Sunday evening, some 44 hours ago as I write this, I watched my mother’s body die.
No, this is not a plea for sympathy, nor a search for condolences. In some ways, perhaps, it is an apology of sorts. I have, despite my efforts to avoid it, been somewhat short with some people here, and elsewhere. Maybe my story will help you to understand why, and hopefully allow you to forgive me if I’ve wronged you.
My mother has been “dying” for the last ten years, her mind being slowly eaten away by Alzheimer’s. Bits and pieces of her life were taken from her, slowly and inexorably, destroying the most recent memories first, then working on older ones, precious memories that she should have been able to hold close. Over the past two years, perhaps a little more, her body also began to decline. With that went any freedom to go where she wished, do what she wished, even though her wishes were like a morning mist, quickly burned away by the fires in her brain.
My father has been a rock for her over those ten years and, especially over the last two, has been physically draining his own reserves in an effort to make her feel safe and comfortable. My sister and I helped as much as we could, sometimes more than we should, and our other siblings helped as well. We had plenty of emotional support, and no familial bickering about whether this or that was the right thing to do. We decided, they agreed to it. And if we asked, they helped.
The last four months were the worst, gradually getting even more horrific and frustrating. Many times my mother would not remember who my sister was, then me. If we bore some resemblance to an old family member, she might call us by that person’s name, but many times she had no clue who we were. If you haven’t experienced it, you cannot understand the emotional pain you experience when your own mother asks, “Who are you?” And ten minutes later she asks it again!
Three months ago we moved my parents into a senior community, into an independent living apartment. My father could still deal with her, but the apartment eliminated some of the risks she would have at home: elevators instead of stairs; nursing care only seconds away, instead of thirty minutes. The nutritional meals they were getting, along with some exercise classes, helped them both physically. But more and more of my mother’s mind continued to slip away.
Any time we went to visit, my mother would always ask, “Can you take me home?” When asked, she couldn’t say where “home” was, or how she would recognize it. She just wanted to go home. Even when she had been at home, she didn’t know it was home, so there was no where we could have taken her to ease her mind. There just was no “home” for her.
It was equally wrenching when she would say, “I need help. Can you help me?” We would assure her that we were doing all that we knew to help her, and she would accept that. For a while. Then she would start again. “Will you take me home? Can you help me?”
As bad as this sounds, though, it was far worse watching her with my father. These last several months she began forgetting him, too. Oh, she generally knew his name, and knew he was the nice man who was taking care of her, but she couldn’t comprehend that they’d been married for 62 years, or that she herself was 82 years old. Watching his face fall as she asked him who he was is the most helpless feeling I ever hope to experience. Seeing him break down in tears from the frustration and the pain was almost worse than watching my mother vanish within her own mind.
With no other choice left, we had arranged to have my mother moved to the skilled nursing wing of the community on Monday the 9th. We hated this choice, as it would separate my parents for the first time. And the last. Dad would be able to visit, but he wouldn’t be able to spend the night. And he had to rely on strangers to give his beloved wife the care she needed. But it had to happen. He just couldn’t do it anymore, even with our help.
As it turned out, though, we never had to separate them. Two days before the move, on Saturday, Mom went into the hospital. Her sodium levels were way down, she was marginally dehydrated, and hallucinating. Over the next three days they managed to get her sodium and potassium levels back up, which reduced the hallucinations somewhat, but physically and mentally she continued to deteriorate. She barely ate, certainly not enough to sustain her, even in her bedridden state. She drank some, but the IV’s made that relatively unnecessary. By Wednesday she was no longer able to take her pills orally and the doctors were working on alternatives, when my father asked, “What’s the point? If you can’t fix her brain, why bother with her body?” That was the beginning of the end.
On Friday my sister called in a priest to administer Last Rights, since Mom and Dad were Catholics. (And for those of you who know me, no, I did not make a fuss. I went along with it, for my father’s and my sister’s sakes. By then my mother didn’t know what was happening.) The word went out to the extended family: the end was near.
One of Mom’s sisters managed to get here on Sunday afternoon. She and Mom were always close, and she was one of the few who had bothered to visit my parents over the last ten years. Three hours later, as we kept watch over her, I saw my mother’s body die. She took several deep breaths and stopped. This had been going on for a couple of hours, but this time she didn’t start back again. I looked at the spot on her neck which had been fluttering with her pulse for those last hours, and it wasn’t moving. I placed my fingers on it and could feel nothing. She was finally home.
We are all saddened by her departure, of course. We will miss her. We HAVE missed her, for many months. My siblings and I have a new focus now, making sure that Dad gets through this. He’s still healthy, still has most of his faculties (though it’s easier to beat him in Cribbage, now), and still has a large family that loves him. Even as early as yesterday, less than 24 hours after her death, he seemed more relaxed, more alive, than he has in a long time. It’s as though a huge weight has been lifted from him. My sister and I feel about the same. There is grief there, no denying it, but there is also relief.
Now, those of you who know me from here have to know that I cannot end this without making some kind of statement about religion. I am an atheist, and if anything, this experience has shown me that there cannot be a loving god hovering over us. No loving god, regardless of some nebulous “plan”, could allow what happened to my mother. And many other mothers and fathers around the world. No amount of prayers could have helped us keep her safe. No amount of faith could have taken away her fear.
Yes, fear! As we have gone through the apartment, we are finding pieces of paper tucked away in books, magazines, behind pictures. Some have writing on them, little things she might have been trying to hang on to. But most of them have only a single word: Help!
My mother knew things weren’t right, knew that she should be able to remember things that she couldn’t. She asked us for help, constantly, and we know we did all we could. It wasn’t enough. It could never have been enough. That hurts most of all.
My mother died weeks ago, perhaps months ago, her mind eaten away by her disease. On Sunday we watched her body die.
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As I said at the beginning, I’m not asking for sympathy or condolences. This was the best outcome for both of my parents. We will heal and things will get back to normal, almost. This is intended more as an explanation, and perhaps a catharsis. If I’ve made you cry, don’t feel too badly. I’ve cried writing this. And I needed it.
