Indigo Girl

Electric Fry Pan

Several weeks ago, at work, I helped a daughter say goodbye to her mom.  There was a bit of sibling drama, but all in all, it was a joy to be there.  My patient's grandson, probably in his 20s, asked me a question I have been asked a lot,

"How can you do this?"

It wasn't hard to answer him.  I told him,

"This? This is not hard.  It's sad, yes, but not hard.  Your grandma made her decisions about how she wanted to live her life and we're honoring that.  Your family and her friends have surrounded her, told stories, prayed, sang songs.  It's beautiful.  I'm helping her die with dignity, pain free, surrounded by you, her legacy.  This is a death we all dream of. "

He paused for a moment and told me, "I've never thought about it that way.  Thank you."

My patient had been on the ventilator for several weeks, but was alert and aware and refused a trach and did not want to live on the ventilator.  Some legal personnel were brought in and she got her affairs in order.  That Saturday morning, I washed her and helped her sit on the side of the bed.  I took a few pictures of her and her daughter - the last pictures they would have together.  Some of her friends arrived - beautifully dressed ladies in hats and heels.  They laughed with her and teased her and told stories.  Some older men - in fancy suits - arrived, too, and everyone in the room prayed together.

Around noon, I gave her a dose of morphine and the respiratory therapist came in.  We pulled out the breathing tube and turned off the ventilator.  She asked her daughter, "What do I do now?"  Her daughter, bless her heart, said, "You just relax, Mama.  You keep breathing and you relax and you'll come home with me."  Some people, including the grandson I spoke to, read Scripture.  A few women sang, there were more prayers, and the stories and laughing continued. 

About an hour later, the daughter found me and said, "She's struggling."  I had medicine waiting in my pocket and gave it immediately.  She was comfortable and less responsive when I left.  Within an hour or two after we pulled the ventilator, she was unresponsive.  I checked on the family throughout my shift, making sure my patient was comfortable, making sure the family didn't need me.  I didn't do a lot of technical care that day, but I spent time talking with my patient's family, helping them process her death and begin grieving.  She died shortly after I left that night.  As the daughter hugged me goodbye, she told me, "She's waiting for you to leave.  She doesn't want to die until you're gone."

It's always sad to take care of a patient like this, to have my focus shift from saving a life to assisting with death.  When it's a daughter and mother, I feel a strong sense of kinship.  I've made the same decision with my mother.  I've let her die with dignity.  I've given her medicine to ease her pain.  I've held her hand as she's taken her last breath.  I've written her obituary.  I've gone through her personal belongings.  I've closed her accounts.  I've sold her house.  I've felt like I was erasing her life.  I've been there.

I would never say that I know how someone feels, but I have been there.  I'll never regret letting my mom go, letting her make the decision to enter hospice instead of trying a new chemo treatment, moving into her house and sharing her care with my sister and brother.  I can't imagine doing anything else.  She is my mother and she took care of me, so I took care of her.

My mom loved her electric fry pan.  She would make grilled cheese, goulash, chop suey . . . any one-dish meal meant pulling out the electric fry pan.  She bought me my own electric fry pan when I got married.  Over the past year, the screws have come loose or been lost, the non-stick coating has come off in places and probably poisoned us, and finally, I dropped the lid on the floor and it broke.  So, yesterday, I bought a new pan.  It's bigger - I'm feeding a family of five -and the pan comes off the heating element so it can be easily washed.  I'm excited about it because I love kitchen implements, but every time I throw away something my mom gave me, I feel like I'm throwing her away.  I know she's still with me in my memories, I know she's not a freaking electric fry pan, but I hate throwing away something that is so directly connected to her.  I feel like when I finally throw away everything she gave me, she'll be gone - really gone - and I just can't let that happen.

Still Counting Down to Kindergarten

Last week, when we were on vacation with my siblings, we let our kids stay up very late (for us): 9:30.  That is 1.5 hours past their usual bedtime, but it was vacation, their older cousins were up and around, and there were fireflies to catch.  Now, this week, I am starting to worry about our 7:30 Leave The House Time that starts next Wednesday.

Last night I set an alarm clock for 0800 and I will move it back 15 minutes until we are at our 0700 wake-up goal.  (Frankly, that is the earliest E and I can handle and I think we'll see a lot of frozen waffles being eaten in the car.  Maybe the 10 minute commute to school is a good thing.)  We are going to start practicing eating from our lunch boxes, too.  I am trying to think of anything else that I can do to ease this transition for E and L (I don't think anything but time and wine will ease the transition for me), but am coming up short.  I think preschool was the best preparation, but your suggestions are welcome.

