Lots of religious days of importance are happening this week - including the start of Holy Week for Christians coinciding with Jewish Passover celebrations. As my mother died on Easter Sunday, it's been a conflicting time for me for many years.
Twenty-seven years ago this week, my family was everywhere emotionally. We'd received the devastating news a few weeks before that my mom's breast cancer had metastasized to not only her lungs and liver (which she knew about), but also to her brain. In addition to the struggle that comes with knowing someone you love has only a short time left in this physical plain, my dad insisted that my mom not be told about the new diagnosis, and my disagreement with his insistence led to a lot of additional tension.
Hospice was around, as was a day nurse that helped administer medications to mom during the day. Back then, adjuvant treatment included oral dilantin to help eliminate brain swelling. It had to be administered every six or eight hours, if I recall - plus an N-G tube had to be taken care of to make sure liquid nutrients could be given as well, as she was unable to eat. Add the steady stream of family and friends happening by to visit, and it's not hard to get that there was lots of movement in and around the house during Holy Week that year. But the push to aim for normalcy was strong.
I'd moved back home less than a year before from Philadelphia to deal with a career change/transition from photojournalism that involved deciding if graduate school was the direction to take. In between gathering GRE and grad program application information, I was also training for an outside chance at trying for another Olympic team. Yes, things were crazy busy.
Because mom was pretty immobile, changing her bed sheets was done the same way hospitals do it: by rolling her over instead of getting her out of bed. But a new Hospice bed delivery required that we get her up to actually change beds. During the relatively quick exchange, we helped her sit in the big comfy chair in the room, a plush recliner that happened to sit near a dresser. Not two minutes after she got into the chair, she glanced into the mirror and was pretty shocked to see that all of her hair was gone from the radiation she'd received in the hospital when her metastasis was discovered.
"Wow," she said as she rubbed her head. "I'm as bald as a cue ball!"
She didn't ask where her hair had gone or why, but I think she knew.
As the Olympic Trials were around the corner, I had decided to open my outdoor track season with a meet in New Jersey that seemed to be about an hour or so away. My mom was always my biggest cheerleader, traveling the country with me to meets through the years - both during and after college. She was actually more excited about the meet than I was.
The night before the meet was Good Friday. As lots of folks called to see how she was, I remember overhearing my dad telling folks he hadn't seen in years that my mom was acting a bit delirious, describing her as "talking out of her head." That totally shocked me, because I hadn't witnessed anything like that at all. She and I talked all the time, although she talked a lot less than she use to.
I remember giving her a manicure that night. While I painted, she talked a bit about the meet, asking if my uniform was clean and if my car was gassed up and ready to go. She said she wished she could go and watch me compete. While I painted my own nails the same color I told her she'd be with me in spirit, but she was already fast asleep. I took this picture of our hands together a few minutes later.
My event started relatively early so I had to leave on Saturday when it was barely light outside to make it on time. But it ended up being much further away than I'd thought and it seemed like it took forever to get there. The whole while I drove, I kept thinking about how horrible it would be if my mom passed away while I was stuck in my car trying to get to or from a track meet. Those thoughts and the very cold weather made me warm up, take just one jump (winning the event at a pretty low height), get back in my car and drive home as fast as I could.
As soon as I poked my head into the room, she smiled and wanted to know how the meet went.
"How did you do?" she said.
"It didn't go so well," I told her.
"Don't worry - you'll get 'em next time."
Those raspy words were the very last ones she ever said to me.
Around midnight, when I went in to give the dilantin, her breathing was very loud and labored. I knew instantly that I needed to get everyone up and here as soon as possible. I told my dad, then called our pastor. His wife told me he'd be right over.
We - my dad, grandmother, great aunt (grandmother's sister) and the pastor - sang and talked to her for what seemed like both an eternity and only a few minutes. Sometime after 4am, her breathing got even more labored and shallow. I was standing near her left leg and just kept rubbing the tiny spot above her knee. Seconds later, she took her last breath.
My mom passed away from metastatic breast cancer on 4/19/92 at 4:19am.
Folks around the globe were getting up and prepping to get to Sunrise Services to celebrate the resurrection of Jesus. I was calling the local funeral home to make arrangements for them to pick her up and prep for her funeral. I've always thought there was a strange irony in that.
This year the 19th is actually Good Friday, and I have been dreading it big time. Of course I remember the day she died, but because Easter Sunday isn't a fixed date on the calendar, the dates don't coincide every year. Memories seem to hit a smidge differently when they actually do, though.
In the years since, I've married, become a mother myself, divorced, been through all sorts of life changes and even married again. This is the first time I've ever written about those last days with her.Thanks for indulging the need to commit these thoughts and memories to virtual paper. I guess it was important for me to do this today and in this way.
