I've been trying to write about my mom for three weeks now.
I've started a post many times, but either simply abandoned it or deleted what I'd written entirely.
None of the words were right. The ideas were thoroughly jumbled. It felt like I was both oversharing and yet not capturing the depth of my heartbreak all at the same time.
So what I decided is that I just had to start writing and make the best of it. I realized that there was no way I'd be able to say everything perfectly in a single post, but I could write some things in one post and then write more another day and then write more on a different day and sooner or later, I might be able to say all I've been struggling to say since I lost my mom.
For this post, I'm going to start with the ending.
I don't think we talk about death enough and we certainly don't talk about grief enough. And yet these are two inevitabilities of the human experience. We lose loved ones and have to pick up the pieces of our broken hearts and learn to live with their absence while keeping all of our memories of them alive.
We're all going to die. We might not know when or how or where or why, but it is inescapable.
We're all going to lose people. Sometimes the losses feel manageable and our day-to-day lives carry on with minimal disruption through the sadness. And then other losses are so monumental that they shatter the very core of your being and you don't know how the world can keep spinning and how things all around you can continue as if nothing happened because you know your life will never, ever be the same.
Losing my mom is the latter.
She was the single most important person in my life for a half century. The childhood memories I have are filled with colors and music and dancing and magic. There were some very challenging times, but she always made me feel so safe and so loved and it wasn't until I was an adult that I began to understand the unbelievable sacrifices she made for me.
When she and my dad divorced in 2001, the dynamic of our relationship evolved. C and I moved to Virginia, and she ended up following us a couple of years later, which turned out to be fantastic. We enjoyed traveling together, going to the movies, and going out for lunch; we grew even closer during that phase and we made some beautiful memories. We took care of each other's dogs while we traveled and she helped me every time I needed something. She was the witness to my life.
In the fall of 2014, she was diagnosed with pulmonary fibrosis, which was so scary for all of us because we didn't know how quickly the disease would progress. We were also angry, as she'd never smoked a day in her life and this diagnosis felt incredibly unfair. We had so many questions. The one thing we knew was that it was only a matter of time before pulmonary fibrosis would steal her from us. She learned to live with a dependency on oxygen machinery and kept on living the best she could. Despite being divorced, my dad was a wealth of knowledge for us once my mom was diagnosed and so if I can glean any silver lining from this disease, it's how it helped to bring my family to a friendly and comfortable place that hadn't previously been the case.
In the summer of 2018, she got really sick, spending so many nights in the hospital, enduring two surgeries and a very long recovery. At this point, our relationship changed again as she moved in with us full-time and I took on the role of caregiver for her - a title I would wear for five years, with help from C, my brothers and sisters, and ultimately, her assisted living facility. It was not often glamorous. It took an enormous toll on me. However, I wouldn't trade that job for anything. In fact, I struggled mightily with relinquishing control even when it was necessary - when she moved to Maryland during the height of the pandemic because I had to go back to work and we couldn't risk me bringing anything home and putting her life at risk; when she had yet another serious surgery in the fall of 2022 and C took care of her for months while I had to go to work each day; and when she moved to her assisted living facility at the end of February this year because her needs were greater than what we could provide - because I wanted to be THE person for her. I never shared this, but back in October when she had the surgery that resulted in her having to live with a colostomy bag, once we'd heard that she had survived the surgery, it was after 10 p.m. and there wasn't anything we could do while she was in the recovery room for the night. C, B1, and B2 went home to get some sleep, but I could not bring myself to leave the hospital. Because she was in the surgical recovery room and would ultimately be moved to the Trauma ICU, she didn't officially have a room where I could wait for her. So I slept in my car in the parking garage that night. I'm sharing that now not to receive praise of any sort, but to illustrate how fiercely I loved her and how I simply could not leave her when she was so vulnerable.
My last post detailed how she was discharged from the hospital on Friday, July 14; she was glad to get out of the hospital and walked into her assisted living facility and to her room under her own power, although she was quite tired.
The post before that one was titled "A Lot Can Happen in a Week" and that title sadly proved prophetic.
My mom grew weaker and weaker over the course of the weekend and my aunt and uncle visited her from Canada. She was still able to walk around her apartment (she answered the door when C and I arrived for a visit on Sunday evening). When we met with the nurse on Monday morning to begin hospice services, she was able to sit on the couch and participate in the conversation. On Tuesday morning, my aunt helped her shower and she ate a little breakfast; that afternoon, my aunt and uncle returned to Canada and I stayed with her. On Tuesday evening, we facetimed with B1, S1, and my niece and nephew, and she was lucid enough to ask, "Who is turning four soon?!?" to my nephew whose birthday is in early August. She and I chatted about life as I lied in bed beside her, and she told me to "keep traveling because there are so many places to see in the world" and to "be happy." I think she knew the end was near. We exchanged countless "I love yous" and I promised her I would take take of everything. Many, many tears were shed.
One sweet thing was that her friends who also live at the facility came in throughout the days to visit with her and I got to know them over our little chats; it was nice to put faces to names as my mom had been telling me about them since moving to the facility.