(We have been to the school several times and we'll be attending an ice cream social the night before school starts.  I assume we'll get to see their specific classroom and teachers.  We've seen/met them without knowing where/who we'll be assigned to.)

It has struck me that I can no longer excuse my lax housekeeping with, "I have three children at home with me."  Dammit.  I'll need to think of a new excuse.

I posted a few vacation pictures over on my picture blog if you're interested.  We rented a beautiful house on a lake and had a wonderful time.  My brother and his family brought their kayaks and have yet to send me the family picture he took where I was kayaking with C, trying to keep her from tipping us, and A was kayaking in a double with E and L, saying things like, "WHO IS DRAGGING THEIR ARMS IN THE WATER?!" When he does, I'll post that, too.

There was a hot tub, foosball table, ping-pong table, and air hockey.  They had kid toys for C, including a singing deer head on the wall (wtf? but who cares since it fascinated C for long periods of time).  There were older cousins that E organized into a party (she is discovering her bossy side) and they were kind enough to ignore the fact that they are all 9-14 years old and drew pictures and played Duck, Duck, Goose, Limbo, and had a parade at her direction.  My sister's boys - 11 and 13 years old - are especially fabulous with kids.  C fell in love with them.

It is always tainted with sadness, the times I get together with my siblings.  My sister looks more like my mom every year.  We all still feel her absence in our family gatherings.  Sometimes I mentally stick her in - What would she be doing? How would she react to her grandkids and how they're changing? What would we be discussing in a conspiring way?  How many times would A get us to laugh and then sit back and enjoy our identical-sounding laughter?  At the same time, I'm thankful for our shared history and memories of my mom and for the relationships I see forming between cousins. Geez, my life is kind of filled with the bittersweet right now, isn't it?

Dear Mom

Dear Mom,

It's been three years since you died and you've missed so much.  I feel kind of stupid writing you a letter - a letter on my public blog that you'll never see - but I find myself wanting to talk to you and I don't have any other way. Sometimes I drive by the cemetery where your ashes are, but I don't feel any tie to it.  I know those ashes are not you.

E and L are 5 now and so much fun.  I took a picture of them the other day and wow! E looked just like you in the picture.  I mentioned it to A and he said he had been thinking the same thing.  Their other grandparents take them a lot for sleepovers and fun activities.  While I'm so glad for that relationship, I feel the emptiness where your relationship with them should be.  They don't know they're missing sleepovers and fun with you, too, but they are.

Lately, L has been showing how much she's like me.  Remember how I used to talk about my Halloween costume months in advance?  I used to want to discuss next Halloween on November 1 and it drove you crazy.  You'll be glad to know that L has been discussing her Halloween costume since last November 1.  She is a born planner and is already making requests for her 6th birthday party.  It's driving me just as crazy as I drove you.

E is so like you in temperament.  She is so kind and gentle and accepting with pockets of stubbornness that catch me off guard.  Every night, C climbs into bed with her (since she's on the bottom bunk) and they snuggle up together.  They share a pillow and cuddle under the covers.  Eventually, I have to peel C out of there with promises of her own pillow and pacifiers, but E always sighs, "I wish she could sleep with me."  This is promising, since it's part of our future plan!

It makes me so sad that you've never met C.  She's almost 2 and doing all the regular 2-year-old stuff - equal parts infuriating and charming.  She calls herself "Sha-sha" and I have to restrain myself from eating her whole whenever I hear her say it.  I finished changing her diaper the other day and we started upstairs for naptime, but we had to stop and say bye-bye to everything: "Bye-bye shoes! Bye-bye, E! Bye-bye, L! Bye-bye books!" and on.  I know she would adore you and all your silly old lady shirts with the Noah's ark theme or glittery animals.  You would be equally under the spell of her blue eyes and pigtails and buck teeth.

A and I are doing well, too, Mom.  I know you always said that you couldn't have chosen better spouses for your kids, that you loved your sons/daughter-in-law just like you loved your own children, and I want you to know that your love wasn't misplaced.  A is a wonderful husband and father and I know he misses making us laugh, just to watch us silently wheeze together, tears streaming down our faces. 

I love you, Mom, and I miss you.  I will always love and miss you.

Mother's Day

I don't believe that my mom is watching us, peeking down from heaven to check out the happenings here on earth.  I don't think she's aware of C's birth or of how our lives have changed since her death.  I know some people believe differently and find it comforting - and I expect it would be - but I just don't believe that.  I do know, however, that she has left parts of herself here with us and it simultaneously grieves and comforts me to remember those parts.

