One year ago yesterday, my mother died.
I’m angry.
And sad.
And grateful.
I’m remembering, second-guessing every decision.
Immediately after her fall and diagnosis of a brain tumor, she spent several weeks in a local nursing home. She was not safe for surgery at that point.
After the biopsy, she transferred to rehab where they encouraged her and worked aggressively with her. At the first conference, each team member laid out goals for the next week.
But then suddenly we were pressed for a transfer decision. They all knew something we didn’t. That the tumor was aggressively malignant.
They stole the hope they’d lavished. We hadn’t even talked with the doctor yet.
This morning I saw yet another ad for the Cancer Institutes of America. I think of my mom every time I see one. She asked about seeking treatment there. But I still remember the doctor who sat on her bed, his face drenched with compassion.
He spoke the words slowly.
“I.
Worry.
That.
To.
Treat.
This.
Tumor.
Would.
Cause.
More.
Harm.”
She chose no treatment.
But should we have tried?
Where to go from here?
Back to her own home where Sissy and I would bear her care?
Back to her semi-private nursing home room around the corner from her house (where she often waited up to an hour for help)?
To the hospice house the doctor recommended down the road from the hospital but 30 miles from home where she’d have a large private room with an attentive staff–and a hot tub down the hall?
We dodged the discharge planner who hovered over us for an answer.
Finally we loaded her into a handicapped van and drove her to the hospice house for a look-see.
She chose to stay in this magic place.
And we (Sissy and Dad and I) moved in with her.
I treasure those last days.
How could we know the night they carried her to the ambulance, how could she know that was the last time she’d close the door. The last time she’d ever see her home again?
How could any of us know that she’d never again sleep in her own bed, have a cup of coffee and nibble my dad’s pork-and-bean bread at her own table, smoke a cigarette indoors, or organize papers in her office?
She didn’t even get to say goodbye.
I bought her a hippopotamus pillow pet she christened Doc H.
Toward the end she re-named it Doc Do Nothing.
I’m angry.
And sad.
And grateful.
Sissy and I were with her when her spirit separated with a shudder and flew home.
One year ago yesterday, my mother lived.
Brothers and sisters, we do not want you to be uninformed about those who sleep in death, so that you do not grieve like the rest of mankind, who have no hope. ~1 Thessalonians 4:13 (NIV)
aching with you Sandy…
I love how the Body of Christ shares each other’s pain. It lightens the ache. Thank you, Juliana.
“one year ago yesterday, my mother lived.”
Love that.
“one month ago, two days ago, my mother lived,” said me.
I feel it with you Sandy, I truly do.
I am so sorry, Susan. Sitting quiet with you.
wow. so powerful.
The emotions can still rise up powerful, Sharon. 🙂
I know sometimes that one year seems like an eternity ago, and other times only moments away. I was with my mom in her last days in a hospice. She lived one month after her diagnosis, and had refused treatment because they said it couldn’t give her more than a few extra weeks at best. I sometimes wonder “what if they were wrong?” Life filled with “what ifs” can’t change today, however, so I try to dwell more on the good memories altho’ it’s especially hard during the Christmas season. She’s been gone 29 years now and I still miss her. She was the only one who could make her Christmas pudding recipe exactly right!!!
“What if they were wrong?” That’s a kicker question, isn’t it? That’s what they told Mom, too. And that those few weeks would not hold much quality. But yes, we can’t cling to those what if’s…
Mom always made an ambrosia (I think she called it a fruit cocktail salad) with sour cream. My sister made it last week and served it in traditional bowl. I was never crazy about it, but it never tasted so good.
And I was still hurting a lot at the one-year. It lifted shortly afterward. A friend who lost her mom right before said that at the one-year, it felt like it had just happened, but at the two-year, it felt like it happened a decade ago. That’s how it’s been for me.
I’m glad you have your poetry and that I have my blog posts to help us remember. I don’t want to forget.
Lovingly lifting you up in prayer during this difficult time.
Love you, Melinda. I wish I was going to be in Nashville longer so I could see you.
It seems impossible that a year has gone by, Sandy. Wrapping my arms around you from here.
I feel it, Laura. All the way from there. And yes, a whole year, a busy year, a year filled with all kinds of emotions. I’m glad I had this place to share and sisters like you to hold me up. xoxo
Angry, sad, grateful. Me too.
But it’s been four years.
What amazes is me is how every detail can be so different, yet the questions that linger are exactly the same?
Love you.
Ties that bind… Love you, too.
Oh Sandy, my heart aches for you. My sweet dad ran into the arms of Jesus three weeks ago after being in hospice care for two weeks. I wasn’t able to be there to hold his once-strong hand or kiss his cheek good-bye. I’m so sad, yet I rejoice that he’s with our Father… so many emotions.
My heart goes out to you. I pray that God would give your mind rest from the ‘what-ifs’ and swell your heart with sweet memories. Blessings to you.
Oh, my. Yes to this. All of it. The second-guessing, the wondering, the sorrow, the release, too. It’s all a part of this painful road. We all second-guess. Even when our loved ones survive, we second-guess. My husband had surgery for prostate cancer that left permanent side effects. Now they tell us that too many have operated too soon. That can’t change things now, 7 years later, though. So we live life differently than we imagined we might. BUT we live life. And for that we give thanks. And your mom is living life, too – just not here, where you can touch her and talk to her. You made good choices, Sandy. You really, really did. You said good-bye well and that is a gift. Even amidst the wondering, please hang onto that. And the truth that your mom did not have to endure the sometimes horrific after-effects of brain surgery for a person in their 80s. Hang onto what you KNOW as well as what you feel, dear friend. Yet feel it, too. Praying for you tonight. Thankful for you.
Holding you in my heart, Sandy . . . May God grant you His comfort and grace as you grieve.
Oh Sandra, how well I know this grief….I am so glad you had some last days with her. It’s only a year and it’s still fresh. Maybe you find comfort in knowing that whatever you did, it was the right thing. Death is not every natural since it was never part of God’s plan. But His grace covers it all…fills in all the cracks of sadness and thankfully He heals us in time. Praying for you…Lori
I just lost my Mother early in the morning on the Friday after Thanksgiving, so this post really touched my heart deeply. Having lost my dad 4 days after Christmas 20 years ago, I can relate to how you are feeling at this moment only a year after your moms passing. Praying for peace and comfort during this difficult time.
It is a blessing when we do have time to care for a loved one and say goodbye in our own way….this is beautiful and a lovely tribute to your love for your Mom.
Oh Sandy – I read these poignant words and images of my own aging mother fill my head. She is doing well, but I know the days are coming. I am soaking in your wisdom and compassion in dealing with this great loss. I think you did well sweet friend. I think you did so very well.
You’re not alone. And neither am I.
oh friend. even in your pain, in your grief, i read Jesus so loud and clear. i love how you ended this piece. how you ended it with life. love you. hugs.
Oh, Sandy…just sending you a big hug, and praying God holds you tight and comforts you.