May you enjoy your holy day celebrations with your families or with whomever you celebrate. I plan on trying my best to do the same.
Twenty-seven years ago this week, my family was everywhere emotionally. We'd received the devastating news a few weeks before that my mom's breast cancer had metastasized to not only her lungs and liver (which she knew about), but also to her brain. In addition to the struggle that comes with knowing someone you love has only a short time left in this physical plain, my dad insisted that my mom not be told about the new diagnosis, and my disagreement with his insistence led to a lot of additional tension.
Hospice was around, as was a day nurse that helped administer medications to mom during the day. Back then, adjuvant treatment included oral dilantin to help eliminate brain swelling. It had to be administered every six or eight hours, if I recall - plus an N-G tube had to be taken care of to make sure liquid nutrients could be given as well, as she was unable to eat. Add the steady stream of family and friends happening by to visit, and it's not hard to get that there was lots of movement in and around the house during Holy Week that year. But the push to aim for normalcy was strong.
I'd moved back home less than a year before from Philadelphia to deal with a career change/transition from photojournalism that involved deciding if graduate school was the direction to take. In between gathering GRE and grad program application information, I was also training for an outside chance at trying for another Olympic team. Yes, things were crazy busy.
Because mom was pretty immobile, changing her bed sheets was done the same way hospitals do it: by rolling her over instead of getting her out of bed. But a new Hospice bed delivery required that we get her up to actually change beds. During the relatively quick exchange, we helped her sit in the big comfy chair in the room, a plush recliner that happened to sit near a dresser. Not two minutes after she got into the chair, she glanced into the mirror and was pretty shocked to see that all of her hair was gone from the radiation she'd received in the hospital when her metastasis was discovered.
"Wow," she said as she rubbed her head. "I'm as bald as a cue ball!"
She didn't ask where her hair had gone or why, but I think she knew.
As the Olympic Trials were around the corner, I had decided to open my outdoor track season with a meet in New Jersey that seemed to be about an hour or so away. My mom was always my biggest cheerleader, traveling the country with me to meets through the years - both during and after college. She was actually more excited about the meet than I was.
The night before the meet was Good Friday. As lots of folks called to see how she was, I remember overhearing my dad telling folks he hadn't seen in years that my mom was acting a bit delirious, describing her as "talking out of her head." That totally shocked me, because I hadn't witnessed anything like that at all. She and I talked all the time, although she talked a lot less than she use to.
I remember giving her a manicure that night. While I painted, she talked a bit about the meet, asking if my uniform was clean and if my car was gassed up and ready to go. She said she wished she could go and watch me compete. While I painted my own nails the same color I told her she'd be with me in spirit, but she was already fast asleep. I took this picture of our hands together a few minutes later.
My event started relatively early so I had to leave on Saturday when it was barely light outside to make it on time. But it ended up being much further away than I'd thought and it seemed like it took forever to get there. The whole while I drove, I kept thinking about how horrible it would be if my mom passed away while I was stuck in my car trying to get to or from a track meet. Those thoughts and the very cold weather made me warm up, take just one jump (winning the event at a pretty low height), get back in my car and drive home as fast as I could.
As soon as I poked my head into the room, she smiled and wanted to know how the meet went.
"How did you do?" she said.
"It didn't go so well," I told her.
"Don't worry - you'll get 'em next time."
Those raspy words were the very last ones she ever said to me.
Around midnight, when I went in to give the dilantin, her breathing was very loud and labored. I knew instantly that I needed to get everyone up and here as soon as possible. I told my dad, then called our pastor. His wife told me he'd be right over.
We - my dad, grandmother, great aunt (grandmother's sister) and the pastor - sang and talked to her for what seemed like both an eternity and only a few minutes. Sometime after 4am, her breathing got even more labored and shallow. I was standing near her left leg and just kept rubbing the tiny spot above her knee. Seconds later, she took her last breath.
My mom passed away from metastatic breast cancer on 4/19/92 at 4:19am.
Folks around the globe were getting up and prepping to get to Sunrise Services to celebrate the resurrection of Jesus. I was calling the local funeral home to make arrangements for them to pick her up and prep for her funeral. I've always thought there was a strange irony in that.
This year the 19th is actually Good Friday, and I have been dreading it big time. Of course I remember the day she died, but because Easter Sunday isn't a fixed date on the calendar, the dates don't coincide every year. Memories seem to hit a smidge differently when they actually do, though.
In the years since, I've married, become a mother myself, divorced, been through all sorts of life changes and even married again. This is the first time I've ever written about those last days with her.Thanks for indulging the need to commit these thoughts and memories to virtual paper. I guess it was important for me to do this today and in this way.
May you enjoy your holy day celebrations with your families or with whomever you celebrate. I plan on trying my best to do the same.
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