears. “I love you mom,” Those three simple words uttered several times
a day at the end of a phone call suddenly held such profound meaning and I
trembled fearing I would never again hear those cherished words from my mom.
I walked back to the curb, the
curb that would become my thinking spot of the next few days and waited, I
waited to do the unbearable- to break my fathers heart. “Heavenly Father” I pleaded, “Please let
there be a mistake. I am too young to
lose my mother. I’m done being raised
yet. “ But sadly, I had to face the
fact that roles were reversing and all too quickly.
I do think it was one of the
only times I saw tears in my fathers eyes.
His pain so real it scared me.
What would he do now? He had
been left somewhat disabled by a massive cerebral hemorrhage years
previous. I feared this might be too
much for him and I feared I would lose him too.
I dried my tears with the back of my hand and went to my mom’s home to
make what seemed like an endless amount of phone calls.
Some people are born with a
gift; they have the ability to touch every soul they come in contact with. Mom
was such a person. Such devastation has
seldom been felt through phone lines. I dialed the numbers in the hopes that
sharing my sorrow with the endless list of people would be cathartic. Somehow making friends and family feel the
pain made mine more manageable. I felt
the pressure of being the one who had to make my moms last days comfortable. The idea of mom spending the next several
weeks in a hospital was unbearable- there was no question that I was bringing
her home. If my mom was going to die
she was going to do it with dignity, surrounded by those she loved and most
importantly, by those who loved her.
Wanting to make her as
comfortable as possible I went in search of the perfect quilt. Mom wouldn’t want to be off in the back off
the house but would want to be where she could watch her five grandchildren
climb the apricot tree in the back yard.
She would want to watch her tomato plants blossom. She would want to
greet her guests as if nothing had changed.
Morning came but for me there
had been no night. I tossed and turned
for hours hoping a change in position would somehow keep me from drowning in my
own tears. I hadn’t cried so much since
I was seven and had awoke in the middle of the night screaming because in my
sleep I had seen my mother die. For some
strange reason the mortician had announced they had been unable to bury my
mother whole but would instead have to remove her feet and hands and place them
in separate boxes. I had run screaming
from his office searching through endless boxes hoping to find my mom and
reassemble her. The morning of that
terrifying dream we learned of my grandfathers passing. For weeks I cried myself to sleep- my young
spirit unable to comprehend that his death had not been a result of my
dream. I remembered going to grandpa’s
funeral. His wife had been in hysterics
and I was scared to be in the same room as my grandfather. I had been trembling, sitting toward the back
of the church and I begged my father to let me see him one more time. Part of me didn’t believe he was gone. He had been this strong wall of support in my
life and it seemed impossible that this wall could crumble. I walked timidly toward the casket, my small
hand clutching my fathers. I was
terrified of what I might see. The only experience I had with death was with
the dead deer I had seen hanging headless in a neighbor’s garage after a
successful hunt. I had walked in on the
men who had been cleaning it and stood frozen with terror as I watched the very
life drip from its veins and puddle on the cement floor. For me I feared I would find my grandpa
strung out in a box, covered in his own fluids.
But instead when I finally made my way to the coffin I discovered this
wax like figure that at first glance resembled grandpa but I knew it couldn’t
be him. Grandpa wasn’t cold and stiff
like this figure; Grandpa was warm and soft with a joyful Irish laugh and eyes
that twinkled when I walked in the room.
Everyone said that it was him that his spirit had separated from his
body and returned to Heaven. I watched
as they buried him and I shook inside at the thought of his body being buried
so deep in the ground. What if his
spirit wanted back, what if he realized it was a mistake to leave me and he
came back, how would he dig down so far without his body? I imagined Grandpa crying for me, calling me
to stop them but there was nothing I could do. I stood there a helpless seven
year old unable to save my grandpa, unable to help him, unable to bring him
back. And now twenty years later here I
was, in a way the same innocent seven year old kid who now couldn’t save her own
mother.
I made my way to my shower. The steam from the water hid my tears. The beads of water seemed to pound down on my
skin relentlessly. I felt as though I
had been bruised down to the very spirit and I wondered how I would ever face
the day.
