It’s not the sort of phone call you want to get while you’re in the middle of a WoW raid. I normally don’t even answer the phone, just let it go on the machine, but something told me to listen to see if the person was leaving a message. It was my parents’ neighbor, telling me my mom had been rushed to the hospital, wasn’t doing well, and I should talk to my dad. She handed him the phone. He was falling apart–which told me a lot, because my dad *never *falls apart. Did he want me to come down? No, he said, not yet–they didn’t know much and there wouldn’t be any point until they had more information. He promised to call back the next day.
Next day he calls back–it’s bad. Mom had been having some problems, but they were mostly physical (horrible knees, and too proud to use a wheelchair/walker/etc.) and mental (short-term memory loss, though her long term memory was as good as ever). This was neither–they had found tumors on her liver and in her pancreas with the ultrasound, but they couldn’t do biopsies because she was on blood thinners which had been made more effective by the fact that she had eaten very little over the past few days (Dad had done his best, but she’d always had a light appetite). He says if I want to see her, I should come down.
We have seven cats and a gecko. Couldn’t leave them alone for an indefinite time, so called the place where we normally board the cats while on vacation and fortunately they could take them, while a friend took the gecko. Several hours later we’re on the road and heading south. Stay overnight in San Luis Obispo and get up early the next day (the Fourth of July, as it happens) and make the rest of the trip down.
My dad’s a little better but still really frazzled. They’d been married for 47 years. They were quite the odd couple (he’s quiet and nerdy, she’s extroverted, bossy and mysterious) but they made it work. We go to the ICU to see her. I barely recognize her, a tiny little figure in a bed with all sorts of things attached to her. She doesn’t have her dentures in, which adds to the lack of recognition. I’m able to talk to her a bit–she doesn’t have much to say because she’s quite out of it, but she does recognize me. We stay till the end of visiting hours and go home.
Next day we’re back, and she’s worse. Doctor says she’s got blockages in her bile ducts. They put a stent in to try to alleviate it, but it isn’t working. They still can’t do any biopsies until they can thicken up her blood, but they’re going to try to do another stent. They take her off to do that–they say the actual procedure will take 20 minutes but she’ll be out of it for awhile. We decide to head out to lunch. Before we do, a nice lady comes to talk to us. She’s from the palliative care team. She wants to meet with us after we get back. Spouse and I look at each other–we know what that means, but neither of us say anything.
Back from lunch and they take us upstairs. Mom’s still not out of the surgery, btw. We meet with the team: a nurse, a doctor, a social worker and a chaplain. Nobody really mentions the elephant in the room. They ask us what she’d like, what she’d want. The doctor is very kind, and manages to say “there’s nothing more that can be done” without saying it outright. He says there really isn’t a point in doing a biopsy since even if they find cancer they won’t be able to fix it, and other cell markers indicate that it is. Plus, they couldn’t get the second stent in after two hours of trying. They leave us with their cards and tell us to call if we need anything.
Back downstairs, sitting in the waiting room while we wait for her to come back. Various family members have been showing up, including my dad’s sister whom he gets along very well with. I’m glad she’s there. Funny, even though I’m in my mid 40s I still feel like a kid in this situation. Finally we get to go back in and see her again–she looks worse. Very yellow/jaundiced from all the bile. She’s intermittently conscious but I don’t think she recognizes anybody anymore. We stay for the evening. Spouse and I have to go back the next day–we say our goodbyes, both to the family and to Mom. I don’t know what else to do.
Dad calls back on Thursday the 7th to let me know she’s gone. We talk for awhile. He’s falling apart a little again, but he’ll be okay. I know he will. I ask if there’s anything I can do, and he says no, not really. He just wants to be by himself for awhile. The memorial service will be later in the month, and we’ll go back down for that. He asks me if there’s anything of hers I want–I tell him probably a few little keepsakes, but not much. Mom’s and my tastes are wildly different (I go for cyberpunk and dragons, she liked teddy bears, Elvis, and Thomas Kinkade prints).
So it’s over, and suddenly I’m momless. I knew it would happen eventually. Of course it would. Nobody lives forever. But it was quite sudden and quite unexpected, and over in what seems like an instant. And I haven’t cried. It feels so strange to be so clinical. I’m sad, sure. Of course I am. My mom and I had a very odd relationship. I loved her and she loved me. She was a good mom. But we had a hard time connecting due to our complete differences in interests and priorities. Still, I’m glad I got to see her for a last time when she and my dad came up to see us in May. She was still Mom then, even though she could barely get around.
Everybody treats me like I should be devastated, and I feel guilty for not being. Anybody ever experience that? I wonder if it will hit me later, or if I’m just going to be quietly sad with intermittent bouts of “oh, no, I’ll never get to do X with her again, or hear her say X.” I dunno. I wish I did.
Let us know how you’re doing.