Two years ago today, I watched, felt, and heard my mother take her last life's breath. The week before she died, I had taken to spending as much time as I could with her and certainly spent my nights with her. I was on a small couch next to her bed where I could lie and see her face whenever I would open my eyes.
10 days earlier, she spontaneously refused to eat or drink; she would clench her jaw tight if we tried to giver her anything other than her oral medications for comfort management. I was told many times that she probably wouldn't live very long without water; as it turned out, my small but spunky mother lived for 10 days.
That morning two years ago, she woke me up. I heard a loud sound and was immediately by her side. To this day, I cannot identify the sound I heard. I just know it was loud, vibrating within my head. One second I was asleep, the next I was wide awake. She was struggling with her breathing and feeling some panic (me!), I raised the head of her bed and thankfully, her struggled gasping ceased and she was quickly calmed (while my heart pounded). Her face was one of intense focus as she took her last remaining breaths. I held her and spoke to her, telling her that she was doing a good job and that I was with her. I told her how much I loved her and I thanked her for being such a good person and mother. Then, after about 5 or 6 minutes, I really don't know, she took her last breath.
I've been with others who have died and that particular moment is always a confusing one because we just don't really know yet that the end has arrived and their journey toward death has been completed. So, I waited, I looked, I put my head on her chest to listen for her heart beat. All was still and quiet.
It was an amazingly peaceful moment. I remember being happy for her and relieved that she was free from the grips of Alzheimer's--to me, she had won. I wasn't afraid, I wasn't freaked out; I was just very calm and the entire room felt calm. I know that she had made it so.
A young aide came in after a bit of time and was quite impacted by the fact that my mother was now dead. "She's my first" she said and we stood and talked about it. After a few minutes, I asked her to help me bathe mom; I gave her a sponge bath and put on a brand new night gown that I knew she would have liked. After that, it became time to wait and make some calls.
When mom first came to Seattle, she joined a research study through the University of Washington on Alzheimer's Disease. One aspect of the research had to do with the donation of a small amount of brain tissue at the time of death. A brain autopsy is the only current definitive way to absolutely diagnose Alzheimer's Disease from other possible etiologies that may also lead to dementia. So, I began the wait for the person who would come to transport her to the autopsy location. This was mom's last gesture of giving to others. While waiting, I called Kim and one of my sisters, Andie. I knew that Andie would know right away because we always know when the phone rings in the middle of the night or early morning. There's nothing like the sound of the phone at those hours; we all know their impact and how our lives change once we pick up.
A young woman arrived with a guerney and a body bag. She told me that I was free to leave the room or stay. I couldn't imagine leaving and so I asked if I could help. I helped lift and transfer mom to the gurney and I slowly zipped up the bag. I then walked with the gurney and mom down to the elevator where I helped put my mother into a van disguised as your everyday family vehicle. I closed the van door and watched her leave.
There are moments that often get burned into our brains. One for me was reentering mom's apartment after she was gone. It was so quiet. There was her bed with ruffled sheets, an indentation remained in her pillow and her bird mobile flowed gently with a breeze from her fan. I couldn't really grasp that this aspect of her and my life was over. So I just stood, took in the morning light and tried to hold onto that moment of solitude, calm, and quiet for a few moments longer. Soon the spell was broken with the phone ringing and staff coming in and out to talk with me and offer their condolences. Kim arrived and after a bit of time, I really don't know how long, she had me leave with her to go take a break.
My friend John who lost his partner, Ken, seven months ago tells me that some of his friends think he should start moving on. Here I am two years later and I still feel this event as though it was yesterday. Sure, many days I have a healthy distance but when I really sit and focus I can easily recreate the time and feelings in my mind and heart.
Now, almost two years to the day, my sisters and I had a memorial bench dedicated to our parents in our home town of Los Alamos. Older sister Gloria took the lead and made it happen; it's in a nice spot near our public library surrounded by pine trees. I look forward to sitting there. These days I tend to ponder my own mortality a fair amount. Doing so acts like a compass and tends to steer me in directions of better (hopefully) behavior. I'm more aware of my mortality as I notice more aches and pains and how I'm slower to adapt to my new work environment than I would have in the past (or so I critique myself). I can't believe another day has flown by each night as I crawl into bed, things on my lists remaining undone. I try to not be afraid and I try to remember that when we are asleep, we don't really know it. I try to remember how brave those who have gone before me have been. I try...
I wonder if some day, someone will put up a bench for me? If so, could it please be somewhere near and facing water?
Thank you.
PS:
After I wrote the above, my sister Gloria sent me the following. She went to Santa Fe and sent me the following:
National Cemetery, Santa Fe, NM
My younger brother, Michael died when I was in first grade and my sister, Angela died when I was in the second grade....I also remember their death's very clearly.
Little Brother, Michael
Little Sister, Angela
No comments:
Post a Comment