I dressed quickly and left the
kids with my husband who knew from my mental state that it would be his
responsibility to care for the kids. I
left hurriedly not wanting to look into the faces of the children whose spirits
I had crushed the night before. Tears
filled my eyes as I remembered gathering the kids together in the bedroom as I
tried gently to explain what was happening.
There was no gentle way to rip someone’s heart out. There was not way to cushion the blow from a
90 mile and hour fastball being thrown directly at the chest.
We had sat together on the bed
crying. They asked questions, I stumbled
to find answers. I didn’t want to give
them too much information, I didn’t want them knowing just how sick grandma
might get. In the end I did the only
thing I could do. I prayed. The strength form those three strong spirits
seemed to penetrate the heartache and enabled me to mutter a simple heart felt
prayer for strength.
It was this strength I searched
for now as I drove to the hospital to see mom.
The night before, the doctor had said he’d tell my mom in the morning of
her condition and I didn’t want her to be alone. I hurried to the floor and rushed to her room. The antiseptic smell was nauseating and I
secretly ached as I looked around at people who were recovering and going home
to resume a normal life. Anger rushed
over me as I walked past an individual who smelled of smoke and who spoke in
the characteristic gravely voice of a person who had too long been sucking on
the cancer stick. Here they were though,
happily going about their day while my mom who had never so much as thought of
taking a smoke, laid doors away gasping for air. With a pang of guilt pounding its way to my
soul I thought bitterly to myself, “It should have been them.”
I stopped outside her door; I
needed to collect myself before going in.
As I took a deep breath and prepared to go in a body in white rushed
past me. It was her nurse, actually it
was the medical student who had been assigned to my mom. His eyes were wet and he was bent over
resting his hands on his knees as he tried to collect himself. He looked at me and said softly, “she’s a
hard case to lose.”
“Has the doctor been here yet?”
“No” he said.
Of course not, it would have
interfered with his tee time I thought bitterly. “You didn’t tell her did you?” I demanded.
“We haven’t told her, the doctor
is supposed to.”
I thought of how I would feel if
I were in her shoes, who would I want to tell me? I decided then it was my duty to break the
news.
“Hi mom, how are you
feeling?” I asked as I brushed her blond
hair off of her forehead. Her stomach
was swollen she looked as though she belonged on the maternity floor with her
middle distended so.
“Summer, is that you? Sweetheart, how are you?” Just like my mom, lying in a bed in
excruciating pain and her only concern was if I was okay.
“I’m fine mom.” I searched for words and for the first time
in my life I found myself speechless.
“Has the doctor been in yet?” I asked.
I knew the answer but was stalling in hopes of a miracle.
“No,” she said, but I want to
hear it from you.”
For weeks prior to her surgery
she had been saying half joking that if she lived through the operation she
would buy new pants. In that same
lighthearted manner she said, “Do I get new pants?”
I smiled as silent tears
streamed down my cheeks. I held her small, elegant hands as I spoke, “Oh mommy,
I don’t want to tell you.”
In the same voice and manner she
had used years previous in an attempted to convince my brother and I to confess
to shattering her thimble collection she said, “I need to her it from you.”
I took a deep breath. I felt that if I didn’t get everything out in
one breath I would not have the courage to take another breath. With amazement I watched her face, there was
no shock, no dismay, just a calm countenance that somehow penetrated the fear
in mine and brought peace.
“Summer,” she spoke quietly,
“It’s okay. I’ve had a good life- the
best- I had you.” I buried my head in
her shoulder and said again what was becoming a familiar refrain, “I’m not done
being raised yet.”
Over the next couple of days I spent hours by
her bedside. I made all the necessary
arrangements. The insurance company, in an attempt to cut corners decided to
stop offering hospice as a benefit.
Instead they offered an extended care center saying she’d receive the
necessary meds while saving the family the trouble of caring for her. “Trouble,” why did people always refer to
caring for a sick loved one as trouble?
Did these people not realize that for me the greatest honor I could have
would be to give something back to the woman who would spend hours sewing Peter
Rabbit buttons on an outfit for her prissy five year old? I fought for hours trying to cut through the
beurocratic red tape that seemed to be holding the medical community
together.
