Somehow it seems simplest to start at the end.
I woke up, and immediately rose to swab her mouth. She wasn’t breathing. I put my hand next to her mouth.
i felt warmth but I did not feel the movement of air.
i looked for a pulse, and could not find one in her wrists.
i touched her neck, probing for her pulse with my fingers. Did I feel the last twitch of her heartbeat? Does the body randomly twitch as electricity discharges through the nerves?
Her last gesture was closing her mouth a little around the sponge on a stick of water.
Her last word may have been “blue”, or.”blue please”. Blue had become her new word for water. Because “water” and “swab” are harder to say clearly in such a weakened state
Her last meaningful words to me included, “They just don’t understand.” What preceded this:. The med aide wanted her to “take a break” from refreshing herself with the mouth swab. Everyone sided with the aide, or wanted to appeal to the hospice nurse for a ruling except me. I wanted to allow my mother anything that comforted her on her dying day, and completely respect her autonomy. The hospice nurse was called. My dying mother said, I want my swab, and I want my daughter.”
Before this, my mother wanted me to go and”love my life.” I think she wanted to protect me from seeing her death.
The swab incident happened when I was in her room to say goodbye to go pack for the airport. Afterwards, I asked, “Do you want me to stay to guard you until you’re dead? I’ll stay 24/7 by your bed, but we have to close the curtains at night to not burn my eyes.”. She said, “In case they all gang up on me again?”
Her saying, They just don’t understand,” had two meanings to me. She was paraphrasing Stephen the martyr in the Bible, who said, Forgive them, Lord, for they know not what they do.” I believe she was telling me not to be angry or to judge them.. She was also noting that as a survivor of bacterial meningitis, I was the only person there who knew in my own body, what she was currently going through in hers.
The last thing she ever heard was my voice. I woke up from where I was dozing on her floor. I swabbed her mouth with water a few more times, told her I was exhausted and laying back down so I could be there for next time she needed me. I told her it was the little sleep for me, and I hoped the big one for her, so that her suffering would end. I told her, “If you see Jesus, run to Jesus, okay?” I prayed the serenity prayer, which she loved, God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. Amen.” I swabbed her mouth one more time, making sure it was a really dripping wet one, and then laid down again on the floor next to her.
The days leading up to this were a rapid deterioration of both her abilities and quality of life, and a lot of need to act to mitigate the suffering that accomapies such a decline.
My mother was an exceptional mother to small children. She read to us every day. She played with us. She brought us to the zoo, the children’s museum, the rose garden, the Japanese garden, ballet, and so many places to make our minds grow. She brought us to the beach at the ocean and river. She taught us what wisdom, morals, and values she had.
She was a light to people around her. For many years, she volunteered with meals on wheels and the transition house, cooking for the homeless.
Not only did she treat the people who helped her with respect, but she befriended them. She taught me to treat everyone with respect and kindness regardless of social status.
She taught me patience and acceptance. She spectacularly modeled grace and forgiveness.
She became family for people who had none. She studied the Bible. She loved her Creator with her whole mind, heart and soul, and loved so many people as she loved herself.
I’m writing this with less than ideal equipment, but I feel the most important things I learned from her death are:
- Be careful what material items you hoard. Having more than she needed made it hard for her aides and myself to find what she needed as she was dying.
- You can’t buy family. She had worked as a nurse for many years, and put aside a little at a time to take care of herself at the end. She had some great hired aides. At the end, it was her family who were her biggest advocates.
- Know thyself. Accept reality as it is. As much as possible, know what you want, and state it with absolute consistency. My mother was a people pleaser to the core. She wanted approval. There is a place for wanting to be pleasing to the people around you, but that place is not in matters of your own life and death. Her self-contradictory desires that she expressed to diverse people led to confusion over how much comfort medicine she wanted at the end of life. She taught me that I want to be clear and consistent about communicating my preferences for how to treat me in the case I become unable to advocate for myself.
I don’t really know how to end this post. How does one say the final goodbye?. Adiaŭ, mia amata panjo, kaj dankon pro ĉio.
