Mom came home.
It took lots of reasoning argument with the hospital officials, and then lots of signing of paperwork meant to protect the hospital from suit should my mother die as a result of her removal, to get her there.
The ambulance drivers wheeled her into the house and helped us move her into the rented hospital bed arranged on the sun porch, Mom’s office and the heart of the home.
It was the right thing to do for Mom. It was obvious that she was in an extraordinary amount of pain, but I could see that she could now relax and concentrate on dying.
The next three days were filled with hiring and firing night nurses, rallying resources from friends and phone book, crushing up little bitter blue pain pills and feeding them to Mom on a spoon. I learned about sponge baths and Hospice and portable potty chairs.
People made pilgrimage to the house bringing food. My mother was a celebrity of sorts among her friends and gift shop customers and the house was a constant stream.
Everybody felt awkward. Some people overcame those feelings by leaving immediately after saying hello and goodbye to Mom. Some people lingered trying to absorb the last bits of Mom’s presence. I was most comforted by her friend Doe, who took position in the kitchen and kept the sink cleared of dishes, kept the casseroles and hams positioned in the refrigerator that was now full to bursting, and kept the sympathy cards all in one place, with their envelopes attached.
My father could only sit and stare into space. His grief was something of the abyss.
On July 23, 1981, at 4:10 in the afternoon, Mom died.
Good job, getting her out of the hospital.
It certainly Wasn’t Done, back then, but I am sure you were right. It was what was best for her. And I bet it was much better for your dad, too, to have her out of there. To realize that he had some control over that teeny part of the situation, at least, and could help her be less uncomfortable by helping get her home……
Our whole experience of death has been radically changed by modern sanitation and modern medicine. And our smaller families and our departure from our natal villages (it’s not the same if it’s people we don’t know…..).
We don’t have as much personal experience with it, so we don’t know the routine.
Not knowing the routine means we are making it up as we go, and that is surely harder than when everyone “knows what to do.” I know there have been times when I visited someone who was very ill, when I was extremely awkward and weird. I couldn’t get over how apalled I was …..
I work on remembering it’s not All About Me, and that the fact that I may be appalled is … irrelevant … but applying that to my behavior is non-trivial. !!!
I wonder if something like this may have been afflicting some of your mom’s friends……………
(I need to remember not to make long and pithy responses in wordpress using IE. The textarea is of a nearly infinite width, with no way to scroll over and see what’s over there. I hope this isn’t too incoherent as a result of me not being able to see the right-most 25% of what I am writing!)
Comment by Vicki in Michigan — June 11, 2009 @ 7:00 am
Thanks for sharing this poignant and personal story. Despite all your own fears, you kept your mind clear and did what was best for you our mom and for your dad. God bless.
Comment by lone grey squirrel — June 11, 2009 @ 9:00 am
Vicki,
What you said about “…our departure from our natal villages”, and “not knowing the routine” is so totally true.
Not that many years ago, families in a rural agrarian society kept their families in one place, a la , Little House On The Prarie. Dying was more a thing to be expected, and people did have more experience with it, I imagine. Same with childbirth.
I was very understanding of the different reactions people had. Mom did not look like Mom to me, and definitely not at all like Mom if you hadn’t seen her on a regular basis.
What I found strange were the different levels of “requirement” people felt to visit, even if it was overtly obvious that they didn’t want to.
I know I wanted to avoid the whole thing, if given a chance.
For anyone dealing with death, be it sudden or prolonged, I have to say, find Hospice!!! I don’t know much about it in its current form, but it was a lifesaver for me emotionally and physically at that time. These were volunteers, surragate “aunties” (or uncles), if you will, that had recently experiencd a close death. Having gone through it, they had a brand of comfort to offer the living and the dying that I found most reassuring.
And fie on having trouble writing in the funky box. I didn’t know it was a pain. Your comment makes plenty sense on this end.
If you ever want me to ‘edit’ after the fact, I can do that. I have the button!
Comment by leslie — June 11, 2009 @ 9:46 am
Thanks, Lone Grey Squirrel. I didn’t have a clue what I was doing. In the end, I think it was the right thing.
Comment by leslie — June 11, 2009 @ 10:02 am
Leslie,
I’m only going to comment here, once.
I read through the entire thing, from the first phone call that your father made.
How do we ever make it through these things?
Do we just keep going, somehow, day by day, doing whatever must be done?
My mother has breast cancer.
My sister, two years younger than me, is taking care of her and is the wiser of the two of us.
We are battling now.
It is a strange comfort to read what you’ve written, to know that you are on the other side of that. That somehow, we find ourselves there, at that point, sometime in the future.
Thank you more than I can ever, ever say, for posting this. It is incredible.
Scarlett & Viaggiatore
Comment by Wanderlust Scarlett — June 11, 2009 @ 2:53 pm
Sweet, sweet Scarlett,
It is sad beyond words to hear that your mother is sick.
Would you care to send your email address to me? I would be more than happy to email back and forth a bit if you’d like.
leslie at lesliehawes dot com
Comment by leslie — June 11, 2009 @ 5:05 pm
Leslie, thank you for this loving story. Hugs to you.
Comment by Jo Castillo — June 13, 2009 @ 9:20 pm
Leslie,
Short story with deep impact. The last days of my mothers passing came to my memory while reading this. She never did return home although that was her last desire, nor to our family, neither to her fathers house as a child…The last thing she eat was an icecream I could catch for her by climbing through the hospital window. I remember how bright the cherry blossom was blooming in front of her dying room. I was wondering about beauty and sorrow coming together..
Jos
Comment by Jos van Wunnik — June 15, 2009 @ 3:32 am
And hugs to you, Jo! xoxox
Comment by leslie — June 15, 2009 @ 5:21 pm
Hello Jos!
I love the image of you climbing through the window with the ice cream!!
I think ice cream says love!!!
Comment by leslie — June 15, 2009 @ 5:23 pm
I buried mom Dad and Grandma all inside a year. Dad was the last to go….we brought hi, home from a VA hospital where he had been for almost 10 years and he died two weeks later on Thanksgiving Morning. anyone that can get their folks home, or at least closer, ought to think about it.
Its a real blessed thing to do.
Comment by bulletholes — June 16, 2009 @ 6:31 am
Leslie, I found this whole story…I don’t know…All I can say is that I have an idea how it must have been for you. I don’t know how you could put all that down on a weblog. Still, it was very moving and I admire you for it.
Comment by Dan — June 16, 2009 @ 3:35 pm
Hi Bullets,
That was a triple difficult time for you. I really can’t imagine.
It was very clear to me that Mom needed to be home. It may not be so clear for others having to make that decision. I am a proponent of letting everybody know what you want ahead of time so others don’t have to second guess.
xoxox
Comment by leslie — June 17, 2009 @ 1:19 pm
Hi, Dan. It sort of surprised me that I felt compelled to write about it. Being able to blurt it all out on the blog has really helped me.
I know that my experience isn’t unique to me. I think plenty of families go through things similar.
I just thank you all for reading it.
Comment by leslie — June 17, 2009 @ 1:24 pm