“She will get the care she needs at home, “I
explained exasperated. “Each time I come to her room I find her either drenched
in sweat or shivering. Her pillows always need to be adjusted and her mouth is
dry. If this is the kind of care she is
to get here there is no question where she should be - she needs to be with me
- I know her needs- I know her,” my lips quivered as I spoke more quietly those
sacred words, “I love her.” The insurance
company consented but first I was required to sign a DNR. Because she had signed papers prior to
surgery giving me power of attorney it was my job to sign these papers. I was being asked to sign a paper stating
that there were to be no heroic measures taken to prolong her life. Of course I wanted them to take heroic
measures; I wasn’t ready to lose my mom.
I wanted them to open her up, cut the bulging masses of disease from her
and fix her. I wanted them to go back in
time to the onset of her symptoms and find the cancer in time to save her. I
wanted them to erase away the years in which I wasn’t appreciative of my
mom. What I wanted was impossible I knew
but the heart is a muscle that can not be controlled so I wanted it
anyway. I needed time. I had to sort this out in my head. I needed to see if I could sign the paper
without feeling as thought somehow I was an accomplice in her death.
I went back to my curb- my place
of peace. Funny how place so close to a
busy road with the noise of people passing by could be the place I went for
peace. In a way the commotion was a
distraction. I could not fall apart
here. I needed to look strong to those
strangers who passed- so I’d hold it in.
I thought back to a time years previous, I was nine or ten and a member
of the city swim team. I was a tall,
skinny, uncoordinated pre pubescent who for some reason knew just how to move
in the water. Somehow the arms that
could not find an inconspicuous place on land knew exactly what to do in the
water. Each swim meet I would work
myself up. I’d become so anxious that at
times I would vomit. No one knew this of
course, no one but my parents. To the
rest of the swimming community I was a rock.
A gifted, graceful swimmer who thought nothing of diving into iced over
water to win a gold medal. My parents were my comfort spot. I could let go for them and they could see my
inadequacies for they loved me regardless.
With my mom I could be myself, there was no need to “put on heirs” I
could be me. Now here I sat on the curb
about to make a decision that could dramatically affect all of my loved ones
and the only one I could talk to about my fears was the one person I must hide
them from. Tears fell to the cement
below and I hurried to my car. I could
no let this hurt show; I was the strong one, the capable one.
It was nine hours later in
Denmark that it was in California so for most of our conversations at least one
of us was groggy. I knew however that
despite the time this was decision my brother and I would have to share. He was
finishing up his finals at the University and mom refused to let him come home
until he had finished.
“Shad, if I sign this and her
heart stops you won’t to be able to see her again. Will you be okay with that?” If it had been
me 3000 miles away I would know the answer, there would be too many things to
say, too many loose ends to tie before she could go. In the end we agreed, while it might not be
okay, it would be unfair to prolong her suffering just so we could have more
time. With great trepidation I went
forth to sign what I viewed to be her death warrant.
Visiting hours seemed to mean
nothing in room 208. People from all
over the country called and visited almost continually. And while I know how much everyone’s support
meant to my mom, it was all but impossible for me to be the cheerful hostess I
felt I was supposed to be. I’d manage a
smile and even a heart felt hug but would ache for a time that I could let go. I needed to fall apart and somehow it was
never “appropriate.” The time I had with
my mom seemed so short and so important and here these people wanted to share
that with me, I should have been grateful for them, but I resented them for
taking time from me. On a weekday when
she seemed coherent I dared to ask questions that I wasn’t sure I wanted to
hear answers to.
“Mom, are you worried about
dying?”
“No, I am sad to be leaving you
though and I’m afraid of the pain in the end,” she said.
“We’ll do everything we can to
keep the pain to a minimum mom; I hate to see you hurt.” There was a pause in the conversation, it was
almost if we suddenly realized the seriousness of the conversation we were
having and were afraid to go on.
Have you thought about what kind
of service you’d like to have?” I asked
timidly.
Mom had always said that when
her time came she would want simply to be put in a pine box and would not want
a funeral. This seemed so unfair to
those whose hearts she’d touched through her years of working in various
communities however.
