What song would you sing about your mother?

I went over to a friend's house, a Guatemalan family, where we did karaoke along with other guests from Mexico (I speak Spanish fluently). The hosts didn't have any 'American' songs, so we just enjoyed a fun evening of robust singing of very sentimental and classic Spanish songs by the likes of the famous Latino idol Pedro Infante. These songs were as well known to the other guests as would be, for me, "Blowin' in the Wind", or "Big Girls Don't Cry" or "Somewhere Over The Rainbow". So we listened and joined in to the extent possible, and had loads of fun.

One song came along tenderly addressing the singer's mother, talking about how sweet and gentle and loving she is, how tender and giving she was. The singer adored his mother, missed her terribly. My misty-eyed Guatemalan friend spoke tenderly about her beloved mother, and showed me a picture on the wall of a warmly smiling and round mamacita.

And I felt so alone.

I really tried to imagine how that felt, to have such a tie, such a fondness. To be able to feel so warm and filled with rich and loving memories, to have felt so secure and nurtured. To miss one's mother so terribly. I felt like I was trying to imagine some foreign culture, some alien life. It's like there is an empty space in that part of my heart, a space that never got filled.  I grieve that loss.

My father died in 1993.  I have never missed him. I have never cried at the loss, and feel utterly no need to do so. I have never wondered, "What would he say about this or that?" Not once. It makes me sad to admit that... a loss for him, a loss for me. But, that is another subject.

Make no mistake ... I continue very engaged in her care. I tell her I love her, and I do. She has suffered some possible cardiac problems over the last few days, and I'm very worried and am talking to staff to ensure the best care, and I am going to see her to hold her hand. This post may sound cold, and that's not the whole truth of the matter. I feel tenderness toward her, and she expresses her gratitude and her desperate need for me. We laugh together and spend time together. We have a glass of wine and dinner each Tuesday. I pick up her room, and bring her treats.

If I were to compose a song about my mother, I could honestly say she had a sense of humor, she was intelligent, she was articulate, sharp and observant. An excellent speller and perfect grammar. I could write a verse about how she gave all she could, based on her own coolish upbringing. But I'm utterly unable to wax poetic about her sweet warmth or rich love or tenderness. It feels weird ... and very alone.

A close call, and a disappointment

Mom called me Sunday morning to say she had chest pain and a feeling that an elephant was sitting on her chest... a classic sign of a heart attack, though she did not have other signs (sweating, nausea, shortness of breath).  From some tests she had five or more years ago, she does have some blocked arteries, so a heart attack was possible, even probable.  This event lasted a couple of hours.  They gave her a pain pill (half a hydrocodone).

Of course, I went directly there. The staff at her home fussed over her, and called hospice. The hospice nurse came and evaluated her and stayed with her for a time. I was there, holding her hand and talking with her. I called my siblings and my daughter, who is a paramedic.

As she slowly improved, she perked up. She enjoyed the attention. It felt good for her.

After the event passed, and it was nearing time for going to lunch down the hall, she said she felt really disappointed. She couldn't articulate why, but she asked if I understood. I said I thought so, for two reasons. I thought she was probably disappointed that her life struggle had not ended that morning, that she needs to go on living a life that she is not enjoying.  She nodded vigorously.  I said that, secondly, she probably enjoyed the people fussing over her, showing they cared for her and would help her ... and that maybe she was disappointed that all that attention had passed.  She said yes, you do understand.

I guess we all enjoy some attention. Some fussing. A reminder that we matter, that we aren't invisible. That if we are nearing the possible end of our lives, there are some people who will break their busy routines and pay a little attention. Notice us. Show kindness. We are all hungry for a bit of love, especially in the face of our own death, which we must each face alone, profoundly alone.

To Shep and Buddy - and mom

(I had posted this several months ago, but it was too painful to see 'out there', and I pulled it from the blog.  However, I decided to repost it. I think it's time...)

We have two dogs that we rescued from a shelter, Shep (on the left) and Buddy. We got Shep about 7 years ago, and Buddy about 6 years ago, although the shelter could not tell us their ages when we adopted them.  Shep came to us as a wildly energetic dog; we got Buddy as a companion. Buddy, who had been in the shelter a long time before we came, was very subdued; they thought he was an elderly dog because he just seemed so weary.  We hoped they'd balance each other out.  Over the years and now, Shep has become more timid and clingy and tired and in pain, and Buddy has recovered completely and is the more energetic of the two, and may even be the younger one. He certainly acts like it. They have had a great life, with loads of love and a huge backyard.