Today in church we sang the hymn It Is Well With My Soul.  It was the hymn that my mom chose to end her memorial service.  She chose it because she was a strong Christian woman and even though she did not want to leave us, she knew that to die was gain.  She chose it because she wanted us - and everyone who loved her - to remember that.  We grieve for her, but her soul is in the presence of God and what can be better than that?

I found it interesting that we sang it on Mother's Day, a day that I found painful for years due to infertility and a day I find painful now, due to my mom's death.  This hymn is a part of this world that my mom touched for me.  It's like she wanted this reminder for me, that whenever I heard that song, even though I would sob through the whole thing, I could find comfort in her peace, in her acceptance of her own death.

When peace, like a river, attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll;
Whatever my lot, Thou has taught me to say,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.

It is well, with my soul,
It is well, with my soul,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.

My sin, oh, the bliss of this glorious thought!
My sin, not in part but the whole,
Is nailed to the cross, and I bear it no more,
Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, O my soul!

The Mirror

Most of the classes at the Y are set up so that we are all looking in the mirror.  It helps to watch your form and while it is occasionally painful to compare what I look like in real life versus what I look like in my head, it has helped me get better.  Sometimes, though, I see myself and there is something - my expression, my movement, I'm not sure what - that reminds me so much of my mom that I think - just for a moment - that I see her.  It's so brief and I know it's not her instantly, but there have been times my throat has closed up and my eyes teared.  She'll be gone three years this June and I miss her so much.

Grieving: More on the Practical Side

I am beginning with the typical caveat that we are all different and what I want/need in regards to my mom may be different than what you or your brother/spouse/daughter/whoever needs.  But I am offering this up anyway in an attempt to help someone like me.  Here is the previous post about the practical side of grieving.  The main point is to get a ton (12+) copies of the death certificate because everyone needs one.

At the beginning of last week, one of my friends emailed me and offered to watch my kids last Friday so that I could get away and have some alone time.  It was so thoughtful and sweet of her, even though I couldn't take her up on it.

Years ago I had a friend whose mom died on Valentine's Day.  I wrote the date on my calendar with the full intention of mailing a card the next year and I never followed up on that.  We drifted apart, but even though we weren't friends anymore, I wish I had been a better friend when I had the opportunity.

When A got home from work last Friday, I asked him if he knew what the day was and watched as his face told me that he had no clue.  I cut him a lot of slack in regards to special days, but I need this day to be acknowledged.  I need him to know it's approaching, to say something on the day, to keep talking about it later.  I don't care what he has to do to remember it and I'm not sure what I want him to do (flowers? card?  not really), but I felt very alone with my memories.  I need him to remember with me, but without prompting.  I wasn't mad~he can't be expected to read my mind, after all, and it is my job to tell him what I need~but he did feel bad.  And then I felt bad because a guilt trip was not my intention.

This year I ate a pan of brownies throughout the day, but in the future I'm thinking of doing something slightly healthier, something that we can do as a family, something that my mom loved: gardening, ice cream, walking the dog, making pasties.  I want to make a special point of looking at pictures, telling a few stories, something like that.  I mourn her death and celebrate her life all the time, but I think setting aside this specific day is a good idea.

I am not suggesting that you keep tabs on everyone you know and everyone they know who died, but if you have a close friend/family member who lost someone, I suggest just acknowledging that date.  Some people might like a card or flowers or A PAN OF BROWNIES, but just a "This must be a tough time for you.  Is there anything I can do?" is okay.  If you are more creative then go ahead and offer, but don't be hurt if your idea is turned down.  We all need different support and grieve in different ways.

Feel free to add in the comments if you have been supportive/supported in a helpful way, if you have any other ideas about death anniversaries, or if you have a completely different idea of what constitutes support in this situation.  I think a lot depends on whether you're an introvert or extrovert (and therefore where you draw your strength), but maybe one of you will help me figure out what I need from A.

Grieving: Two Years

Today is the two year anniversary of my mom's death.  Two years ago today my sister and I sat at her bedside, held her hands, and sobbed as she died.  I still can't believe I haven't talked to her in two years.  So much has happened that she doesn't know about.  I have so much to tell her.

I took my mom for granted a lot; I think most of us with good adult-child relationships do.  We get busy with our lives and just assume that she will be there, helping us negotiate motherhood, celebrating victories, delighting in our children, and bringing brownies when needed.  Do me a favor, will you?  Appreciate your mom today.  You can just be aware of her and of what she brings to your life, you can call her and tell her, or you can do something special.  Whatever she would enjoy.  Just realize what you have.  I would give anything to have my mom here with me now.