“Not really”, she replied.
“Is there a particular song
you’d like?” She looked at the ceiling,
her mind seemed to be going a mile a minute and yet I wasn’t sure she
understood what I was asking. “What is your
favorite song mom?”
She smiled as she silently
hummed the tune in her head. “Fly Me to the Moon,” she said wistfully. Not having inherited any of my father’s
musical ability I tried my best to sing a few lines. I sang quietly hoping not
to set off any alarms in the room. I
couldn’t help but smile as we sang together, neither of us on key, neither of
us caring. It reminded me of the when I
was eight. I had just started piano
lessons and I would practice diligently each day. Mom would stand behind me brushing my long
blond curls. I was never sure if she did
this because she loved to hear my music or if she simply wanted to take
advantage of me sitting still long enough to comb my hair. In later years mom loved to hear me play,
she’d sit in her fuzzy orange chair and listen for as l long as I’d sit
still. This chair, though she insisted
was fashionable in its day was to me somewhat of an eyesore. This chair was her most loved in the house
because her feet could actually touch the floor in it. This was a rare thing for mom, for her tiny legs
were always being propped up by dad’s briefcase or a pile of books to keep her
feet from going numb.
The day the ambulance brought
her home was filled with anticipation.
She would need around the clock care and despite the fact that her
daughter in law and her husband were there, I knew that ultimately it was me
who was responsible for her care. It was
not because the others were not willing because they were very eager to help
but I was her daughter and I felt it was my responsibility. How could I turn her care over to someone
else when over the years she had been the one to nurse me back to health? It had been her touch that wiped away the
tears; her fingers that massaged away my stress; her words who had calmed the
storm of emotion that would overcome me as an adolescent and now it was my turn
to face this force storm head on. For
years my mom had been telling me that in her patriarchal blessing it stated
that her kids would take care of her in her golden years. I had always thought of her being 88 years’
old baking cookies while living in my home caring for my kids as how that would
happen. I never pictured I like this.
Somehow I found it in me to be
cheerful as the paramedics lifted my mom on to her new bed. I excitedly showed her the magic buttons
designed to bring her comfort. I conversed with her as it were just another day
and I smiled as mom settled in and we found our new routine.
Mom had come here with a feeding
tube threaded into her abdomen. We were to feed her through this tube every
couple of hours. It was painful for her
at first and we joked about the different foods she was pretending I was
feeding her. Mom seemed to be doing well and at times I felt as though she were
simply recovering from a routine operation and not as though she was preparing
to die. We set our alarm for every two
hours at night so we could administer to her needs but no one slept - not
really. For me the night brought nightmares
in which I kept seeing my mom die. I
would wake with a start and run to her side fearing that her breath had
stopped. It was on one such night that
we awoke to the sound of vomiting. Mom
vomited violently for hours. Her tube
appeared to be clogged and we tried everything to clear it. We tried squirting Coke through the tube. It
was supposed to be able to eat through a blockage. I was horrifying at the same
drink we would drink for refreshment would become like acid from a battery
slowly eating away the buildup. Nothing
worked, the vomiting was only worsening and it came time to make another
decision that could dramatically speed up the process of her dying. We stopped her feedings and I shook with the
realization that it was only a matter of days that she’d still be with me now
that she was no longer getting nourishment.
My brother Shad was still in
Denmark and was unable to come for a week. It seemed at that point a cruel
thing to hope for her to make it that long.
Hours of vomiting turned into days and exhaustion was evident on everyone’s
face. It seemed that the minute we
cleaned her up and go her settled she would let lose again. We had a tube inserted into her nose, down
her throat and to her stomach that was supposed to help ease the discomfort.
The fear of having this tube inserted made many of the audience that had
gathered turn away but I couldn’t. I
needed to be there. She needed me in the
way a child needs her mom. I watched in
horror as her bodily function of digestion was turned over to a machine.
