At noon today, Pacific time, Malcolm (Rory's other grandfather) will take his own life.
Malcolm is such a survivor. In a way, it feels like the only fitting end for him. He fought through illness, dialysis, a transplant, anti-rejection drugs, skin cancers, pneumonia -- he hung onto life with all his will. At Rory's naming ceremony, thirteen years ago, it was clear that Malcolm had very little time left. And yet here we are today.
Over the course of the last year, taking care of him became overwhelming at home, so he entered a nursing home. He must have hated it, because after a short time, he chose to stop all medications and come home for what was expected to be a few short weeks. A few months later, he's gotten to spend time with all his children and grandchildren, but the summer's over, and I think now must just feel like the right time.
I think of him dying and I'm filled with sad. It's been obvious for years that he didn't have much time left, that any visit could be the last, and yet... I think we just always hope that life will continue.
At the same time, I'm glad he doesn't have to go through the indignity and misery of the last days. My mom's hospice was lovely, but catheters, drugs by suppository, position changes to avoid bedsores -- not to mention pain, nightmares, and terminal agitation -- those things are not fun.
Malcolm's taking control of his death. Go, Washington State. Thank you for giving him that option.
But my mother died one month ago today. And Malcolm will be gone in an hour or so (assuming all goes as planned.)
And, oh, I am sad.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Saturday, September 3, 2011
My eulogy for my mother
(Written to be a speech, obviously)
A few years back, one of those chain emails made the rounds of the Internet. It was called something like, “things our mothers said”, and I remember it mostly because I was pretty sure my mother never said anything on the list. I was never told to wear clean underwear in case I was in an accident, never asked if I thought she was born yesterday, never reminded that money doesn’t grow on trees. I might have been warned about the starving children in China, though, and I was definitely told that if I didn’t behave they’d give me back to the Indians. I distinctly remember being very confused at a young age about why the Indians had all the babies.
But there were, of course, things that my mother said that I remember well, and I’m going to talk about three of them today.
The first was “If that’s the worst thing that happens today…” It’s really more of a phrase than a complete sentence, and it has lots of possible options for endings. If that’s the worst thing that happens today, you’re in good shape. If that’s the worst thing that happens today, we’re doing all right. If that’s the worst thing that happens today, life is good. If that’s the worst thing that happens today, we’re lucky.
To me, that phrase really sums up my mother’s attitude toward life. We talk about glass half-empty, glass half-full people – she was more of a “that glass has plenty, more than enough for anything we need” kind of person.
One specific example that I remember well happened this winter. I got the phone call that Dad had had a heart attack and headed straight to the hospital. When I got there, she was annoyed at the way the hospital had made her wait, and worried about what was going on, but not an hour later, she said to me, “We’re so lucky.” Um, lucky? Dad had just had a major heart attack and was in the ICU waiting for what turned out to be quintuple bypass surgery. I didn’t feel all that lucky. But when I said so, she told me that the timing was terrific. He’d been at home, it had been in the daytime, Karen and I were close enough to be there, wonderful neighbors had been at the house even before the ambulance left to offer help, he hadn’t started his cancer treatments yet so it wouldn’t interrupt them – she had a whole list of reasons already why we were blessed. That was who she was: someone who could take the bad news and find the good in it.
Another thing that she used to say was, “You’ll be fine.” Now, “you’ll be fine” was sometimes, maybe often, a kick in the pants. As a pediatric nurse, she worked with seriously ill and injured children. She told us how when we were little, she would sometimes come home from working at the hospital and hold her healthy children and just cry. But that meant she could be pretty tough about her kids’ injuries. In one famous incident – and she might be horrified that I’m sharing this – Karen hurt her finger at school and the school nurse insisted that mom pick her up in the middle of the day. Mom was so annoyed by this that she actually told Karen that if that finger wasn’t broken, she was gonna break it herself. Fortunately, for both of them, the finger was broken – in two places – so she didn’t have to live up to her threat. But “you’ll be fine” definitely often meant, “get over it.”
Sometimes, though, “you’ll be fine” meant “I believe in you, I know you can do this.” On one important occasion in my life, I called her in tears. I was making a decision, a big decision, and the people around me – some of them anyway – didn’t agree with it. My mom could easily, reasonably, have disagreed herself. And maybe she did. But she didn’t say so. Instead, her “you’ll be fine” gave me the strength and the courage to do what I wanted to do. And it was the best decision of my life.
