My mother died eight years ago at age 89. I'm recycling a post I wrote about her then in honor of Mother's Day. It's somewhat of a buzzkill, but full of love. And I'm fond of the discovery at the end.
There are many ways to die, most of them not pretty to watch. I watched my husband die of cancer, as did my kids, and none of us will ever forget what that experience gave and took away from us. Over the last several years, I have observed my mother's slow death from Alzheimers disease. I have been known to say, on more than one occasion, "What cancer does to the body, Alzheimers does to the mind." What I didn't know when I was saying that is that Alzheimers does things to the body, too. In my mother's case, her brain stopped telling her how to swallow. She would hold food in her mouth instead of swallowing it. By the time she died, she was a bag of bones.
But my intention here is not to rail against the ravages of Alzheimers. My intention is to talk about love.
My mother's decline was gradual at first. When she first entered the Alzheimers floor at The New Jersey Memorial Veterans Home at Menlo Park, she had lots of energy, cared about the clothes she wore, got her hair done in the salon (a luxury she never allowed herself before). She even attracted a boyfriend who became her roommate for awhile, a first for the home! (She said she didn't want to get married, though, because she didn't want to cook!) My sister and I made the long trip to visit Mom every other week. She knew who we were, she knew our kids when they came to visit, too, and we could talk about many things that she remembered and understood.
When decline is gradual, you aren't even fully aware of it. Somewhere over time, Mom's appearance became sloppier, her conversation limited, her recognition of her daughters hit-or-miss. Then there were the "skin tears," the falls, the stitches, and finally, the wheelchair. No more trips to the hair salon, and her hair was probably longer than it had ever been in her life. My sister and I upped our visits to every week-and-a-half. We sang songs with her. Memory clings to music longer than it does other things. Last Christmas, I urged Mom to sing an old favorite, "O Come, All Ye Faithful," with me. She remembered it, singing out, "O come, all ye baseball . . . " I will never sing that song any other way!
By the time my sister and I were visiting Mom every week, we were never sure what we would find. There were visits where she slept the entire time, our efforts at song and stories unable to rouse her. But other times, her face would light up in recognition at our approach, and our visit would be full of half-crazy conversation and lots of laughter. Mom would start a sentence, forget where she was going with it, and end it with a melody. She would hug us goodbye, tell us she loved us, and blow kisses as we walked away. We would always remark that if that happened to be our last visit, we would remember it as a good one.
At the point where Mom couldn't remember how to swallow, her doctor prepared us for the eventuality of her death. It was early November, and we wondered if she would make it to her birthday on the tenth, when she would turn 89. We now made the drive twice a week. On her birthday, she was still out in the common room in her wheelchair, still trying to eat, mostly ice cream. She told us, in her garbled speech, that she loved us when we left. Then came the Saturday night phone call when we were told she would not last the night. She lasted the night . . . and six more days. My sister and I were there every day.
Bones. Bones covered in onion-skin. Her dentures had been removed for some time now, making her mouth appear as a deep dark hole in the middle of her face. Had her nose always been crooked like that? Or had her face gotten so drawn, we were now just noticing it? Her eyes, when open, were watery, rimmed in red. Her long, thin hair was tied back, her tiny face dry and papery to the touch. My sister bought pretty nightgowns for the hospice nurse to change her into. Our daily visits to her bedside allowed us to pet her, talk of our love for her, tell her she could let go. She continued her labored breathing while I questioned a god that could cause her to suffer like that.
My mother died at 10:00 a.m. on Friday, November 19, 2010. I was by her side. I took a last look at that ravaged body, that hollow face, and walked away.
Despite Mom's physical decline, my sister held to her desire to have an open casket. I doubt that I will ever understand why, but I did not feel strongly enough about not wanting one to argue it with her. I provided the funeral home with pictures of Mom from a few years ago so that they could get it right. The mint-green dress, the pearls, the rosary beads were all handed over. I was assured that if we did not like how they made her up, we could ask that the casket be closed.
Arriving at the funeral home early for the viewing, we were ushered into the room with the casket. Mom's hair was nicely coifed, much like the style she'd always worn. Her face was filled out some, her eyes closed peacefully. But the woman in the box had someone else's mouth. Stretched wide, it turned her into someone else. My brother-in-law, trying to reassure me, said that if you look at the top of her face, it looked like her. It became apparent to me that no one was going to suggest closing the casket.
So I spent that evening and the next morning in a room with the woman in the box who was not my mother. I didn't break down in tears when I looked at her because I didn't know who she was. I said goodbye to the stranger, wished her well, and went home to think about my mother and where she might be.
