Love you, Mom

Her hand in mine.

The six of us continued looking at the machine with the numbers, watching, waiting. Top number was the heart rate; below that were other numbers: blood pressure, oxygen saturation, and respiration. The glowing numbers in the darkened room changed every moment as the tendrils of tubes measured the last bits of her life. An hour earlier, I had jokingly bet which number would reach zero first – respiration. I would be right.

My right hand held her right hand, her skin soft, worn, warm enough to indicate she was still with us. Across from me were my nieces; Christa, who had flown in from Utah; Stephanie, who moved from Ohio to visit her gramma more often, and Ashley, a local niece who was entering the medical field. Their eyes were red, and they kept up their spirits as the woman in front of us was dying.

The machines kept humming along, and a nurse’s aide would come in to adjust the IVs and medicines from time to time. The nurse practitioner asked me about her religion. I smiled and started with the story of how the Catholic church rejected her in the 50s because she married a non-Catholic which made the church mad at her. As I was blathering on, Stephanie looked bluntly told me, “I think she means for last rites, Aunt Barbara.”

This thought had not crossed my mind. My mom would come back from this – she would still be sitting at her table Saturday mornings in no time, going through the mail, clipping coupons, and cutting articles and comics for my brother Del and me. Her love language.

“I fell. I think I broke my hip. Del’s coming over.” I played that short voicemail over and over on my cell phone, the last time I recorded her voice. My mother-in-law Charlene was visiting us for the first time in many years, and we had many plans in those two weeks. I ran to her room and told her, “I have to go. My mom fell and broke her hip.” I jumped into the car and drove to the hospital.

We got to the trauma center before the ambulance did. I kept looking at the drop off, nervously waiting for her to come in. The security guard came out and told me to stand behind the walkway. Something about HIPAA laws. How could I? My mom is hurting, and I need to be there when she comes in, why can’t they understand this? The surgery was a success, but there was a long road ahead.

“Off the record, that needs to be looked at. An ultrasound would rule out a clot.” A doctor of mine had just seen a photo I took of my mom’s severely swollen foot. With skin as papery thin as hers, I was worried it would just split open. She was making excellent progress in that first week after the surgery; all except for that puffy foot. She could take 30 steps across the PT room with cheers and encouragement waiting for her at the other end.

Back in her room, I met the visiting nurse-practitioner and pointed out the edema. Concerned, she ordered an ultrasound of mom’s leg. Hours later we get the results: it’s a clot. No more PT; bed rest until the Coumadin does its job of dissolving the clot. Without moving around, she developed pneumonia, and it’s back to another ER.

The next hospital had critical intensive care nurses popping in and out of the private room, taking vitals, moving her, checking on her health. When it’s time to change her, I'd exit the room for her privacy. This was the only place she enjoyed the food; when I ordered her entrees for the next day, she picked out chicken noodle soup, ice cream, and pudding. Usually a picky eater, she looked forward for lunch and her appetite was improving. She even liked the coffee. Her numbers looked good, and we were optimistic. The nurses took their jobs seriously and made sure she was comfortable at all times. A Catholic volunteer came in to say some prayers; at first, she said no thank you. But as the lady recited the Lord’s Prayer and Hail Mary, my mom recited them perfectly with her.

She was making steady progress at the next rehab. I felt I could go on a long-planned getaway to Seattle and Canada. As I looked at the Inuit art in a museum in Vancouver, I got a call from the hospital. Mom had been rushed to the hospital from the second rehab center with increased pulse rate, low blood pressure, C-diff, and the onset of organ failure. The doctor in charge had to hear me confirm that her wishes included a DNR. On the phone, while he recorded the conversation, I had to say it. Out loud. "My mother did not want to be resuscitated, nor did she want any excessive life-prolonging procedures." I sobbed as each word fell from my lips as if I were giving her a death sentence. I turned to my friend John and cried on his shoulder. He cried with me, and I knew it was time.

I caught the next flight out, three days earlier than I planned.

I arrived in Florida from an overnight flight. I went home a took a short 2 –hour nap and a shower. My mom was now at yet another hospital , and she would vacillate between vague lucidity and sleep. She would panic and call my name out over and over, even though I was holding her hand and trying to reassure her I was there. When I mentioned a name, she started repeating that over and over. She called out for my dad, and when she called for her mother, I knew things were getting worse. She didn’t get along well with her mother, but she was a dutiful daughter and took care of her each week just I did for my mother.