Sometimes, though, “you’ll be fine” doesn’t quite cut it, and Mom had an answer then, too.
When Rory, my son, was 8, he broke his arm on a trampoline. Now I know a broken arm doesn’t sound like much – kids break bones, and two of his cousins have broken their arms, too. But Rory snapped both bones of his forearm. The bones didn’t break the skin, but they were sticking out of his arm, and his arm shifted around as if it had become a tentacle. It was horrifying. And the emergency room was pretty much a nightmare – he wound up having surgery in the middle of the night, his morphine drip had a kink in the line so he wasn’t getting any pain medication – it was just bad. But I was fine. Apart from one brief incident when I vomited, after I’d bumped him and he’d screamed. Apart from that, I was fine. I was calm and efficient, managed the whole thing, dealt with the paperwork, called people to let them know what had happened – I was fine.
Until my mom called me back, and then I burst into tears. And her answer to that was not “you’ll be fine” (which obviously I would have been) but “I’ll be right there.” She was on the next plane to Santa Cruz – and we all learned an important life lesson, which is that if you’re flying through Denver in the middle of winter, you should bring some warm clothes even if you don’t intend to get off the plane – but she got to Santa Cruz eventually and stayed with us, taking care of both of us, for a week.
So, “I’ll be right there” – that’s the third thing that my mom would say. Sometimes for the minor stuff, like Rory’s broken arm, sometimes for the slightly more serious stuff, like moving. I don’t know how many times in my life and my siblings’ lives Mom showed up to help us move. For Werner and Maggie, there was a move from California to North Carolina, and another from North Carolina to New York. For me, there was a move to Chicago, a move from Canada to California, a move from California to Florida. Mom was an amazing mover. She could pack and unpack a house like nobody’s business. I remember on my last move to Winter Park being exhausted at the end, and yet Mom, more than 20 years older than me, was still going, cleaning my kitchen so that it was what she considered move-in ready -- a standard that, to be honest, it’s probably never achieved since.
But “I’ll be right there” or “we’ll be right there” was also her answer to life’s truly more serious stuff. When my brother-in-law was in a terrible accident, Karen called my parents from Illinois first thing in the morning. They were there, from New York, by nightfall. When Karen was hospitalized during her pregnancy with Caroline, my parents rented an apartment and spent months in Illinois, helping to take care of Tyler. When she was needed -- when they were needed – my parents would drop everything to help.
I knew when I was thinking about this a month ago that what I wanted to talk about was my mom’s positive attitude toward life, and her faith in and support of the people she loved. But I realized while writing that the words she said, her familiar phrases, add up to what was to me her philosophy of life, and who she was as a mother.
“If that’s the worst thing that happens, you’ll be fine, because I’ll be right there.”
I miss my mother very much.
Please join me in reciting her favorite prayer, the serenity prayer.
God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference.
Living one day at a time; Enjoying one moment at a time; Accepting hardships as the pathway to peace; Taking, as He did, this sinful world as it is, not as I would have it; Trusting that He will make all things right if I surrender to His Will; That I may be reasonably happy in this life and supremely happy with Him Forever in the next.
Amen.
A few years back, one of those chain emails made the rounds of the Internet. It was called something like, “things our mothers said”, and I remember it mostly because I was pretty sure my mother never said anything on the list. I was never told to wear clean underwear in case I was in an accident, never asked if I thought she was born yesterday, never reminded that money doesn’t grow on trees. I might have been warned about the starving children in China, though, and I was definitely told that if I didn’t behave they’d give me back to the Indians. I distinctly remember being very confused at a young age about why the Indians had all the babies.
But there were, of course, things that my mother said that I remember well, and I’m going to talk about three of them today.
The first was “If that’s the worst thing that happens today…” It’s really more of a phrase than a complete sentence, and it has lots of possible options for endings. If that’s the worst thing that happens today, you’re in good shape. If that’s the worst thing that happens today, we’re doing all right. If that’s the worst thing that happens today, life is good. If that’s the worst thing that happens today, we’re lucky.
To me, that phrase really sums up my mother’s attitude toward life. We talk about glass half-empty, glass half-full people – she was more of a “that glass has plenty, more than enough for anything we need” kind of person.
