“I just feel like I need to go back tonight” I told my
husband after dinner. Even though I had been there twice already today, for
some reason I felt that tug to return. It had been almost a week since the
hospice nurse told us my mom had a few days maybe a week. “ Go, do what you need to do” was his reply,
it was always his reply and for that I was so very grateful. When I got to moms
both my two older sisters were there as well as my niece, whose mom, my oldest
sister, lay in the same position almost 9 years ago. What a blessing it was, to
have my niece there with us. She confided
in me that she felt it’s where she needed to be for her mom. It was my mother
that sat vigil at her mom’s bedside, and now it was her turn. How did this
happen so fast? It was a blur of doctor appointments, hospital stays, and a
nursing home stint and now here we are, what would be her last evening.
It all began with a pedicure, yes a pedicure. I noticed moms
feet were swollen, and for as long as I have been doing pedicures I recognized
it was never a good sign. Congestive heart failure, I thought. I urged my mom
to go to the doctor, but as was her habit for the last few years, she would not
make the appointment. Looking back now I realize not only that she didn’t want
to go, she didn’t want to know. So I ended up making the appointment and taking
her on my day off. It was a pretty
routine check, a few questions that ended with the doctor listening to her
chest and ordering a chest X-ray. We walked across the hall and got her X-ray
before we left. I dropped my mom off at
her home, got her settled in with something to eat and was on my way. The phone
call the next day would change our world.
“There is a huge mass in your mother’s chest.” The doctor
stated very matter of factly; you’ll need to see a thoracic surgeon. My heart
dropped, my world stopped. Sure she was 89, had been slowing down the last few
years, but it was normal aging right? Apparently not. It would turn out to be 4th stage lung
cancer, and there was little hope of reversal or treatment. Ironically, 6 months prior I had gone through
pastoral care training with a focus on palliative care at Southpoint Hospital
Cleveland Clinic. How could I have known I would soon be using this very
training for my own mother? It turned out to be a huge blessing, one I would
use to help my family, as well as myself, navigate her illness. Her care became
comfort based as we all tried to grasp the gravity of her situation, of our
situation. Keep her comfortable,
companion her home. That was the plan. My older sister took the reins for the lion’s
share of decisions and facilities which was a tremendous load to bear. Working
through insurance paperwork and power of attorneys and moms wishes I’m quite
sure kept her up many a night. But she led lovingly with her heart and with moms
care and comfort always front and center.
During moms last hospital visit to manage her pain we met
with a palliative care nurse. He walked us though worst case scenario. “Your
mom has two to four weeks at best” he told us as compassionately as he could. Trying
to get those words to even register was difficult, excruciating really. Everything he said after that was a muddled
mass of words I could hardly make out. How can that even be? 4 weeks?
The decision became
crystal clear to us, we needed to get her home. From day one of her illness
that was all she wanted, to be home. The hospital gave us time to make arrangements for 24/7
nursing care with hospice care a few times a week. Arrangements were made,
equipment was delivered and we took mom home. The look that came over her when
she realized she was going home was priceless, a mixture of relief and
gratitude. We were fortunate to have these four weeks; I know that sounds
counter intuitive, but they truly were a blessing. It gave us time to say goodbye, to say what
we needed to say, to just be. We talked, we laughed, and we cried, we spent
time, we shared stories, we loved her. There will be nothing more precious to
me that these final weeks with her.
It was 11 pm, my sisters had both gone home and my niece sat
vigil with me on the opposite side of the hospital bed. “I’m tired, you’re
tired, we should go home. She’s resting comfortably.” The next morning was Tuesday, a 7 am mass, one that I usually attend,
but I was so tired that I just could not drag myself out of bed. I calculated
in my head the later times of mass in the area so I could get her communion, as
I had tried to do as often as I could. But something in me said just get there,
so I passed on going to mass and went directly to moms. I got there around 9 am
and my oldest sister was already there sitting at her bedside. Things were
different today. Moms breathing pattern had changed during the night, it was labored,
shallow and intermittent. I looked at my sister and didn’t need to say a word.
We both knew. My heart was so heavy, yet
I felt an inner strength. I had told my husband in the beginning of her illness
that I hadn’t decided if I wanted to be there, at the end. He said wisely don’t
worry Millie, God will decide that, and He did. As mom labored to breathe we
gently stroked her head and her arms. We spoke of our love, of her love for us
and of God’s love for her. We told her not to be afraid, He is with you. If you
see Jesus go on ahead with him. We told her it was Okay to go, she did a
wonderful job mothering us and we would be fine. We continued speaking words of
love and affirmation to her as her breathing became more and more shallow. Mom’s eyes had been closed this whole time but
all of a sudden she opened her eyes wide and literally looked right through me.
There was pain in her eyes, what looked to be what I might have imagined
Jesus’s eyes that night in the garden. I
told her it’s OK, don’t be afraid and held her hand tight. After what seemed
like hours, but were probably seconds she relaxed, closed her eyes, shed one
tear and all the pain drained from her entire being. I switched places with my
sister so she could face my mom and she breathed her last. It was 9:30. Just
like that, she was gone, peacefully at home in paradise. It was everything I
prayed for, a beautiful, peaceful death surrounded by love.
Later that day I was trying to explain to my pastor the
miracle I witnessed but my words fell short. All I could think of in comparison
was feeling I witnessed her passion. It was a few weeks before Easter, so the
reference was fresh and fitting. On the day of her Christian burial the
entrance antiphon for the day had the perfect words. God’s word, always on
time. “The waves of death rose about me; / the pains of the netherworld
surrounded me. / In my anguish I called to the Lord, / and from his holy temple
he heard my voice.” This was my mothers’ final gift to me, to honor me with
witnessing her transition from death to everlasting life. A beautiful, tangible
reminder of God’s promise.
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