She improved dramatically at
that point and she made an effort to teach me the many things I had always been
too busy to learn. She showed me which
pie crust recipe she used, and retold stories from her youth in hopes that her
memory would live on. She insisted on walking to the bathroom on her own and
occasionally she would dance a jig to the imaginary music playing in her
head. She “introduced” me to the proper
cleaning techniques and taught me to differentiate between a weed and a flower. Her “solar battery” as she referred to it was
in need of being recharged and she ached to sit in the sun. She amazed us all as she pulled herself from
her wheelchair to pull the single weed that had managed to find its way to her
lawn.
How she loved the sun. As a child I would look at her callused
hands, chapped and cracked from hours of gardening and would wonder why she
would work in the garden when it obviously resulted in pain. Watching her struggle to make her way to the
weed I realized that it was her way of creating something wonderful, it was her
masterpiece. She loved her roses;
especially the yellow or blue ones that she thought were works of art. One of
her sisters was an artist, the other a musician and she; well she was her own
breed of talent. She had the ability to
take a seed which held the promise of new growth and turn it into a beautiful
plant that not only produced food that nourished the body of those she loved,
but nourished her soul as well. Why had
I never appreciated the talent it took to garden? Why had I not appreciated her love of the soil? I felt guilty for at times I judged those
callused hands and hesitated to hold them -- not realizing they were a badge of
honor Not realizing how painful it would
be hold them once they became soft and smooth from lack of use.
My mom was a master in the
kitchen. People thought her rolling pin
should be bronzed. Because she was so
skilled in the kitchen I was content to sit back and watch never bothering to
learn the art of pie making. I guess I
took it for granted that she would always be there to satisfy my cravings. This realization hit hard and I found
myself anxiously trying to mix the pie crust to the right consistency so as to
create the tender flakes that supported the creamy fillings. On the rare occasion I slept I would dream of
pies. I would find myself at a holiday
dinner surrounded by family and I would bring forth a pie taken only moments
before from a box. My family would stare
back at me in shock and horror -- severely disappointed with my lack of
culinary skills. It was this need to be
able to pass on my moms traditions that sent me to the kitchen making crust
after crust, presenting each one to my mom for her critique and I knew in my
heart she would not die until I could make the perfect pie.
Mom would watch her grand children,
her pride and joy play and suddenly sit up with a start. Fears normally tempered with reason were
brought to the forefront. She would call
my son, whose nickname was Crash from the living room to lecture him on the
dangers of couches. Zachary would stand politely at her bedside, nodding in
agreement but his eyes would look at me confused and bewildered. He was wondering just how a couch was to come
to life and attack him. His eyes seemed
to be saying. “What is wrong with Grandma?”
Each of the kids reacted
differently to her condition. Zach, the
oldest, was the most emotional one. Each
time he looked at her his eyes would fill with tears and his chin would quiver showing
just how close he was to emotional overload.
You could always tell when the dam he had built as about to burst. Bailey, who was six, was unsure of everything
happening around her. She was drawn to
her grandma; she would spend as much time with her as she could and often just
laid her head down on the bed next to her and watched her sleep. Kaitlyn, only
two, who thought the world revolved around grandma, didn't seem to react at all
to the tubes and cords that surrounded her favorite playmate. Kaitlyn would scamper across the room and
climb the bars of the bed and find her favorite spot snuggled in next to
grandma. She'd talk nonstop about
everything she saw and didn't seem to mind that her conversational companion
was often drifting in and out of consciousness.
To ease the solemn mood that often filled the room a friend of mine
brought a tiny little Himalayan kitten for us to play with. Mom fell instantly in love with the tiny
white fur ball and would stroke the kitten even in her sleep. The tiny little kitty, too small to even be
away from its own mother would purr and we'd watch as mom and the cat breathed
in rhythm, one with another. It soon
became a permanent fixture in the family.
A week after mom's diagnosis
Shad was able to join us. It had been
hard on him being unable to be with us.
Whenever we found mom to be unusually lucid we would phone Shad and
often woke him from a deep sleep so he could talk to her for what could be the
last time. I would sit by the phone with
tears in my eyes as she told him how proud she was of him and how much she
loved him. I hurt for him and knew how
much he would love to hug her one more time.