One specific example that I remember well happened this winter. I got the phone call that Dad had had a heart attack and headed straight to the hospital. When I got there, she was annoyed at the way the hospital had made her wait, and worried about what was going on, but not an hour later, she said to me, “We’re so lucky.” Um, lucky? Dad had just had a major heart attack and was in the ICU waiting for what turned out to be quintuple bypass surgery. I didn’t feel all that lucky. But when I said so, she told me that the timing was terrific. He’d been at home, it had been in the daytime, Karen and I were close enough to be there, wonderful neighbors had been at the house even before the ambulance left to offer help, he hadn’t started his cancer treatments yet so it wouldn’t interrupt them – she had a whole list of reasons already why we were blessed. That was who she was: someone who could take the bad news and find the good in it.
Another thing that she used to say was, “You’ll be fine.” Now, “you’ll be fine” was sometimes, maybe often, a kick in the pants. As a pediatric nurse, she worked with seriously ill and injured children. She told us how when we were little, she would sometimes come home from working at the hospital and hold her healthy children and just cry. But that meant she could be pretty tough about her kids’ injuries. In one famous incident – and she might be horrified that I’m sharing this – Karen hurt her finger at school and the school nurse insisted that mom pick her up in the middle of the day. Mom was so annoyed by this that she actually told Karen that if that finger wasn’t broken, she was gonna break it herself. Fortunately, for both of them, the finger was broken – in two places – so she didn’t have to live up to her threat. But “you’ll be fine” definitely often meant, “get over it.”
Sometimes, though, “you’ll be fine” meant “I believe in you, I know you can do this.” On one important occasion in my life, I called her in tears. I was making a decision, a big decision, and the people around me – some of them anyway – didn’t agree with it. My mom could easily, reasonably, have disagreed herself. And maybe she did. But she didn’t say so. Instead, her “you’ll be fine” gave me the strength and the courage to do what I wanted to do. And it was the best decision of my life.
Sometimes, though, “you’ll be fine” doesn’t quite cut it, and Mom had an answer then, too.
When Rory, my son, was 8, he broke his arm on a trampoline. Now I know a broken arm doesn’t sound like much – kids break bones, and two of his cousins have broken their arms, too. But Rory snapped both bones of his forearm. The bones didn’t break the skin, but they were sticking out of his arm, and his arm shifted around as if it had become a tentacle. It was horrifying. And the emergency room was pretty much a nightmare – he wound up having surgery in the middle of the night, his morphine drip had a kink in the line so he wasn’t getting any pain medication – it was just bad. But I was fine. Apart from one brief incident when I vomited, after I’d bumped him and he’d screamed. Apart from that, I was fine. I was calm and efficient, managed the whole thing, dealt with the paperwork, called people to let them know what had happened – I was fine.
Until my mom called me back, and then I burst into tears. And her answer to that was not “you’ll be fine” (which obviously I would have been) but “I’ll be right there.” She was on the next plane to Santa Cruz – and we all learned an important life lesson, which is that if you’re flying through Denver in the middle of winter, you should bring some warm clothes even if you don’t intend to get off the plane – but she got to Santa Cruz eventually and stayed with us, taking care of both of us, for a week.
So, “I’ll be right there” – that’s the third thing that my mom would say. Sometimes for the minor stuff, like Rory’s broken arm, sometimes for the slightly more serious stuff, like moving. I don’t know how many times in my life and my siblings’ lives Mom showed up to help us move. For Werner and Maggie, there was a move from California to North Carolina, and another from North Carolina to New York. For me, there was a move to Chicago, a move from Canada to California, a move from California to Florida. Mom was an amazing mover. She could pack and unpack a house like nobody’s business. I remember on my last move to Winter Park being exhausted at the end, and yet Mom, more than 20 years older than me, was still going, cleaning my kitchen so that it was what she considered move-in ready -- a standard that, to be honest, it’s probably never achieved since.
But “I’ll be right there” or “we’ll be right there” was also her answer to life’s truly more serious stuff. When my brother-in-law was in a terrible accident, Karen called my parents from Illinois first thing in the morning. They were there, from New York, by nightfall. When Karen was hospitalized during her pregnancy with Caroline, my parents rented an apartment and spent months in Illinois, helping to take care of Tyler. When she was needed -- when they were needed – my parents would drop everything to help.
I knew when I was thinking about this a month ago that what I wanted to talk about was my mom’s positive attitude toward life, and her faith in and support of the people she loved. But I realized while writing that the words she said, her familiar phrases, add up to what was to me her philosophy of life, and who she was as a mother.
“If that’s the worst thing that happens, you’ll be fine, because I’ll be right there.”
I miss my mother very much.
