Letting People Know Mom Might Be Gone

The e-messages I exchanged with Kathy and Suzy and sometimes shared with Jonathan don’t really reflect much of what was going on that was not Mom-related.  In February when Kathy and I took Mom to be “evaluated,” I was going through an evaluation of my own—the routine every-third-year one we instructors get at City College.  I was getting the results of my own evaluation (good, I’m happy to report) at the same time that Mom was moved to Aegis.  But in the fall, as we were preparing for her 90^th birthday, I was taking 15 units of courses on the Middle East on campus for my sabbatical. 

When we were attending to Mom and waiting to find out whether there was any hope, I had to let my instructors know why I wouldn’t be in class.  Their responses differed a lot.  Abdul was the most compassionate, explaining that he, too, had been in a situation in which he needed to consider a family member’s advanced care directive.  As a teacher (as well as a human being, haha), I hope I always remember to take time to express sympathy and not just get on with the business at hand.  Abdul’s warmth and concern meant a lot to me.

I also wrote to close friends to let them know.  Betsy, whose mother also had Alzheimer’s, was the only friend who had gone with me to see Mom, so I let her know and got a sympathetic response that prompted this one.

Dear Betsy,

                Thank you for your messages.  Yes, I’m sad, too, that Mom didn’t make it to her ninetieth birthday.  I thought that would be her “closing” and she was looking forward to it even though she sometimes qualified our plans with, “If I make it that long.”  I also think choking is not the dream death.  Remember how Peggy Doherty’s mother died, with three generations in the room for a New Year’s Eve celebration?  She just fell asleep.  (Please correct me if I’m wrong.  I collect good deaths, and I want to get the details right!)  Yesterday afternoon, the “hospitalist,” the doctor who makes the rounds, said, “It’s sad, but…” and we set up a time to meet with palliative care so that we can say goodbye to Mom, who probably hasn’t been with us since Saturday night. 

            Just the same, there’s something comforting about being with her in physical form even if she’s not really there.  I think our sweetest moments these past two months were when we’d lie down together on her bed and just cuddle and sing.  I really wanted to do that at John Muir, but there are too many tubes, and until yesterday, her body was too cold.  Still, I was able to hold her hand, stroke her hair, and imagine that she was there.  Today we’ll probably say goodbye.

                Thanks for your kind, reassuring words.  And thanks, too, for having gone to visit my mother with me.

                Love,

                Tina