It's been approximately 11 days since my mom died. She was 64. Although she was fragile
emotionally, she was physically in decent looking health or so it appeared from the outside. Somebody said to me recently "Even if you know or can prepare, you really can't prepare to know what it's going to feel like."
The last two weeks have been a rollercoaster ride to say the least. I woke up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom like I always do and went to get my phone so it would be by my bedside when the alarm rang in the morning. I don't like it close to me at night because I really do want to rest and the notifications, lights, temptation of getting sucked in if I do wake up is not as precious as shut eye especially as a parent of a 15 month old baby boy, currently called "terremoto" or earthquake by his parents; and "tropical storm" by his uncle and cousin.
I had a message on my phone from my dad "Call. Urgent," and another few missed phone calls from both my father and my brother. Although in my mind, I had always mentally prepared for it to happen this way with my parents, I wasn't ready. Living overseas, you hope that your parents just forgot about the time difference, or your credit card got corrupted.
You never actually believe that your going to get the call: Your mother is on life support. Her chances aren't good.
You call back, talk to your brother who has just arrived, who hands you to your father. All the while trying to remain calm: Do I need to get on a plane?
No, you just need to know. You might not get here.
I can tell I am not getting the whole story here. I probe. How bad is it?
The doctor said she has less than a 25% chance to live. But you probably won't make it.
Part of me is annoyed inside and also empathetic and also helpless. Is my father trying to guilt trip me that I live abroad in this moment? I know he wants his family near him in this challenging time but what can I do?
Just keep us in your thoughts. We'll talk soon.
I try to go back to sleep at 2:30 in the morning and my conscience is not letting that happen. I start looking at flights. The earliest I can get to Tulsa is 9 am on Thursday morning. It's now 3 am on Wednesday morning.
I try to go back to the last time we talked, making sure it was good. It was. Sunday, September 2nd in the afternoon. Pablo was cheerful. He was walking and tooling around, bouncing on the trampoline, laughing smile, which when the stars align like osmosis can transfer to my mom, and on this particular afternoon it did. She was smiles. We left planning to chat soon and she thanked me for the sunshine of my son.
I guess what I am trying to deal with is the fact that I keep on expecting her to come around the corner in this old house. I expect her to yell at me when I am cooking dinner to "Pay attention." I expect her to get annoyed with all of Pablo's toys floating around and ask me to "Put them in a central space." I expect her to cry at least once when I am on my visit and for her to tell me "how proud she is of me and how lucky I am in this life." Most of all, I want to snuggle next to her on the sofa with the dog, because I know that she loved this time when we all cuddled together, especially in her last few years.
And I am heartbroken. I am sad that my child will not get to know his grandmother. I am sorrowful that she will never physically see other grandchildren if I have them. I am sad that my dad's heart is aching like I have never seen it ache. In ways, it's beautiful to see his emotional vulnerability and in other ways it's absolutely terrifying and painstaking.
Most of all, I wish she would have known, that even though we were different, I so respect her for contributing to me and who I am today. I admire her for walking the Camino de Santiago at the age of 60 after shattering her heel. And I bend down to her for being a companion and life partner to my dad the last 20 years of their marriage which has definitely seen it's ups and downs. And it's not been until the last 10 days at home, without her, that I fully understand how much they need one another. Finally, I thank her for helping me feel so much again. Since Pablo was born, I sometimes feel like more of a robot than a person, and although this death is tragic, it has given me a newfound respect for life and made me feel more alive and whole than I have in awhile.
For now, I am floating through the world, a little more aware, a little more sad but also, a little more alive with this thought hanging on my hip.
emotionally, she was physically in decent looking health or so it appeared from the outside. Somebody said to me recently "Even if you know or can prepare, you really can't prepare to know what it's going to feel like."
The last two weeks have been a rollercoaster ride to say the least. I woke up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom like I always do and went to get my phone so it would be by my bedside when the alarm rang in the morning. I don't like it close to me at night because I really do want to rest and the notifications, lights, temptation of getting sucked in if I do wake up is not as precious as shut eye especially as a parent of a 15 month old baby boy, currently called "terremoto" or earthquake by his parents; and "tropical storm" by his uncle and cousin.
I had a message on my phone from my dad "Call. Urgent," and another few missed phone calls from both my father and my brother. Although in my mind, I had always mentally prepared for it to happen this way with my parents, I wasn't ready. Living overseas, you hope that your parents just forgot about the time difference, or your credit card got corrupted.
You never actually believe that your going to get the call: Your mother is on life support. Her chances aren't good.
You call back, talk to your brother who has just arrived, who hands you to your father. All the while trying to remain calm: Do I need to get on a plane?
No, you just need to know. You might not get here.
I can tell I am not getting the whole story here. I probe. How bad is it?
The doctor said she has less than a 25% chance to live. But you probably won't make it.
Part of me is annoyed inside and also empathetic and also helpless. Is my father trying to guilt trip me that I live abroad in this moment? I know he wants his family near him in this challenging time but what can I do?
Just keep us in your thoughts. We'll talk soon.
I try to go back to sleep at 2:30 in the morning and my conscience is not letting that happen. I start looking at flights. The earliest I can get to Tulsa is 9 am on Thursday morning. It's now 3 am on Wednesday morning.
I try to go back to the last time we talked, making sure it was good. It was. Sunday, September 2nd in the afternoon. Pablo was cheerful. He was walking and tooling around, bouncing on the trampoline, laughing smile, which when the stars align like osmosis can transfer to my mom, and on this particular afternoon it did. She was smiles. We left planning to chat soon and she thanked me for the sunshine of my son.
I guess what I am trying to deal with is the fact that I keep on expecting her to come around the corner in this old house. I expect her to yell at me when I am cooking dinner to "Pay attention." I expect her to get annoyed with all of Pablo's toys floating around and ask me to "Put them in a central space." I expect her to cry at least once when I am on my visit and for her to tell me "how proud she is of me and how lucky I am in this life." Most of all, I want to snuggle next to her on the sofa with the dog, because I know that she loved this time when we all cuddled together, especially in her last few years.
And I am heartbroken. I am sad that my child will not get to know his grandmother. I am sorrowful that she will never physically see other grandchildren if I have them. I am sad that my dad's heart is aching like I have never seen it ache. In ways, it's beautiful to see his emotional vulnerability and in other ways it's absolutely terrifying and painstaking.
Most of all, I wish she would have known, that even though we were different, I so respect her for contributing to me and who I am today. I admire her for walking the Camino de Santiago at the age of 60 after shattering her heel. And I bend down to her for being a companion and life partner to my dad the last 20 years of their marriage which has definitely seen it's ups and downs. And it's not been until the last 10 days at home, without her, that I fully understand how much they need one another. Finally, I thank her for helping me feel so much again. Since Pablo was born, I sometimes feel like more of a robot than a person, and although this death is tragic, it has given me a newfound respect for life and made me feel more alive and whole than I have in awhile.
For now, I am floating through the world, a little more aware, a little more sad but also, a little more alive with this thought hanging on my hip.
My heart and love is with you my dear friend.
ReplyDeleteWhat a beautiful way to express your mother and your process. All my continued thoughts. Thank you for this. Looking forward to following your writing .
ReplyDelete