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The Final Days of Mom
Dec. 1st, 2021 08:59 amOn the Monday morning after Thanksgiving I got a call from my Mom's hospice nurse. She said that Mom hasn't been eating or drinking very much, in terrible pain, and "barely conscious". According to the nurse, it was a significant decline that signaled her time was at hand.
Mom entered hospice care about a month ago, and the team has been pretty responsive about her condition. They advised me to start making arrangements for her funeral and estate, and I admit I've been dragging my feet about that. But this week all of a sudden everything became very real. Her death wasn't a hypothetical event to deal with some time in the future, it was imminent.
I've spent the last few days updating the family, speaking with an elder from Mom's congregation, working out insurance and payment details. It's unclear what Mom really wants at this point; I think she would rather be buried, but my aunt remembers her saying she wanted to be cremated. We won't be able to have an in-person funeral because of COVID restrictions, so when the time comes we'll have to arrange a virtual funeral service. It's unclear who will show up; most family members in Mom's generation have already passed, and our family isn't a very tight-knit group. Besides, I'm pretty sure most don't use the internet.
As for me, I guess the dominant feeling about all of this is...distance. I've known this time was coming for a while, and I also know that Mom will refuse to do the things she needs to do to improve her quality of life. She's never been a woman to make concessions to reality, so why start now -- especially since she's succumbing to dementia in her old age? Her death was an inevitability, and it feels like I've grieved her a long time ago.
I still remember the day she told me not to come back home after I came out. I remember her saying that it was a good thing we weren't closer, because if we were and I had told her I was gay she would have hated me. I remember her not letting me touch her because she "didn't know where my hands had been". How she sat me down and made me tell everyone in the family that I was gay whether I wanted to or not.
I remember knowing that I would never go home again, that I would never know what happened to my father, that my link to my family had been irrevocably severed. I mourned heavily. I ached with the loss. It was so bad I took a bunch of sleeping pills to just...drift off forever because I didn't want to feel so alone and unloved anymore. It took a lot of time -- dropping out of college, becoming a Lost Boy in Arkansas for years, finally finding love in R. when I least expected it -- but I managed to heal from that trauma. I don't know if I'll ever fully recover from it though.
Looking back at that time, I realize that I grieved the loss of my mother back then. Even though I call this woman Mom and still feel some responsibility for her, I don't think of her as my family. I tried back when my sister died, had thought it was our chance to patch things up, but learning she hadn't changed a bit since I left rekindled all of this anger I felt towards her. Eventually that anger was replaced with a weary resignation. There was no relationship to repair. She was just an obligation; I had to make sure she had a stable place to be and food was available. So I did that, talked to her when I could, and dealt with her complaints about where she's ended up.
Now at the end of her life, Mom is reaching out for comfort that no one's interested in giving her. She's alienated her family, any friends she's had, her fellow Jehovah's Witnesses. COVID restrictions in her nursing home has exacerbated her loneliness, even though she could make friends with other people there. She's just not interested. There's always a reason to dislike someone.
I don't feel anything about her death, yet. Well, nothing personal. I know she's in a lot of pain and trapped within a disintegrating mind, and I think her death will end a life filled with suffering. She's been through an awful lot, and I know this is not the end she wanted for herself. But it's also the end she's made. She disowned me, drove my sister to death by despair (drug overdose), forced my nephew to grow up with schizophrenia and no support or understanding. She's accused her caregivers of stealing from her, refused repeated offers for help, exhausted everyone who has tried to care for her. She has pushed away anyone who would be close to her right now.
I wish I could feel more compassion for her. I know that she's just as likely a victim of her environment as a perpetuator of generational trauma. She was born in 1933. She was a teenager through World War II; she was in her 30s during the Civil Rights movement; in her 50s when crack swept through Baltimore like a conflagration; in her 60s with Rodney King; George Floyd, Michael Brown, Breonna Taylor. She saw the genocidal racism of the Nazi Party supposedly vanquished, only to re-emerge on our own shores under the fascist incompetence of Donald Trump.
All of her life, the world has pushed her into a corner, told her she was less than, unworthy, didn't matter. She was trapped in a culture that told her she was wrong, all the time. She grew up poor, worked her ass off, survived an alcoholic marriage, raised her own child and adopted two more, all while making her own way. Her stubbornness is likely the very thing she needed to survive all of this.
But she saw anyone who wasn't with her as an enemy, and couldn't accept the differences and struggles of the people she was with. She couldn't support us when we needed her, and refused our support when it was offered. Now she's dying and seeking comfort from those of us who have been most hurt by her. I can't muster a connection or warm feeling towards her, only...like, basic sadness I feel for anyone in her situation.