The very very sad fact is that we can no longer care for them. I was laid off three years ago. We are selling the house to move into an apartment, where it will be impractical and unfair to care for two large dogs. Next year sometime, we expect another move where pets will be completely impossible.

Thursday we have an appointment with the shelter to bring them in for a 'surrender', (although we may have found a home for Buddy already; we hope...). It is a 'no-kill' shelter, as long as the dogs are assessed by their vet as being "medically adoptable".

And, I believe that Shep will not pass.

At that point, we have the option of taking Shep home, or allowing them to put him to sleep.  We just can't keep him any longer.  We can't keep this decision suspended when he has a medical problem is hanging over him. It's time.

So now, every time I see him, I see his fate. I know the likely day of his impending death.  Thursday. Yes, I try to cuddle and love him as much as possible now... but it feels so awfully sad. And extremely weird. And filled with guilt and regret.

And I think of human life.  What if we literally KNEW the day of our own impending death? How would we live it differently? What if I knew the exact date when my mother would die? What if she knew?

I know the adage about living each day as if we would die tomorrow (or, next week, month). Say what we need to say to those we love. Live fully. I get it, and try to do that.

But still, what if we really knew?

And I look at Shep, and just want to give love and cuddles and say, I'm so sorry, but very soon you won't hurt anymore. And ... in the back of my mind, I think of my mother, and the NOT-knowing-ness. I honestly don't know what to make of it, except to keep loving and showing kindness and being patient with her. That her own life force will eventually end of its own accord, with no interventions to either speed or delay death, and I hope, it will be peaceful. As will be Shep's.

The sad doll and hospice care

When I was a child, maybe 8 years old so about 1958, my parents got me a doll with a really sad face.  It was something like this photo. I tried desperately to make the doll happy, but obviously with inert plastic, I was doomed to failure.  I could not change the unchangeable. I was utterly doomed.

Flash forward about a half-century...

My mother got a visit from the director of the hospice program, Cathy, who was introducing a new hospice nurse. Later Cathy called me to say they'd like to start a couple of new interventions:  antidepressants, and bringing Mom (an artist) some watercolors.

For some reason, both suggestions really irritated me.

I tried very hard to not just shoot down the ideas. I didn't want to be perceived by hospice as a difficult family member.  Nor do I actually want to BE that difficult person.  And I knew my reaction was irrational.

But we've done this before.. both the antidepressants and the watercolors. For the antidepressants, she tried them twice and had side effects twice, and quit them. For the watercolors, we tried that repeatedly too, at her last assisted living facility where they moved the class to just steps from her room and she still chose not to participate. Then I set her up in her room with an easel, good watercolor papers, her own professional watercolors and brushes, even water. She just was not interested - even when I offered to do it with her.  It was just easier to sit in her chair and watch TV.

But now, to state it from the standpoint of my internal overreaction... the director of hospice has become engaged and will solve her problems. They will make a 91-year-old chronically negative narcissistic person into a happy productive artist with a life full of meaning. Of course, I know that is not the real intention, just an incremental improvement, but it felt like hubris, like a doomed effort.  Deja vu.

I really wondered... why did this irritate me so much?  I want the best for my mother. I truly do prefer her to be happy and enjoy what time is left. So why did this call bother me so much? I really knew this was about me, not about hospice, who are kindly doing all they can to bring comfort to their client.

Then it hit me... I spend my life trying to make my mother happy. My efforts fail. I am now 60 years old, and still trying to make her happy.  For instance, I asked her how was her night... "terrible!". I ask her why, what's wrong, but she can't say ... but just then tells me about a good dream. Then I ask her how the new lift chair is, and she says, I haven't decided yet.  I remind her that the chair helps her get up and be more mobile, yet she still refuses to say she likes it.  I take her to see autumn leaves, and she insists she can't see, although she can see the clock on the wall. And on and on.  I look for positive things in her life, and she looks for the dark side. The hopeless.

Trying to make the dolly smile.

So, if hospice can put her on pills, and if she gets even just a bit better, fabulous. If hospice brings in watercolors and my mother actually uses them even once or twice and enjoys it, wonderful.  The dolly will smile.  Maybe just for a moment.