My
youngest sister, Billie, flew back home to L.A. last night from Miami. It seems the final close to mom's parting, all of us going home to get on with our lives. Billie was
the remaining sister still in Miami after my mom’s passing. I haven’t written
down yet what it was like, that experience of being with mom while she breathed
her last breaths. I will do that now so I will have it somewhere… just in case
I forget. [Did you notice that? Did you notice that I called her “mom” and not
“mama” as in my earlier posts? I am growing myself back up. Slowly. Gently.]
Mom
had struggled with Leukemia (AML) for about 3 years. The doctors were amazed at
how she fought the disease and even came back from it for a short while in the
beginning. But in the end, with a fractured vertebra in her back, aching joints
and pain all around, she was too tired and hurting to fight any longer. A woman
who once was a voracious reader, and got great joy from devouring book after
book from her regular trips to the public library, she lost the desire, will
and strength to even read. She was one who valued the quality of life. She had
my father both had living wills and did not want to linger unnecessarily in
their transition from this world.
I
remember when my dad was coming to the end, he had suffered greatly from the
effects of Parkinson’s. It’s a horrific disease. They lose the ability to
swallow and eventually starve to death. But I remember when the doctor spoke to
mom about a feeding tube for dad my said with great intensity, “I won’t do that
to him!” For her to delay his death with a feeding tube was more cruel than the
disease itself. When mom’s pain became too much for her to bear, she finally
said, “I think it’s time for Hospice.” There is more to the story, but for now
this is what I will tell:
The
last night in her condo was an extremely difficult one. Early in the morning
hours, mom was transported to the hospital where she could get the relief from
her pain that she so desperately needed. Her oncologist, and a kind and understanding doctor
Clark in the emergency room, made it possible. We told Dr. Clark we wanted no
diagnostics, nothing. Only stop the pain and make her comfortable. Our faces
pleading… desperate. Dr. Clark said, “Our society is in denial about death… I’m in denial about death. If she were
my patient and she came in with this sound in her lungs, I would intubate her
right now. I understand what you want. We will make this happen. We will make
her comfortable.” He called mom’s Oncologist and after the phone call, turned
to me and gave a thumbs up. My whole body relaxed. Finally, finally mom would
be relieved from her suffering.
They
gave us a room and we all stood round her taking to each other, to mom,
stroking her face, holding her hands. Her facial muscles had relaxed since the
pain medication. Her eyes had remained closed since she had left her condo. She
seemed to rest peacefully except for the sound of her lungs. We all waited…
At
one point as I thought of her letting go and crossing over, I remembered the
lyrics of a folk song I had heard James Taylor sing, The Water is Wide. “The
water is wide. I can’t cross over. And neither have I wings to fly. Build me a
boat that can carry two, and both shall row, my love and I.” I began to sing
there, standing by her bed with my sisters and brother all around. My brother
came and stood beside me. He joined in. I sang another, a Carly Simon song. It
was a song mom and I played years before in 1991 when I drove her to treatment.
We drove her little Miata convertible. The refrain is: “Life is eternal and
love is immortal and death is only a horizon. And a horizon is nothing save the
limit of our site, save the limit of our sight.”
My
siblings and I started talking about other songs and songs Pinky liked. She
loved to sing, and when she did not know the words to a song, that never stopped
her, she delightfully made up her own words. I believe it was my sister Billie
who said mom loved Amazing Grace. So we all stood round singing Amazing Grace
to her. On the last verse, at the end, she opened her eyes one last time. To me
she looked as though she was seeing something far off that we could not see.
Something on the other side perhaps. Whatever that might look like. Billie
said, “Hey mama!” We all began to say out loud, “Goodbye, Mama. We’ll see you
on the other side!” And smiling with tears streaming down our faces, she then
closed her eyes and breathed a few more breaths. They became more shallow and
farther apart until finally they stopped, and she was gone. It was an
extraordinary experience. It was an honor… an honor to be there in her life and
in her death. It was an honor to know her.
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