What to feel...

It's hard to know what to feel these days. I mean, as you know, my mother is dying. I go to work everyday and deal with other people's problems. I can't say as I am upset all day. I'm really not. I get through it and even manage to have some laughs. I come home to my loving hubby and we have a good time relaxing or reading or going out for a Mocha Frappe...just normal stuff. And I really enjoy it. I got over to my sister's to see my mom. I talk to her for a minute or two and then she waves me away so she can sleep again.

In my heart, I know I will fall apart when she finally closes her eyes that last time. In my head, I wish she would take that last breath and go peacefully into the next adventure. And I don't know how to feel when I see her in pain and unhappy and deep down I am wishing she would just go already. She is suffering and even though I know my thoughts are coming from a good place, I just don't know how to feel about secretly wishing my mother would pass away. It seems wrong but I know it is right.

I get sad sometimes. And Alex pointed out that I seem quiet at times. I guess I do. I don't mean to. It just comes and goes.
Other times I am very happy. I celebrate this strong woman's life and think of all the great lessons she taught me and all the wonderful times we've had. I love her. For everything she is, everything she gave me, everything she taught me. She deserves a celebration.

Still...how do you tell someone you love that it's time to let go and it's okay to surrender? How do you tell someone to go ahead and die? And even though, deep down, you know it's the right thing, how the hell are you supposed to feel about wishing every night that this night will be her last?

Dignity...

My mother is dying.

Sorry to be so blunt but there is no other way to put that which both gets right to the point and illustrates the abruptness of death, regardless of how long a person lives.

She is dying.

Over the past months, I've watched her struggle to come to terms with her own mortality. When she had her stroke, she fought with each breath her 93 year old body could muster. She worked hard through her therapy and always, always, always lamented each day she had to be in that nursing home. She was being tube fed and all she could think about was solid food. She's ask us, every single time we visited, what we had to eat that day. When the day came when she could eat solid food again, she told me to "go home" when I came to visit her at that first dinner hour. She wanted to savor that dinner roll all on her own without the interruption of having to also make small talk! When she finally came home, she continued to work through her therapies but it was difficult. She was tired. Her body couldn't take much more.

She became frustrated. This was taking too long, this recovery. And it was harder than she could imagine. And she was stuck in a body that wouldn't cooperate, wearing adult diapers, not able to make sense of her words but with a mind as sharp as a tack which made it all the more frustrating. She became sad. She never wanted to be a burden, to have someone have to do anything for her let alone now do literally everything. She suffered the embarrassment of having her son-in-law have to lift her to the toilet while someone else pulled her pants down exposing her just so she could eliminate herself. She choked, often. Her ability to swallow was compromised so even the slightest bit of food or water could set off terrifying bouts of coughing and gasping for air. She ate less and less and now eats so little she is barely getting any nutrition at all. She went from a robust 148 pounds to about 90 pounds, if that. She cannot heal. She has a sore on her bottom and backside that is eating into her muscle and bone and oozing all the time in spite of the nurses packing it daily. Her pain increased in spite of her trying to keep up with therapy and now she is on morphine all the time.

My mother is dying. But...

She is dying at home surrounded by her children and grandchildren and great grandchildren. She has at least one moment every day when she still gets a good laugh. She hears someone say "I love you" several times each day. She gets to sit and pet Bella, her best canine friend. She has time to sit outside with the sun warming her thin face. She has been able to smell the spring flowers and see the first summer veg come up in the garden. She has been able to watch and bemoan her beloved Chicago Cubs while gently sipping a Miller Genuine Draft that she is never able to finish. She can still play cards every weekend. And win. She quietly welcomed her sisters for a visit a few weeks ago and tolerated that as best she could. They were understanding and grateful of the time they had together. It will be there last. She prays everyday. She asks if she will get to heaven. If she doesn't, none of us have a chance! She wonders what heaven will be like and we assure her that it will be just as she always believed it to be with Dad and my Grandparents and Aunt Sophie all waiting to welcome her in.

One day soon, I know, my mother will stop breathing and go into that great last adventure. After watching her struggle and hurt and suffer and wane away to almost nothing, I know that day will be a blessing for her. I'm ready for that day. I think she is too. But what I am most grateful for is that my mother could spend these last months, weeks, days, in the bosom of her family. Family has always been the most important thing in her life. We grew up with nothing but she always made us understand that we have each other. And now she has us and this is the proof that there can and should be dignity in life and dignity in death. No one should die alone and unloved. My mother will be celebrated when she finally passes. She will be celebrated by her former students, her colleagues, her friends but most of all her family. We are all who we are today because of her. We owe her so much. And I know that my life, in some way, has been a testament to this amazing lady.

My mother is dying.
And we are all at peace with that.

Bad day in Keno...

I have to go to a wake today. I should be a grown up about this but I hate wakes. I also hate attending weddings of people I don't know very well like colleagues at work. But back to the wake...

My sister's brother in law passed away and so I have to go. I think what bothers me about any wake is the formality of it all. The open casket, the "receiving line" of grieving family members, the mumbled "I'm sorry for your loss" that always seems so awkward and, sometimes, ingenuous. It never seems to be enough. It seems there should be something more to say and yet when you don't really know the person who died very well and are only there to show support for one of the family members you know, it's hard to know what to say exactly.

I remember my father's wake. He had been a bar owner in town for 30+ years and apparently everybody in town knew him and came to pay their respects. It was overwhelming. The funeral home didn't anticipate the huge crowd and had to open up several other rooms to accommodate everyone. Even though it was nice to know my Dad had touched so many lives - if only to give them a shot and a beer - I couldn't help but shut down emotionally to the point where I felt like yelling at them all to get out. I guess I feel death and mourning is a very personal thing and to be made to play it out in front of a crowd of people, albeit people who mean well, seems so wrong.

The man who's wake I will attend tonight was a realtor, a local business owner, a member of the Kenosha Area Business Bureau and a devoted father, brother and friend to many so I know there will be a mass of people standing in that line waiting to awkwardly mumble some condolences to an overwhelmed family. I think I'll sit quietly paying my respects silently and then leave before the crowd gets too enormous.

When I die, I don't want this big show of emotion going on. I don't want to be laid out in an open casket with a line of people saying how "natural" I look or what a "great job" the funeral home did of putting on my make up. I'd rather have a quiet burial, no ceremony, and then someone just go out and have a party. Have a toast for me. Drink up. And then go out and get on with life. That would be the best last tribute of all.