Please join me in reciting her favorite prayer, the serenity prayer.
God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference.
Living one day at a time; Enjoying one moment at a time; Accepting hardships as the pathway to peace; Taking, as He did, this sinful world as it is, not as I would have it; Trusting that He will make all things right if I surrender to His Will; That I may be reasonably happy in this life and supremely happy with Him Forever in the next.
Amen.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Class tonight
Today's my first day of class and for some reason, my anxiety level is really high. My previous classes have been fun, but this semester is where we go from the theoretical, intellectual side to the practical, hands-on, and it's sort of terrifying. Not just that "what if I screw up?" feeling, but also the "what if I hate this?" If I hate it...yeah. That'd be bad. But, I remind myself (plaintively), life is filled with choices and paths and changes, and if necessary, I'll just find a new path. Another new path.
Yeah, okay, that's not helping. Anxiety level climbing.
I'm at a new place in my ghost story, one where I have to make a lot of time pass really quickly, and I realize that I haven't done much of that in the stories I've written this year. Or in the book I wrote so long ago, which basically means that I've never done it. No wonder I'm uncertain how to proceed. I think there's going to be a lot of writer-ly experimentation going on in the next few days. In between those anxiety-provoking classes, anyway.
PS I procrastinated by checking my RSS feed, and whee, Patricia Wrede wrote about this very thing today. It's narrative summary that I'm going to be trying to write. Nice to stumble upon a name for it. I don't want it to be invisible, but not too detailed either.
Yeah, okay, that's not helping. Anxiety level climbing.
I'm at a new place in my ghost story, one where I have to make a lot of time pass really quickly, and I realize that I haven't done much of that in the stories I've written this year. Or in the book I wrote so long ago, which basically means that I've never done it. No wonder I'm uncertain how to proceed. I think there's going to be a lot of writer-ly experimentation going on in the next few days. In between those anxiety-provoking classes, anyway.
PS I procrastinated by checking my RSS feed, and whee, Patricia Wrede wrote about this very thing today. It's narrative summary that I'm going to be trying to write. Nice to stumble upon a name for it. I don't want it to be invisible, but not too detailed either.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Writing Wednesday
Except it's not -- Wednesday, that is. I woke up determined to make today a better writing day. The last couple have been dragging, as if every word is heavy. I'm ready for a rolling day instead, the kind where the words just pour out and flood the page, and even if later half of them are no good, the pouring out is fun. So while I walked the dog I gave myself a little pep talk, all of which revolved around the fact that it's Wednesday and Wednesday is a good day, the middle point of the week, the best day to be productive and get a lot done, la-di-da. And then when I sat down to write, it turned out to be Thursday. I need a new pep talk.
Last night everyone came over for dinner. We had hamburgers and fruit salad, nothing fancy, and we ate inside, at the dining room table, because the weather was ugly and thunderstorm-y. It would have been Mom and Dad's 48th anniversary. Rory said later that it had been a really nice dinner, and I think it was, but I can't remember a single thing we talked about.
Last night everyone came over for dinner. We had hamburgers and fruit salad, nothing fancy, and we ate inside, at the dining room table, because the weather was ugly and thunderstorm-y. It would have been Mom and Dad's 48th anniversary. Rory said later that it had been a really nice dinner, and I think it was, but I can't remember a single thing we talked about.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
A random Tuesday
It's strange that it's gotten harder, but I now have consensus -- at least from my dad and brother -- that yes, in fact, it has. Before, we were all worried about Mom. Now. . . now there's nothing to do but feel the loss. And wow, it just sucks. I've had more than one more moment when I've thought, I am so unhappy, I need to call Mom, and then realized, uh, yeah, not so much. Such a strange, strange sad feeling.
But Dad came over tonight and we ate salmon, potatoes, salad for dinner, and then watched Source Code. The two dogs were reasonably well-behaved and remarkably delightful and it was a nice interlude in a day that was filled with a lot of unexpected tears.
But Dad came over tonight and we ate salmon, potatoes, salad for dinner, and then watched Source Code. The two dogs were reasonably well-behaved and remarkably delightful and it was a nice interlude in a day that was filled with a lot of unexpected tears.
Saturday, August 6, 2011
Movies
When my grandfather died, back in 1990, Chris told me that we had to go to a movie, and I picked Pretty Woman. As I recall, he grumbled, but I still remember it fondly. That happy ending was just what I needed.
