A Second Date with Grief
I asked Grief to go out with me again. This time we went on a walk. We walked back through the hardest and worst day of my life.
Birthdays were always a big deal when I was growing up. Bounce houses and ponies. Pictures up and down the stairs and streamers. Surprise visits from my Godparents. A HUGE cake in the numbers 1 and 6 delivered to school. In my adult years I sent flowers to my Mom on my birthday. After all, she's the one who did the work (hope my kids take notes when they read this some day). We celebrate big. I don't know any different.
I turned 39 on February 26th. On February 26th we moved my Mom into hospice. The place where she would leave this world. I didn't find hospice to be this amazing place everyone speaks of where peace finds you and you leave with angel wings. Hospice looks like a nursing home. It looks like stale coffee and cookies and Shasta soda. Couches are like dorm furniture, uncomfortable and likely in need of a cleaning. No one turns lights on so it's dark and quiet. And just about everyone in there is dying which doesn't do much for the energy in the stale air. If I'm being honest, if my Mom had seen it in her regular state, she wouldn't have stayed. I'm not sure she would have walked past the front desk. But there we were. And we had worked to get her there. Mom and Dad had argued with doctors wanting to do surgery to clear the blockage that was going to kill her. Doctors who wanted to operate and do more chemo to keep her alive until the next blockage. And in what state? With what quality of life? No one teaches doctors when enough is enough. Mom put her foot down. 39 rounds of chemo, 22 of radiation. 110 post chemo infusions. 2 surgeries. Enough. She was done. We were all done. Not with her, but with the cancer. She was at the end.
I knew this was it. I knew she wasn't going to get better. I knew what hospice meant. But it did not register. I did not feel any of it. I was in business mode. I was wearing the crown. Dad and I need to meet with hospice, we have to get her out of this hospital. Someone pack her stuff, who is driving what car? Mom asked for comfortable tank tops, I'll go find them. Has anyone eaten anything today? Dad can't breathe in the ambulance, Ross meet Dad at hospice, walk with him, I'll get Mom. Does Mom know where she is? Does she know that she's in an ambulance going to the place where she will die? Put the flowers where she can see them if she wakes up. Family pictures should go over there too. Does this place have a bathroom? Dad, did you eat something? I'll go find the chaplain. What about a doctor? Shouldn't the doctor be here? Doesn't the doctor know my Mom is dying?
It's how we survive I suppose. Leave your heart out of it. Operate with your head until you have a chance to come up for air. In the last few days, now that I've had a chance to breathe it has really struck me that not just the day we moved her to hospice but for that entire week between the hospital and her passing, I was hovering. My emotional self hovered just above my physical self allowing my physical self to do the hard work without interruption or distraction. The part of me that wanted to be in a corner sobbing actually left my body so that I could function. It feels like you are in a tunnel. I knew the direction I needed to head (making sure Mom dies with the dignity she insisted on) and there was no time for turns or detours. I'm just now finding a little time for a detour. A little time to ugly cry. If I think about it, it's pretty amazing that the mind and the heart have that ability to operate on their own when it's necessary. Sure wish that had been the case during a bad breakup or emotional decisions in my younger days!
My brother made sure we had cake at the end of that day. And one of my best friends brought some too and even lit a candle for me to blow out. Mom would have wanted me to have cake that day. And she probably would have approved of the bottle plus of wine I drank given the circumstances.
On my walk with Grief today, I remembered that on that day that we moved the woman who brought me into the world 39 years prior, to the place where she would leave the world, she was the first one to wish me a Happy Birthday.
Now if you'll excuse me, Grief and I are going to wander around Homegoods. Maybe Mom is there with some great new pillows or something.
Birthdays were always a big deal when I was growing up. Bounce houses and ponies. Pictures up and down the stairs and streamers. Surprise visits from my Godparents. A HUGE cake in the numbers 1 and 6 delivered to school. In my adult years I sent flowers to my Mom on my birthday. After all, she's the one who did the work (hope my kids take notes when they read this some day). We celebrate big. I don't know any different.
I turned 39 on February 26th. On February 26th we moved my Mom into hospice. The place where she would leave this world. I didn't find hospice to be this amazing place everyone speaks of where peace finds you and you leave with angel wings. Hospice looks like a nursing home. It looks like stale coffee and cookies and Shasta soda. Couches are like dorm furniture, uncomfortable and likely in need of a cleaning. No one turns lights on so it's dark and quiet. And just about everyone in there is dying which doesn't do much for the energy in the stale air. If I'm being honest, if my Mom had seen it in her regular state, she wouldn't have stayed. I'm not sure she would have walked past the front desk. But there we were. And we had worked to get her there. Mom and Dad had argued with doctors wanting to do surgery to clear the blockage that was going to kill her. Doctors who wanted to operate and do more chemo to keep her alive until the next blockage. And in what state? With what quality of life? No one teaches doctors when enough is enough. Mom put her foot down. 39 rounds of chemo, 22 of radiation. 110 post chemo infusions. 2 surgeries. Enough. She was done. We were all done. Not with her, but with the cancer. She was at the end.
I knew this was it. I knew she wasn't going to get better. I knew what hospice meant. But it did not register. I did not feel any of it. I was in business mode. I was wearing the crown. Dad and I need to meet with hospice, we have to get her out of this hospital. Someone pack her stuff, who is driving what car? Mom asked for comfortable tank tops, I'll go find them. Has anyone eaten anything today? Dad can't breathe in the ambulance, Ross meet Dad at hospice, walk with him, I'll get Mom. Does Mom know where she is? Does she know that she's in an ambulance going to the place where she will die? Put the flowers where she can see them if she wakes up. Family pictures should go over there too. Does this place have a bathroom? Dad, did you eat something? I'll go find the chaplain. What about a doctor? Shouldn't the doctor be here? Doesn't the doctor know my Mom is dying?
It's how we survive I suppose. Leave your heart out of it. Operate with your head until you have a chance to come up for air. In the last few days, now that I've had a chance to breathe it has really struck me that not just the day we moved her to hospice but for that entire week between the hospital and her passing, I was hovering. My emotional self hovered just above my physical self allowing my physical self to do the hard work without interruption or distraction. The part of me that wanted to be in a corner sobbing actually left my body so that I could function. It feels like you are in a tunnel. I knew the direction I needed to head (making sure Mom dies with the dignity she insisted on) and there was no time for turns or detours. I'm just now finding a little time for a detour. A little time to ugly cry. If I think about it, it's pretty amazing that the mind and the heart have that ability to operate on their own when it's necessary. Sure wish that had been the case during a bad breakup or emotional decisions in my younger days!
My brother made sure we had cake at the end of that day. And one of my best friends brought some too and even lit a candle for me to blow out. Mom would have wanted me to have cake that day. And she probably would have approved of the bottle plus of wine I drank given the circumstances.
On my walk with Grief today, I remembered that on that day that we moved the woman who brought me into the world 39 years prior, to the place where she would leave the world, she was the first one to wish me a Happy Birthday.
Now if you'll excuse me, Grief and I are going to wander around Homegoods. Maybe Mom is there with some great new pillows or something.
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