One awful thing was the responsibility of deciding when to tell my brothers to come; I wrestled with that decision a thousand times a day.
These two things converged on Thursday morning.
One of her friends was visiting and I was telling her that B1 was coming after lunch that day. Although my mom wasn't really speaking or opening her eyes, she was still squeezing my hand to respond whenever I talked to her (which was pretty much nonstop). When she heard me say that B1 was coming, she squeezed my hand and I knew she was happy to hear he was on his way. Then she said, "B2?" (obviously she said his name, but I don't use their names in this blog). I said, "You want B2 to come?" and she nodded. She then said, "C?" (again, she said his name), and I again said, "You want C to come?" and she nodded. My heart burst not only because she knew she wanted them there and was asking for them, but also because I had a feeling about what that meant.
I immediately texted B2, who was working in Indianapolis and told him to come. He found a flight, which ended up being delayed, resulting in a missed connection; it was an insane day for him, but he arrived a little after midnight.
In the meantime, my aunt arrived from NY; B1, S1, my niece, and my nephew arrived from MD; S2 drove down from NY; and C brought Avalanche. It was a busy day with all of us there and nurses coming in and out and her friends visiting, but I like to think my mom was happy to have so much company. Slowly throughout the evening people left to get some sleep because my mom's apartment simply couldn't house all of us. My aunt and I stayed with my mom so that S2 could go to the airport and pick up B2.
The most beautiful thing happened when he finally made it. He crawled into bed beside her and was entertaining us with his travel craziness of the day. After about ten minutes of his stories, something clearly clicked for my mom and she tried to turn over, reaching out to him with both arms. It was the most she'd moved in over 48 hours and it was possibly the sweetest thing I have ever witnessed. I sensed a peace about her now that all of us had been with her, and my aunt and I left to spend the night at my house and allow B2 and S2 to spend the night watching over her.
Friday was a quiet day, with each of us taking our turn to sit with and talk with her. She was pretty much unresponsive, but comfortable, as the nursing staff checked in on her throughout the day. She also had some special visitors; S2's mom and dad came to see her, as did one of her best friends. My aunt left to return to NY late on Friday night and B1 went back to MD to sleep because my niece had a swimming event the next morning, after which time they, along with S1 and my nephew, would return. C and I went home to sleep so that B2 and S2 could once again spend the night with her.
On Saturday morning, C and I took Avalanche back to my mom's place and C, B2, S2, and I took turns sitting with her and napping with her. Mid-morning, Avalanche was insistent on getting up on the bed to sleep beside her (he'd done this a couple of times throughout the week, but this was different because he could not be deterred) and I suspected he sensed the end was coming. The hospice nurse came to see her and told us they'd be back Sunday morning, but other than that, it was pretty uneventful. I was with her when I noticed her breathing was slowing considerably. I called B2 into the room and we were both holding her hand when she took her last breath just after 1:45 pm.
B1, S1, and the kids were in the car on their way to my mom's when it happened.
I immediately told C to call S1, who did not tell B1 until they arrived because we were all worried about him receiving devastating news while driving. They arrived not too long afterwards and we decided it would be best if C, S1, and S2, took the kids to our house. B1, B2, and I waited for the hospice nurse to come to make the pronouncement, and then we had to wait for the crematorium staff to arrive and collect her body.
I cannot express what those few hours - just the three of us together, in the depths of despair, mourning the loss of our mother together - meant to me. We cried and laughed and hugged and held hands and allowed one another to feel all of the big feelings.
We drove to my house together, where our three amazing spouses had everything under control: dinner underway, children entertained, and ready to support the three of us. Our dinner that night was a celebration of our mom.
One of my mom's greatest fears was suffocating to death - gasping for breath as a result of the pulmonary fibrosis. That is not what happened. It was a very peaceful end and for that I am eternally grateful. After having been dealt such an unfair hand, it was an absolute gift for her to not have a terrifying, traumatic death.
There is so much more to write, and I will get to it. Writing is how I process things. This blog is how I keep family and friends in the know and it serves as a record of my life - the good and sometimes, the bad.
Some of what I still need to write about is the outpouring of love I have received. It has been remarkable. Until I share all of that, I will end with this.
Something I've learned over the past three weeks is that when people say things like, "I know exactly how you feel," or "me, too," or "that's just like what happened to me," they're not trying to compete with me or diminish my pain in any way. They're trying to connect with me. They're trying to make me feel less alone. They're trying to help me understand that I will survive this loss when it feels like I won't.
It's easy to feel like no one understands. The reality is that even my two brothers and I are having individual experiences. C is having his own experience. My aunts and uncles are having their own experiences. So my knee jerk reaction when someone says they understand is to nod politely while thinking, "no, you don't." But I've come to recognize that this means they've suffered their own losses. They've had their own grieving experiences. And they want to connect because in their own ways, they have been where I am now...lost and heartbroken.
Because of them sharing their stories of loss with me, I don't feel so alone.
Happy Tails to you...