Maybe if I'm actually in Baltimore for her final days, I'll feel different.
Mom entered hospice care about a month ago, and the team has been pretty responsive about her condition. They advised me to start making arrangements for her funeral and estate, and I admit I've been dragging my feet about that. But this week all of a sudden everything became very real. Her death wasn't a hypothetical event to deal with some time in the future, it was imminent.
I've spent the last few days updating the family, speaking with an elder from Mom's congregation, working out insurance and payment details. It's unclear what Mom really wants at this point; I think she would rather be buried, but my aunt remembers her saying she wanted to be cremated. We won't be able to have an in-person funeral because of COVID restrictions, so when the time comes we'll have to arrange a virtual funeral service. It's unclear who will show up; most family members in Mom's generation have already passed, and our family isn't a very tight-knit group. Besides, I'm pretty sure most don't use the internet.
As for me, I guess the dominant feeling about all of this is...distance. I've known this time was coming for a while, and I also know that Mom will refuse to do the things she needs to do to improve her quality of life. She's never been a woman to make concessions to reality, so why start now -- especially since she's succumbing to dementia in her old age? Her death was an inevitability, and it feels like I've grieved her a long time ago.
I still remember the day she told me not to come back home after I came out. I remember her saying that it was a good thing we weren't closer, because if we were and I had told her I was gay she would have hated me. I remember her not letting me touch her because she "didn't know where my hands had been". How she sat me down and made me tell everyone in the family that I was gay whether I wanted to or not.
I remember knowing that I would never go home again, that I would never know what happened to my father, that my link to my family had been irrevocably severed. I mourned heavily. I ached with the loss. It was so bad I took a bunch of sleeping pills to just...drift off forever because I didn't want to feel so alone and unloved anymore. It took a lot of time -- dropping out of college, becoming a Lost Boy in Arkansas for years, finally finding love in R. when I least expected it -- but I managed to heal from that trauma. I don't know if I'll ever fully recover from it though.
Looking back at that time, I realize that I grieved the loss of my mother back then. Even though I call this woman Mom and still feel some responsibility for her, I don't think of her as my family. I tried back when my sister died, had thought it was our chance to patch things up, but learning she hadn't changed a bit since I left rekindled all of this anger I felt towards her. Eventually that anger was replaced with a weary resignation. There was no relationship to repair. She was just an obligation; I had to make sure she had a stable place to be and food was available. So I did that, talked to her when I could, and dealt with her complaints about where she's ended up.
Now at the end of her life, Mom is reaching out for comfort that no one's interested in giving her. She's alienated her family, any friends she's had, her fellow Jehovah's Witnesses. COVID restrictions in her nursing home has exacerbated her loneliness, even though she could make friends with other people there. She's just not interested. There's always a reason to dislike someone.
I don't feel anything about her death, yet. Well, nothing personal. I know she's in a lot of pain and trapped within a disintegrating mind, and I think her death will end a life filled with suffering. She's been through an awful lot, and I know this is not the end she wanted for herself. But it's also the end she's made. She disowned me, drove my sister to death by despair (drug overdose), forced my nephew to grow up with schizophrenia and no support or understanding. She's accused her caregivers of stealing from her, refused repeated offers for help, exhausted everyone who has tried to care for her. She has pushed away anyone who would be close to her right now.
I wish I could feel more compassion for her. I know that she's just as likely a victim of her environment as a perpetuator of generational trauma. She was born in 1933. She was a teenager through World War II; she was in her 30s during the Civil Rights movement; in her 50s when crack swept through Baltimore like a conflagration; in her 60s with Rodney King; George Floyd, Michael Brown, Breonna Taylor. She saw the genocidal racism of the Nazi Party supposedly vanquished, only to re-emerge on our own shores under the fascist incompetence of Donald Trump.
All of her life, the world has pushed her into a corner, told her she was less than, unworthy, didn't matter. She was trapped in a culture that told her she was wrong, all the time. She grew up poor, worked her ass off, survived an alcoholic marriage, raised her own child and adopted two more, all while making her own way. Her stubbornness is likely the very thing she needed to survive all of this.
But she saw anyone who wasn't with her as an enemy, and couldn't accept the differences and struggles of the people she was with. She couldn't support us when we needed her, and refused our support when it was offered. Now she's dying and seeking comfort from those of us who have been most hurt by her. I can't muster a connection or warm feeling towards her, only...like, basic sadness I feel for anyone in her situation.
Maybe if I'm actually in Baltimore for her final days, I'll feel different.