At her tallest mom was only 5 foot and a quarter inch. Shad was a tall 6 foot 4 and when she'd stand
on her tippy toes she’d reach his chest.
I remembered vividly the day we took shad to the MTC for his
mission. We have a picture of her
hugging him, tears streaming down her beautiful face as she said goodbye to her
baby. It was reversed this time as he
hugged her and tears came to his eyes as he prepared to say goodbye to his
mom.
We took shifts with caring for
mom. I slept at her house most nights,
wanting to be there if she needed me. At
first there were trips to the bathroom and showers that needed to be handled
but after her feeding tube had been removed they became much less frequent. I would wash her hair and comb it for her and
a friend of mine made her a small robe for her to wear over her pajamas. We did endless laundry as we tried to keep
her comfortable.
The kids would play in the
backyard, Zach climbing to the top of the apricot tree and trying to jump
without grandma noticing. I would sit
next to her bed and play hostess to the people who came to visit.
The time finally came that I had to tell them that the visits were too
much. I felt as though I was breaking the
hearts of these people who from their reaction loved my mom with the same
intensity that I did. She made work
fun. She made people laugh with her
funny remarks and her characteristic mixed metaphors. At one important business
meeting she looked down to realize that she had worn two different shoes, not
just different colors, but different styles completely. It struck her funny and she laughed with her
famous belly laugh. It was delightfully
consistent. She would start to chuckle
quietly, and then she’d stretch her mouth into the shape of an “o” than she’d
purse her lips tightly in an effort to control herself. Next, her eyes would start to water, the blue
pools sparkling with the radiance of pure happiness. She’d finally have to give into her gut and
she’d let out a gigantic sound that would shock those around her. She’d grab her sides and tears would spill
down her cheeks. Through out her burst
of laughter she would try again to compose herself, always unsuccessfully. When the last bit of energy had been expended
she would finally find herself at rest.
I don’t remember a day that she didn’t find at least one reason to spend
15 minutes in laughter. It was
infectious. No one that witnessed her
amazing, and often ill timed laugh fests could help but join in as well. Never happy with my own sound, I would never
be caught laughing out loud, unless my mom started first, and then there was no
holding back. I remember vividly the
many lunches that we’d share with her mother and sister. They had the same laugh and when the three of
them would get going the restraunt would never be the same.
She had a sneeze that could make the Queen’s guards break
formation. It was a tiny little squeak
that can only be made when squeezing a mouse and quickly releasing resulting in
a high pitched, delicate “haaa
choo”. The final note of the musical
score she produced can not be duplicated by man.
She was notorious for saying the
wrong thing at the wrong time. She was
not unlike the iconic Lucille Ball, a comedic genius. She worked at a bank for several years and
after dealing with an extremely belligerent customer she simply spoke into the
microphone of the drive thru, “I’m sorry you’re so annoying”. Returning from a trip into the city once she
found herself stopped for what seemed to be an extraordinarily long time behind
a group of cars that never seemed to turn right when the light changed. After 15 minutes or so she realized she had
pulled in behind parked cars.
She once paid for a cart full of
groceries and failed to take them to her car, making me return to the store to
get them. At that same store she once
got caught in the turnstile when her bag became stuck on the wheel and had to
be untangled by store employees. Later
that same year she turned the corner too quickly and knocked out an entire
display of wine. She said that she was
just doing her job to help people keep the commandments.
She was everyone’s second
mom. Not a child in town was ever
unloved; they knew that Kass would be there for them. Growing up my friends would come to my house
to discuss things with my mom. I was
often jealous of her ability to make friends with everyone. She had a way of making everyone see the good
in themselves. It was for this reason
that the crowds never seemed to thin around her bed.
There were times that as my mom
started to drift in and out of consciousness that she would stare at the
corners of the room. She would laugh
softly to herself and occasional raise a hand in that, “I can’t believe it”
motion that I knew so well. Occasionally
a word would be recognizable as she lingered in what could only be that fine
line between life and death. When she
would “come to” she would tell me about her visit with her grandmother who had
passed years before. She would tell me
things that she had no way of knowing, unless of course her grandmother was
telling her stories while she waited to die.
