January 17, 2005
Transition
My mother died early Saturday morning January 15, 2005, one day short of her 97th birthday. I feel fortunate to have been there. I heard her take her last breath.
The doctor called late the day before to say that she had heart arhythmias and that he doubted that she would last the night. Her decline had been precipitious over two or three days. I took the first plane out She waited for me.
When I arrived, her CNA, Maria, was keeping vigil beside my mother's bed with tears streaming down her face. Maria hopped up, threw her arms around me in relief, saying she was so glad I had arrived, she didn't want my mother to die alone.
We cried alot that day. Maria hugged and kissed my mother continually, calling her Lizzie (a name, under other conditions, my mother abhorred), assuring her that her only child would be well cared for without her, admonishing her die. "She's stubborn" Maria would say, "She just won't let go". I, in comparison, was waspishly reserved, but deeply appreciative..
My mother's breathing was close to the Lamaze "hut, hut" pant -an ironic similarity between the hard work of birthing and dying. Sometimes she gurgled as if she needed to cough, but hadn't the strength. It was so disturbing to see her distress. The head nurse told me that aspiration would only produce more phlegm at this stage, and showed me how to touch her throat to ease the congestion.
I stroked my mother's throat, her still unwrinkled cheeks, held her hand, and spoke to her softly all afternoon. I told her that she had worked hard and that she could rest, I loved her and she had done a good job.
Sometimes her eyes opened wide, and she looked as if she was afraid. Perhaps she was hallucinating. She had not taken any medication for four days. I tried to be reassuring, reminding her about Maria's angels, and family members who might be waiting for her.
I did little relaxing, hypnotic visualizations about floating and clouds, which seemed to annoy her, so I stopped. I tried bilateral brain stimulation, alternately tapping her hands, which was also a flop. Silently I asked her to forgive me for comparing her to Joan Crawford not two days ago, and for all the fear and anger I felt in most of the years of our relationship. I appreciated her generosity, her artistry and her good intentions. I forgave her for the shadows she cast on my psyche and appreciated how her influence formed my character and lead me to my vocation.
She knew I was there, she knew it was me. Our gazes were locked for many hours, until she couldn't maintain the connection. She drifted off, one eye slightly opened, but unseeing, her breathing labored and audible.
The staff at The Manor was so kind. Many were grieving themselves. My mother was a popular resident, a "sweet lady"- and she was. Once dementia eroded her intellect, she was also freed from the massive anxiety that drove her to control. She could kid around, wink back at you, take a joke, and, even in her deepest fog, she never forgot to say thank you. So the staff was in and out, with many offerings. At the end of her shift, Maria borrowed a bible from the couple across the way in #117, opened it to the 23rd Psalm, pointed out the precise passage, and instructed me to read it at the moment of passing. She also opened the window so that my mother's spirit would be free to leave. I closed it later in the evening because my mother was cold.
A folding camp chair had been purchased at Christmas, since there was no comfortable chair in my mother's room. The only model left at Walmart was one with a attached footrest, and it was still folded up in the corner. I realized that I could spend the night in that chair, so I did, sidled up to her bed, holding her hand. At about 1:30 AM the staff came in to take her blood pressure (it was 80 over 50, not a very good sign). Afterwards, her breathing was more labored, and I listened for awhile, and then it just stopped. I thought she had died, but I wasn't certain. I read the 23rd Psalm out loud, maybe a little too softly, but I did. Then I went to get the nurse, and the whole staff came in. One sweet young aide, opened the window, and said "I promised Shari I would do this for your mother." Shari was her day nurse. Opening the window to allow the spirit to depart is a popular idea around there, and a lovely one, I think.
They knew what to do. I think they have done it many times. I was very glad she was prepared by people who knew her and cared about her. It took the mortuary an hour to arrive, which I spent watching my mother's spirit leave her body and fly out the window (probably). I had so many ambivalent feelings -- sadness, relief, regret, guilt, remorse, gratitude.
As I shuffled through the papers I had gathered at home and found the name of the funeral home my parents had chosen and prepaid in 1977 (which has changed hands four times) I saw strict instructions the back of the form, scrawled in my father hand. NO FUNERAL, NO NOTICES, CREMATION. In our family this kind of end is known as "The Sparky Special" , Sparky being my father's baffling nickname, given that he was anything but. Both of my parents were of the opinion that funerals are " barbaric", so there will be none.
Since there would be very few friends and relatives alive to invite to a funeral anyway, and most of us were there when my mother died, this is as barbaric as it's going to get. I will tell the story here, and over and over to my close friends as I process all that my mother has meant in my life. It was a fierce attachment.
Photo note: Toward the end of her life, sunflowers were my mother's favorite. The blue sky with puffy white clouds represents the great beyond, where she has gone. The shutters are for the home she made for me. The flaw, or more accurately the unfolding of the flower signifies the complexity and evolution of our relationship.
The center of a sunflower has a seed organizational pattern which is based on the Fibonacci sequence and involves two sets of spirals that criss cross, this is the template that nature uses to build life.