So this morning, I was on the phone, feeling helpless, not knowing what to do, and I said, Cowboys and Aliens. Harrison Ford, sci-fi, summer blockbuster type, what could go wrong? Only Daniel Craig spends half the movie searching for his lost love and it turns out she's DEAD. But that's okay, because he's met Olivia Wilde. Only she DIES. And then that's okay, because she comes back to life, woo-hoo. Until she DIES again. I'm not sure I could have picked a worse movie in which to try to hide our grief if I'd tried.
I think that I will always have a niggling regret that she was alone when she died. I don't know that having someone hold her hand would have made any sort of difference, but I wish I'd been there. Or that someone had been there.
So this morning, I was on the phone, feeling helpless, not knowing what to do, and I said, Cowboys and Aliens. Harrison Ford, sci-fi, summer blockbuster type, what could go wrong? Only Daniel Craig spends half the movie searching for his lost love and it turns out she's DEAD. But that's okay, because he's met Olivia Wilde. Only she DIES. And then that's okay, because she comes back to life, woo-hoo. Until she DIES again. I'm not sure I could have picked a worse movie in which to try to hide our grief if I'd tried.
I think that I will always have a niggling regret that she was alone when she died. I don't know that having someone hold her hand would have made any sort of difference, but I wish I'd been there. Or that someone had been there.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Thursday, August 4th
I know I've been a little slow with this update. That's because on Monday, Karen talked to the doctor and she was told that it would be any time now, but probably within the next couple of days. I've been waiting, therefore, thinking that there would be a change any minute. But it's now Thursday morning, those two days are come and gone, and Mom seems to be basically exactly as she was on Monday.
As for how that is, honestly, not bad, at least to the best of my ability to judge. She is no longer responsive at all -- there's been no conversation, no attempts to move, no facial expressions for a while. I'm not quite sure how long, but I've been at the hospice for the past twenty-four hours and during that time, she's been essentially unconscious. The nurse was a little late with her pain medication this morning (she's getting it every 12 hours) and Mom gave no indication of being in any discomfort. Her breathing is steady and clear, and her temperature is normal. I haven't spoken to the doctor yet, but I suspect she's gone from being "any minute" to "sometime pretty soon". But from my perspective, she's not in pain and she's not agitated like she was before, so this is not that bad. I'd say that from mom's perspective, she's probably ready to be done with it -- but since she's not letting go yet, maybe not. The nurse did say to me this morning that sometimes people, moms especially, won't leave while their kids are in the room, and Karen and I have basically been with her round-the-clock for the past several days, so we'll see.
As for how the rest of us are doing, I think pretty well. It's sort of settling into a routine -- a strange routine, but a routine nonetheless. Both teenage boys are excited (at least I think Tyler is, but I know Rory is) about getting a chance to spend a night home alone: Rory's first was last night and when I called him this morning, he told me that the dog guilted him into going to bed at a normal time. He was going to stay up really late, but she was staring at him disapprovingly and so he didn't. I feel really lucky to have such a responsible teenager that he lets the dog tell him what to do! And such a good dog, too.
As for how that is, honestly, not bad, at least to the best of my ability to judge. She is no longer responsive at all -- there's been no conversation, no attempts to move, no facial expressions for a while. I'm not quite sure how long, but I've been at the hospice for the past twenty-four hours and during that time, she's been essentially unconscious. The nurse was a little late with her pain medication this morning (she's getting it every 12 hours) and Mom gave no indication of being in any discomfort. Her breathing is steady and clear, and her temperature is normal. I haven't spoken to the doctor yet, but I suspect she's gone from being "any minute" to "sometime pretty soon". But from my perspective, she's not in pain and she's not agitated like she was before, so this is not that bad. I'd say that from mom's perspective, she's probably ready to be done with it -- but since she's not letting go yet, maybe not. The nurse did say to me this morning that sometimes people, moms especially, won't leave while their kids are in the room, and Karen and I have basically been with her round-the-clock for the past several days, so we'll see.
As for how the rest of us are doing, I think pretty well. It's sort of settling into a routine -- a strange routine, but a routine nonetheless. Both teenage boys are excited (at least I think Tyler is, but I know Rory is) about getting a chance to spend a night home alone: Rory's first was last night and when I called him this morning, he told me that the dog guilted him into going to bed at a normal time. He was going to stay up really late, but she was staring at him disapprovingly and so he didn't. I feel really lucky to have such a responsible teenager that he lets the dog tell him what to do! And such a good dog, too.
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