It came to me a couple of days later. The face I loved was thin and hollow, the watery eyes rimmed in red, the nose crooked, the hair thin and wispy, the skin papery, the mouth a frightening black maw. The face I loved bore no resemblance to the woman in the box. How else can I say it? Love had taken me to a place where beauty is distorted. Love had taken me where that which is horrifying becomes beautiful. Love had taken me back to my first love: the face of my mother which was not a physical face at all, but rather, a face which transcended the physical.
I know which face I will think about when I think of my mother. And it is beautiful.
But my intention here is not to rail against the ravages of Alzheimers. My intention is to talk about love.
My mother's decline was gradual at first. When she first entered the Alzheimers floor at The New Jersey Memorial Veterans Home at Menlo Park, she had lots of energy, cared about the clothes she wore, got her hair done in the salon (a luxury she never allowed herself before). She even attracted a boyfriend who became her roommate for awhile, a first for the home! (She said she didn't want to get married, though, because she didn't want to cook!) My sister and I made the long trip to visit Mom every other week. She knew who we were, she knew our kids when they came to visit, too, and we could talk about many things that she remembered and understood.
When decline is gradual, you aren't even fully aware of it. Somewhere over time, Mom's appearance became sloppier, her conversation limited, her recognition of her daughters hit-or-miss. Then there were the "skin tears," the falls, the stitches, and finally, the wheelchair. No more trips to the hair salon, and her hair was probably longer than it had ever been in her life. My sister and I upped our visits to every week-and-a-half. We sang songs with her. Memory clings to music longer than it does other things. Last Christmas, I urged Mom to sing an old favorite, "O Come, All Ye Faithful," with me. She remembered it, singing out, "O come, all ye baseball . . . " I will never sing that song any other way!
By the time my sister and I were visiting Mom every week, we were never sure what we would find. There were visits where she slept the entire time, our efforts at song and stories unable to rouse her. But other times, her face would light up in recognition at our approach, and our visit would be full of half-crazy conversation and lots of laughter. Mom would start a sentence, forget where she was going with it, and end it with a melody. She would hug us goodbye, tell us she loved us, and blow kisses as we walked away. We would always remark that if that happened to be our last visit, we would remember it as a good one.
At the point where Mom couldn't remember how to swallow, her doctor prepared us for the eventuality of her death. It was early November, and we wondered if she would make it to her birthday on the tenth, when she would turn 89. We now made the drive twice a week. On her birthday, she was still out in the common room in her wheelchair, still trying to eat, mostly ice cream. She told us, in her garbled speech, that she loved us when we left. Then came the Saturday night phone call when we were told she would not last the night. She lasted the night . . . and six more days. My sister and I were there every day.
Bones. Bones covered in onion-skin. Her dentures had been removed for some time now, making her mouth appear as a deep dark hole in the middle of her face. Had her nose always been crooked like that? Or had her face gotten so drawn, we were now just noticing it? Her eyes, when open, were watery, rimmed in red. Her long, thin hair was tied back, her tiny face dry and papery to the touch. My sister bought pretty nightgowns for the hospice nurse to change her into. Our daily visits to her bedside allowed us to pet her, talk of our love for her, tell her she could let go. She continued her labored breathing while I questioned a god that could cause her to suffer like that.
My mother died at 10:00 a.m. on Friday, November 19, 2010. I was by her side. I took a last look at that ravaged body, that hollow face, and walked away.
Despite Mom's physical decline, my sister held to her desire to have an open casket. I doubt that I will ever understand why, but I did not feel strongly enough about not wanting one to argue it with her. I provided the funeral home with pictures of Mom from a few years ago so that they could get it right. The mint-green dress, the pearls, the rosary beads were all handed over. I was assured that if we did not like how they made her up, we could ask that the casket be closed.
Arriving at the funeral home early for the viewing, we were ushered into the room with the casket. Mom's hair was nicely coifed, much like the style she'd always worn. Her face was filled out some, her eyes closed peacefully. But the woman in the box had someone else's mouth. Stretched wide, it turned her into someone else. My brother-in-law, trying to reassure me, said that if you look at the top of her face, it looked like her. It became apparent to me that no one was going to suggest closing the casket.
So I spent that evening and the next morning in a room with the woman in the box who was not my mother. I didn't break down in tears when I looked at her because I didn't know who she was. I said goodbye to the stranger, wished her well, and went home to think about my mother and where she might be.
It came to me a couple of days later. The face I loved was thin and hollow, the watery eyes rimmed in red, the nose crooked, the hair thin and wispy, the skin papery, the mouth a frightening black maw. The face I loved bore no resemblance to the woman in the box. How else can I say it? Love had taken me to a place where beauty is distorted. Love had taken me where that which is horrifying becomes beautiful. Love had taken me back to my first love: the face of my mother which was not a physical face at all, but rather, a face which transcended the physical.
I know which face I will think about when I think of my mother. And it is beautiful.
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