Two weeks ago, I started a connection series of articles about Caring for Mother. Virginia Stem Owens’ book resonated with me in many ways. Perhaps after concluding this series, you, too, will read her book. Here are links to the previous two weeks in case you missed them: Caring #1 and Caring #2.
Before I began this book, I knew that it would end with Owens’ mother’s death. Since my own precious mother is here beside me each week, I wasn’t certain how I would react to the conclusion. Thankfully, Owens began “the last chapter” with these words:
After almost five years at Fair Acres, her body shutting down organ by organ, my mother died on St. Stephen’s Day, the day after Christmas. I do not intend to impose my words on her private death. I know that she would want a curtain drawn across that scene. In any case, my purpose here has been not to tell about the end but to describe an ending.
Not knowing the end is precisely the point of human death….We plan our parenthood these days, plan for retirement, even plan our funerals, but the details of our death …remain outside our control. Rounding out this story of my mother’s long goodbye, providing too much closure, would detract from that essential uncertainty.
One of the certainties of life, they say, is death and taxes. As an independent contractor and self-employed teacher, I often joke that our taxes cost more than a good burial. I have played hundreds of funerals and have been planning my own since I was in my late 20s. Several times, I have been part of the end of life planning for friends and choir members. I have even solicited help from friends and my community choir to be prepared for my funeral.
I have put more thought and planning into the arrangements for my own final chapter than I have in considering Mom’s. Dad has a list of final instructions, and although I have not read them, I understand the basic premise and I am certain they are quite detailed and clear. I have a vague understanding of what happens immediately following death: who I should contact and when and the priorities of funeral and burial preparation. I have not, however, planned for Mom’s.
After all these years of caregiving, I cannot prepare for it. I know, of course, it is inevitable. I joke that with her strong heart and healthy body, she may outlive me, but the odds are stacked against that. She will be 91 next month and I will be 52 this month. Unless I have a catastrophic event, I will one day have to bury my mother.
It is uncertain when this will happen, but it is going to happen. In the abstract, I consider it. For years, I have thought that this would be her last spring when she can enjoy her daffodils, the last summer of planting her favorite petunias, the last year of enjoying the colors of fall, or the last Christmas. Yet here she is. Once again, we are enjoying the daffodils, forsythia, and the birds who wintered down south. Any day her favorite azalea will bloom in her favorite shades of bright pink and lavender purple.
Still I know any day could be her last day. At night, I’ll listen for her breathing, watching her chest rise and fall. When she chokes on a bit of food or coughs with food in her mouth, I am concerned about her aspirating it and pneumonia developing. When I help her stand and walk, I am hyper vigilant less she trip and hit her head or break a hip. So far, except for the dementia and broken bones, Mom has excellent health.
Still I wonder. I hope to be here when she crosses to her new home. I’d love to hold her hand as she slips away from this consciousness into the new reality of heaven. What a gift that would be. Meanwhile, I’ll be with her and hold her hand through as many of her last days as I can. This in itself is a precious gift.