I tried to find something to comfort her. She was in an isolation room and we had to gown up every time we came in. I took my phone and selected a playlist called Classical Mexican Mariachi. I put the phone inside a disposable glove and set it on the bed beside her head. Her lips moved as she tried to sing along. She knew the words and wanted to sing along with some of her favorite singers. Lost in the music, she would calm down.

A few hours later I would start a long soliloquy about our trips to Publix, and as the bright numbers become lower, I told her it was OK to go. “You’ll be OK. Love you, Mom. It’ll be all right.” My nieces continued crying and stepped back from the bed, unable to witness the winnowing of her soul. I held my mother’s hand and watched the numbers zero out. My eyes became blurry. I was holding the hand of a dead woman, the woman who gave me life, my best friend, my number one fan. Called: 0230, 25 July 2018.

Looking down at my hand holding hers, my tears started, unbidden, and an unearthly sound came from my throat. This cry enveloped me and squeezed my chest; I couldn’t catch my breath.

I’m sitting at the mahogany table at the funeral home. My husband and Aunt Cookie have come along with me to help take care of the details; I couldn't think straight. I’ve brought along the original paperwork. Five years ago, my mom chose her final arrangements and pre-paid for them. Almost everything is in order; the only thing I need to pay for is the change of date from a weekday to a weekend day, and possibly the addition of her name on the bronze plate.

I then need to provide the information for the death certificate to be given to the coroner. I have to recount how the death transpired from her fall to the moment she stopped breathing fifty days later. The organ failure caused by the sepsis, MRSA, and C-diff would not have occurred if she had not fallen, he concludes. Cause of death is from complications following a fall.

My oldest brother, Mike, called and asked me to send him copy of the trust and the letter she wrote. When she changed the will and established a trust, I made her write a letter explaining why she did what she did. I told her I’d be left with the fallout after she died because the estate was no longer divided evenly. She felt that my middle brother and I spent a lot of time in the last seven years helping her, allowing her to live independently. We both sacrificed our time for our mother, gladly, remembering what my dad always drilled into us: “You can forget my birthday, but never forget your mother. Always take care of her.” I spent every Saturday with her, and Del spent every Sunday. Between the both of us, along with my son David, we took her to all her doctors’ visits and made sure her house and two-acre property was maintained and kept up.

My oldest brother visited her maybe twice a year. My mom knew this because she kept track of it on her calendar. She felt neglected by her first-born.

On Sept 8, I was cleaning mom's house with my Aunt Cookie. This is the (abbreviated) text message I received from Mike that morning [sic]:

“ok. I’m going to vent this one time and then the chapter is over and the book is closed....“This” is what dad didn’t want. Dad was broken hearted. When he made me executor at the time he made me promise that his 3 children would never be slighted. Mom was not stupid. But she was spiteful and vengeful. I just never thought it would be against me. Im sure now of how she spoke about me in my absence. Probably as venomous as when she spoke to us about your husband and sister-in-law. I’m guessing you didn’t know about that...sorry. She knew exactly what would happen when she cut me out of the house proceeds. She wanted to spite and hurt me, first by not dividing the estate equally. But she also knew that she was cheating my children and grandchildren. Oh yes, that will hurt. She was right about me not needing her assets. I don’t. But neither do you or Del. she also knew that I would be furious about you and Del knowing and not telling me. She guessed, rightly, that I would totally separate myself from my brother and sister and that would also hurt me. She also knew that I would be angry and hurt because she played me for five years. Before dad died he promised that gold ring to my son. Mom knew that so that was the cherry on top. Im sure he doesn’t want it but the point was to hurt. She wanted to hurt me. As far as the personal items, keep them or throw them away. I am done with this “family”. She broke my heart. Do the executor thing and then don’t contact me or my family. Tell Del to do the same. Mom got what she wanted.”

I looked up at my aunt with tears and read the text to her. I was numb. “I didn’t just lose my mom; I just lost a brother, too.” I became catatonic. My aunt tried her best to get me motivated to keep cleaning, but I felt like my soul had started to dissolve again.

Cookie tried to reassure me. “And this just proves your mother was right.” But I couldn’t get it out of my head. Things would never be the same.