I’ve been wrestling with thoughts of mom recently. I can only assume it’s due to Mother’s Day weekend looming. Or who knows, maybe I’m just destined for these thoughts – they’re probably all valid assumptions. I keep coming back to the word “trauma.” That’s a reoccurring theme when it comes to thinking of mom. I know it won’t always be this way, but for now, it’s mostly trauma.
I suppose I’m still trying to accept the last almost 4 years (she was diagnosed in July 2017 and passed August 2020). It doesn’t seem real. I distinctly remember probably 4 years ago during spring time, I was crossing the bridge near our house and I had the morbid thought, “I would be destroyed if something were to happen to mom.” No real reason to think that, it was just a scary and sad thought. She was such a constant in our lives -- always present in some shape or form. I remember the thought brought me to tears, realizing she was my best friend and feeling so thankful that I could just call her at any time, knowing it was always an instant laugh.
A couple months later, the diagnosis came and my fears started to become real. I know I’m not the only person to lose a mom at such a “young” age and my situation in general, isn’t unique. I put that in quotation marks, because it’s all relative, isn’t it? There are people who’ve lost moms much younger than me - the mothers who failed to see their children grow into adulthood. Then there are those who’ve lost a mom later in life, who have double the memories to reflect on and wish they could have a replay. I’m no authority on what’s worse. I can only speak for myself, and I feel a bit melancholy these days – I had her long enough to see her as an adult, and also what she was like with her grandchildren, but not long enough to endure the teen years with my kids, that I remember going through with her when I was growing up. It feels almost like it was dangled in front of me… teased, so I could catch glimpses of the wonderfulness of having a mother companion to accompany me during these different stages, only to be taken away when we were just getting started.
But that’s only a fragment of the trauma. The real trauma came the last month of her life. After years of battling, a severe case of shingles made us stop chemo because her body couldn’t handle fighting all of it at the same time. We tried to so hard to get her skin to heal, and to build her strength back up so that she could resume the chemo, but we couldn’t get it done quickly enough. And unfortunately, the cancer just took advantage with no chemo in play. The most noticeable takeover was her brain. That last month wasn’t my mom. She lost the ability to eat (physically – she could no longer feed herself) and her appetite just waned anyway. She sometimes didn’t know where she was, who I was, and she couldn’t walk well enough to get her to the bathroom. She began imagining people and things. I was exhausted because I knew what was happening, but you feel so torn as the caregiver. Do I help and coerce her to keep fighting, even though her mind isn’t really hers anymore, or do I just let nature take over and try my best to make sure she doesn’t suffer?
Sure, I could’ve fed her like a child for a little longer, convincing her that a few bites would help her feel better, or that it would taste SO good. But it wasn’t true. Nothing had tasted good for so long at that point, and with everything that was happening to her body, eating a few bites of food would probably be just enough to make her mad (as she would have said before). So I began to accept that hospice was right. Prolonging the inevitable was me keeping her here longer for my sake, not for her sake anymore. Because anyone that knew mom, knew that being treated like a child was NOT what she wanted, and she would’ve been mortified if she registered how dependent she had become on myself and the nurses. The damage done by the cancer was beyond reversible. There was just so much of it at that point.
But the thing that sticks with me the most, was seeing how strong her body still was. If only we could’ve caught the spread to her brain sooner, and maybe done something about the fluid that had built up in her lungs, how much longer could we have had her? Or maybe she at least would’ve been more herself leading up to her final days. She still had the energy to push that walker around, even attempting to mow us over so she could “go home,” even though we were standing in her bedroom.
I had never been with someone as they passed away. So when it happened, I just accepted that what I witnessed was typical, and that it was peaceful. But it wasn’t until 6 weeks later when I also witnessed my grandmother passing in her sleep at hospice, that I realized that THAT was a peaceful passing. Grandmama’s body just gave out at 87 years old, combined with bladder cancer. She was medicated so that her body could finally rest, so she just peacefully slept, until around 4am when I heard her breathing slow. Then finally, she just took one final breath, and she was gone. I was almost shocked at how different those experiences were. And then I was completely bothered as I reflected back on mom’s final moments.
That day with mom was awful. Upon the daily check-in, the nurse noticed that her breathing had sped up. Almost like you would see when a fish is out of water. She was still sleeping, but her breathing was rapid at the check-in around 9:30am. We tried to change her clothes after her bath, but any type of movement agitated her and her breathing really went crazy. I camped out at her side until the end at that point. Her breathing continued that way until she passed at 1:13pm. It never slowed. The only indication was the way her lungs sounded when she breathed. I realized when Grandmama passed gradually by just slowed breathing and a final small exhale, that mama’s passing was very different. I now believe mom's lungs filled up with fluid (which was the way it sounded, but I couldn’t explain it then). The best way to describe what I mean is to imagine filling up a jug of water. If you close your eyes, you can hear it getting full as it reaches the top. That’s what it was like, and I could hear it in her last minute. But in her final moment, she opened her eyes wide for the first time in I don’t know how long and looked up to the sky, stretching her neck upwards. She was fighting to breathe, even with all of that morphine – and her eyes sprung open. And then she was gone. There was no more room in those lungs and ultimately, it was as if she drowned. I don’t think she suffered, so please don’t think that. There was no gasping. But it made me see how strong she still was. Had it not been for the fluid in those lungs, and her mind switching gears to prepare for her final days, how long could her body have kept going?
So that’s the trauma. Those are the questions that plague me on a daily basis. But thanks to friends that were by my side (virtually) through all of that, they remind me of the funny stories that occurred in that time too. Like when mom’s mind was playing tricks on her at the dinner table, and she was convinced we were there to celebrate her birthday (the month was July – and her birthday is in June). So naturally, we tried to make her feel special and we sang happy birthday and I think we may have even had cake? I truly don’t remember details, but the kids were happy to oblige. Or the time she was still trying to make her own coffee (complete with a scoop of miralax for obvious reasons), and instead of dumping the scoop in her brewed cup of coffee to mix, she dumped it into the entire coffee can. She laughed so hard, and so did I eventually. So I had to make a decision of whether I wanted to attempt to separate the white granuals from the coffee grounds in effort to save all of that coffee, or just toss it. (It’s a mystery that only me and mom know -- haha)
I’m sure other memories will emerge that weren’t as traumatic, but for now – it’s still raw. I still miss her immensely and Craig reminded me just last week, that missing her will never go away, but at some point, I’ll remember MORE of the good times. Right now though, I still find myself thinking of certain things, and it’s usually followed with “That was before mom died” or “That was after mom died.” That’s how I date things. But even so, I find myself in disbelief that the words “mom” and “died” are in the same sentence.
She was such a force in my life and obviously still remains that way, but also, I feel so lucky to have had a mom that I miss so much. I know not everyone gets to have that relationship with their mom, but I’ve just resigned myself to the fact that I need to stop apologizing for finding myself to be a bit selfish in wanting more time with that crazy lady. And her mama too.