I miss you, Mom.  I love you.  I know you know that, but I will always regret not telling you more often.

Grieving: Almost Two Years

I read this post over at My Tiny Kingdom this week and it strikes me that anyone who thinks I (or anyone else) should "get over" losing a parent can go to hell.  No one has ever said this to me, or insinuated it in any way, but I am mad anyhow.

I don't write about my mom very much now.  I feel like I have said all I can say about my feelings.  The next step would be to start cataloging my memories and that is such a monumental and overwhelming idea that I just step back.

Someone at work found out that my mom died and asked me when.  I immediately replied, "June 13, 2006" and he said, sadly, "Oh, that was recent."

I still think about my mom every single day.  I still feel like I've been kicked in the chest each time.  I still think, "She's dead.  Dead."  Sometimes I whisper dead out loud to myself, like hearing the word spoken will finally make it real.  I still cry, both big, loud sobs and quiet weeping.

I am not wallowing in my grief, but neither has it left me.  I know there are those of you out there who have lost a parent.  You've either commented or emailed me privately and I feel a sort of obligation to let you know: I am not over it and I don't ever intend to be.  I have things to do.  Partly because I know she would want me to do them and partly because of who I am.  I am living my life and I am happy.  I love my husband and my kids, I love my friends and my job.  I have a really good life.

She's gone~dead~and I can't bring her back.  But that doesn't mean I don't miss her.  I ache for her and I always will.

Grieving: Happy Birthday

Today is my mom's birthday; she would be 66.  She would have officially retired last year as planned, working part-time teaching nursing assistants, something she loved to do.  She would have been so excited about C, coming to my ultrasound, babysitting for E and L when necessary, and being generally supportive.  I know she would have used her free time to help me out when I was drowning.

Today C is one month old.  It strikes me how she'll never know my mom, the woman she was named for.  Already E and L refer to A's mom as "Grandma" with no extra name to distinguish between their two grandmas.  They can identify pictures of my mom, but she isn't part of their day-to-day vocabulary.  And why should she be?  My mom isn't here changing C's diapers, bringing food with brownies or chocolate cake for dessert, and annoying me with well-intentioned advice.  My brother and sister will be here soon and while I love them dearly and am grateful that they're taking time away from their work and families to drive all day and sleep on our couch, it's not the same.  It's not the same as having a mom in town.  It's not the same as having a living mom.

She's missing so much and the selfish part of me cries out that I'm missing so much, too.  One of my coworkers, a widow, said that the second year after her husband died was harder than the first.  By the second year, people don't really remember anniversary dates or holidays.  They've moved on and assume that you have, too.  Or they think you should have moved on and what's wrong that you're still dwelling on the negative?  They don't gently inquire about how you're doing or send a card.  But I'm grieving for my mom with every single change my life brings and the big ones hit especially hard.

Happy Birthday, Mom.  And Mom, you have another grandchild, your ninth.  She's beautiful.  This is, barring the failure of a certain medical procedure, your last one, and the only one you'll never meet.  I named her after you.

Grieving: 1 Year

Hi, Mom.

I guess it goes without saying that I miss you.  I still miss you desperately.  The gaping hole may be softening and healing around the edges, but it'll never be filled.

I planted pansies in your pots this year.  I did one of purple and yellow like you always did.  I also planted some snapdragons.  I remember when I was young (9 maybe?) and you gave me a plot of land and told me it would be in a full sun area and let me landscape it with whatever annuals I chose.  I must have looked at a zillion different plants, comparing the sizes and sun needs.  Thanks.

A year ago today I watched as your fingers turned blue and you struggled  to breathe.  I gave you morphine and later watched as your eyes bugged out and you sat up and gasped for breath before dying.  It was the worse thing I've ever seen and I don't even know how to talk about it, how to describe it to anyone.  It was not what I wanted; your eyes were not closed and you did not look peaceful.  I think you were probably already gone by then, but the image will stay in my mind forever.  I wish I could have given you a more peaceful death.

I am so jealous whenever I hear someone talk about their mom.  It seems like everyone has moms who cook for them, moms who watch their kids, mom who give gifts, moms who visit.  Other people have their mom over for dinner.   Other moms visit after a baby is born.  Grandmas talk on the phone with grandchildren.  I miss that.  I miss that every single day.  I am always aware of your absence.