At one point I called my aunt to ask her about some of the stories my
mom would recount. She cried as she
said, “there is no other explanation.
Kass could not have known that”.
She told me to make sure that my Aunt Joann, her sister in law whom she
loved dearly, that her daughter who died as an infant, was okay and that she
loved her mom”. Any questions that I had
about life after death were firmly erased as I witnessed the special visits
from loved ones that only my mom could see and hear. There was peacefulness around her, an aura if
you will, of divinity.
Her breathing became labored,
her heart rate soared, and the hospice staff would prepare us for what would be
her final moments. Each day they would
say, “She won’t make it through today” and they’d make sure I had the number of
the person I was to call when her last breath had been taken. This routine continued for days as we watched
her always slight frame become brittle from lack of food and water. It is said that man can go only three days
without food and water, but they don’t include super human mother’s who love
for their children out way all science and logic, into the equation. It was May and she refused to die on my
birthday, and she had refused to die on mother’s day and knowing my mother, she
had told Heavenly Father that she would be there just as soon as she was sure
my father would not wander the streets in shorts with holes in them.
I told the nurses that my mother
would pass away on Memorial Day. She was
Miss America personified. She was the
most patriotic woman I had ever met and if at all possible she would die on a
day that the flag would be flying.
Everyone told me that it as impossible, that she would never be able to
hang on until the end of May but they didn’t know my mother the way I did. She was single handedly able to make anything
happen. She had more power packed into
her 5 foot frame than an entire football team. And if she wanted to, she would
make it happen.
As that day drew closer I began to have
horrible thoughts. I would watch her
lying in her bed, her legs bent with atrophy and would think, “just go mom,
just go”. It made me sob to think those
thoughts but the idea that her spirit was entangled in this flesh that was
binding her to this Earth was eating me alive.
I prayed for Heavenly Father to take her, to end her suffering, knowing
that this process was too bitter to take for much longer.
I told my Relief Society
president that my mom would always have a Memorial Day picnic and that I was
sure that was what she was waiting for.
Shortly before noon she arrived on our steps with a basket with
traditional Memorial Day fare. As I took
it from her I felt energy in the room that I had not previously sensed. It was as if my mom had suddenly realized
that we would eventually be okay without her.
Okay is a relative term. Ok
compared to the thousands of people who suffer in ways that we can’t imagine,
yes, but not truly okay.
My husband had Zach and Kaitlyn
but Bailey refused to leave grandma. She and her two cousins played quietly in
the back room while I sat next to my mom in eerie silence. There was a sudden gasp, her breathing became
rattly and more labored, her pulse was soaring and I could see her heart
pounding. I reached for her hand. I called for Bailey who came to her bedside
and placed her hand upon her precious grandma.
My brother and father joined us as well.
We called for the hospice nurse and watched as her breathing slowed and
eventually stopped. They told us that
often after someone dies it appears as though they are still gasping for air. We watched for minutes as this process
continued, wanting it to be over and fearing that it was. I like to think that I knew the minute her
spirit exited her body. There was warmth
around me, a blanket of love that only a mother could provide. I feared letting go, I feared what would
happen next and I sobbed the sob of a broken hearted child. My mother had died, and the flag was indeed
flying.
I held her hand as the coroner
came. The nurse had called time of death and waited with us while they came to
take my mom to the next stage of this ordeal.
The hurse that pulled to the front of the house was out of a movie. Two
men in ties approached the door and politely told us what they needed to
do. They told me it would be best not to
watch but I couldn’t turn away. I wanted
to be with my mother for every moment.
They placed a bag on the gurney and with skill and precision they
proceed to wrap my mother with plastic.
The seven year old girl in me screamed inside, “don’t, she can’t breath,
you can’t do this to her, she’ll come back, don’t, she’ll come back” but my
silent pleas met with nothing but the sound of a metal zipper closing the bag
that contained the shell of my mother.
Her spirit was gone, I was alone.
The room was full, but I was alone.
Bailey, who had been told to
wait in the bedroom, came with the special figurines that she had given grandma
weeks ago and gave one to her cousins and one to her grandpa. She wanted them to have something to hold
onto that represented her love.
I made phone calls. I sobbed through most, and shook through
others. I looked at my sister in law and
said “I can do this, I’m going to make it” though I knew that the reality of it
was that I would never be the same again.
Dad and I had already made
arrangements for her burial. She would
be buried near her home in Cedar City, Utah.
She would be driven to LAX from the local funeral home and then flown to
St George where they would prepare her body.
I walked into Metcalf Mortuary
and felt instantly more comfortable than I had at the funeral home in
California. That one had been covered in
symbols from different religions in an effort to bring peace to those who
mourned. But Metcalf was different. It was like my church building. No crosses that represented death, but
paintings of a resurrected Christ, ones
that brought hope and an eternal perspective to this trying time.
I insisted that they made my
mother’s body look like her. I had
brought her own make up and a photo of how she wore her hair. I didn’t want to look at her and see a made
up mannequin but longed for the simplistic beauty that she had been. I stood for a long time in front of her open
casket, blue with a silk lining with the Salt Lake Temple embroidered on the
lining and a simple rose. The make up
artists made her look amazingly like my mother before she had become sick. I watched for a long time, convincing my
brother that he had to see her. She had
become so disfigured during her illness that I didn’t want that to be the last
picture of my mom that he carried in his head.
She was beautiful. The Spirit of
my Heavenly Father poured himself upon me and I held on to the knowledge that
families are eternal. I had a new found
desire to live my life righteously so that I would be reunited with this
glorious woman once more.
We had a simple grave side
service, one with friends, family and colleagues that came to say
good-bye. Her dear friend Ed, had
written eloquently about her life and passing on the front page of the local
paper and the turn out to support our family was strong. I spoke, shaking the entire time, my notes
trembling with such force that through my tear stained eyes I couldn’t see
them. I thanked her for the many things
that she had given me and for the amazing legacy she left for her children.
Shad spoke about how she was a woman ahead of her time. He said that while she dreamed of staying
home and living her life behind a white picket fence, but that the world would
have been drastically worse off had she not been out there each day touching
the lives of those she worked with. My
dad spoke of the joy had received from marrying his best friend.
As the ceremony came to a close
my children walked towards me with rocks in their hands. They had seen people put flowers on top of
the coffin and they wanted to express their love too. They were afraid that because flowers died it
wasn’t a good enough gesture. They said
that “rocks are forever, like grandma’s love” and asked the gentleman in charge
of the burial to open the coffin so they could give grandma something
eternal. With that touching tribute
complete they lowered my mother’s body into the ground and with it a piece of
my heart.
Not a day goes by that I don’t
see a butterfly and wonder if my mom sent it as a message. When I hear a laugh that is filled with such
pleasure I’m sure it can’t be contained, I think of my mom. When my youngest child, born after grandma
had died looks at me I see her in his eyes.
His sweet demeanor, his tender heart, all indicative of the idea that
she had picked him to come to our family.
I miss her smile; I miss the smell of her rolls at Sunday dinner, or her
loud cheer at a sporting event. I miss
her calls in the middle of the day just to see if I’m okay. I miss the proud display of artwork that
adorned her office. I miss the sound of
music as she baked cookies with the care and precision of an artist. I miss the smell of fresh cut vegetables, and
her shoes perfectly lined up in her closet.
I miss the smell of laundry that only she knew how to achieve. I miss the ironed shoe laces and the bubble
marks on the sidewalk in front of her house.
Perhaps what I miss most of all is the unconditional love that seems to
only belong to a mother. The knowledge
that one person out there believes in you, regardless of the rest of the
world. I miss the support, the compassion
and the shoulder to cry on when life just seems to tough.
I see her in each child, I feel
her in the summer breeze and I smell her cooking in the fresh baked pies I make
to stay close to her.
We blessed my youngest child on
a day that was made for my mother. The
sky was blue, the breeze was warm and the sun was just right for recharging
solar batteries. We stood in front of
our front porch for pictures when my daughter looked down to see among the tiny
white ground flowers a big, beautiful, completely out of place, yellow
flower. We all paused to look and take
in another sign of my mothers continued presence in our lives.
