I've been neglecting the blog here for a while. The thing is, I have so many thoughts swirling in my head lately, but can't seem to grab one and pin it down. So, Let's just start somewhere...
I'm sure you all know of the passing of my mother-in-law. It was a very hard thing to witness. We put her in hospice care about a month ago thinking, honestly, that she would be in hospice for about two years. We had just come to grips with the fact that Pam was finally in the final stage of her life, but thought we had a little more time to get used to it. That didn't turn out to be the case, but we're not complaining. We're not angry or confused, we're just grieving the loss of someone we love. Pam was a little off when I met her 13 years ago. She was funny, and she talked A LOT! She loved movies, music (especially The Beatles), and laughing. She was bigger than life and, even when she began to slip, brought such an upbeat, fun presence to the room when she walked in. It was something she lost the ability to do in her later years. It was difficult to watch her become a flower on the wall. Every once in a while she would have a good day though. She rattled a mile a minute as soon as we walked in the door. We had no idea what she was saying, but she was having a good time and we would laugh with her anyways.
I remember one visit a few years back. We could still understand most of what Pam was saying, although her mind was slipping fast. We were talking about our cats (two of which used to be hers). When we mentioned Sammie, she said, "Oh Sammie! She's the real cantankerous one." My husband just started laughing. I honestly had no idea what the word meant. Jason piped in with, "You can't remember Coen's name, but you can use the word cantankerous in a sentence." Pam just laughed at herself. Hey, you win some, you lose some. What else can you do? I now know what the word cantankerous means, and I will never forget.
Fast forward. I get a phone call about five minutes after getting home with my son from preschool. All the woman kept saying on the other end of the phone was "Pam's taken a turn for the worse, and it's different this time."
It's not the phone call I wanted to make to my husband. I dropped off the kids and met Jason and his grandparents at the nursing home. We spent the day watching Pam die. It was awful. I wanted to tell her goodbye, but didn't want to do it with all of those people in the room. I left around 5 to go to work. At that point her O2 level was at 60% and her body was shutting down. I thought I would get a call that night.
The call never came. I headed back to the nursing home around midnight. I wanted to say goodbye and knew I would be alone with her. I couldn't believe the sight I saw when I walked into her room. There in the bed was Pam, but not as I had left her earlier. She was all cleaned up, no secretions from anywhere, and she was pink - not the gray color she was last I had seen her. I touched her legs and they were so warm. Ther were like ice earlier. I couldn't believe it. Her O2 level was at 87% now. She was fighting. It felt good, and horrible all at the same time. I plugged in the CD player and popped in The Beatles Love album. I looped it to repeat for her all night while she slept, and sat and talked to her for about an hour. She, of course, didn't respond, but I don't care. She heard me. I was able to say the goodbyes to her I was afraid I had missed my chance for. It gave me such peace, and a sense of closure. I never asked, but I don't know if Jason got that closure. I don't tknow if he was able to be alone with her to do so. I understand the torment you live with when you miss your chance to say your final goodbye. I think he said them quietly to himself, and I hope he had the chance to say them aloud. I'm just too afraid to ask, incase it's not the answer I'm hoping for.
The phone call came at 8am the next morning. In my mind I had played the scenerio out a hundred times. I thought Pam would just go to sleep one night and die. That is essentially what she had done, but in my scenerio we didn't know the phone call would be coming. I had imagined in my head how I would have to break the news to my husband. I would have my mom come sit with the kids and I would drive the 10 minutes to his work and tell him face to face. It's not something you want to tell your husband over the phone. By telling him face to face I would be there to wrap my arms around him and give him the support he needed. It played out in my head so well. In reality, things hardly ever go as planned.
I was getting Coen ready for school. It was Muffins with Mom since it was the Friday before Mother's Day. He was so excited about it that I couldn't back out. I got the call and had no choice but to call my husband and tell him over the phone as I was hiding in the corner of the bathroom, using the whisper voice so the kids couldn't hear. He rushed to see his mother before she was taken away, and I wasn't there for any of it. He was comforted by the hospice nurse - a woman we had only met a couple of times- not his wife, who had planned it out so well in her head. I did my best to get to him as soon as I could, but as it is in some cases, your best isn't always good enough. Honestly, I couldn't have walked into that room no matter how much I wanted to be there for Jason.
We take comfort in Pam's passing. She was so young, and we were losing her more and more each day to MS. We prayed to God that she wouldn't have to suffer too long. We prayed that she wouldn't live to an old age. We prayed that when it was time for her to leave us, it would be quickly. We prayed that it would be without pain. We prayed for these things and more. All of our prayers were answered. Our Pam is Our Pam once again. We are sad, and our hearts are hurting. But we are grateful.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Monday, May 12, 2008
Remembering Life
It's now Monday night. I've been dragging my feet in writing this all weekend.
I've loved a lot of sick people, and many of them have died, but I've never watched a person die before. I pray none of you ever have to.
My mother-in-law, Pam, lost a 30-year battle with MS on Friday morning. I could say many things right now to remember her and honor her, but I'm not going to. Perhaps on another day when my heart can take it. Instead I will share with you my husband's words...
If you asked me what sticks out most in my mind about my mother when I was growing up, it would probably be that she yelled a lot, which might hold true for a lot of kids. Sometimes,
she was a real pain in the ass. As a parent myself, I now realize that was part of her job. And I'm thankful for it (in most instances, of course). The second thing that would come to my mind would be her infectious smile and the loud, sometimes bordering on obnoxious, laugh that inevitably followed that smile. The kind of laugh and smile that took up her whole face, hiding her eyes behind her rosy cheeks. Thankfully, it was the latter that became more
prominent later in her life. No matter what her state, she always found something to laugh at, even if it didn't make any sense to anyone else in the room.
The long and short of this is that my mother finally lost her long and grueling battle with Multiple Sclerosis Friday morning. It's been a very tough week, especially for me and my grandparents, as my mom went from doing ok (by which I mean she was able to understand
us and respond to us with enthusiasm whenever we visited, although we still couldn't understand what she was saying) to her death in less than a week's time.
It started with a phone call notifying me of an increase in fluids and medicine on Monday and progressed to a frantic phone call from the hospice nurse in the middle of the workday on Thursday. In what is undoubtedly one of the worst days of my young life, I sat with my
grandparents and my wife around my mother's bed as she gasped for air, her body sweating with the effort to breathe while her organs failed her. And I found myself praying to God that He would just end her suffering in whatever manner possible, although I knew deep down what that meant even if I couldn't or wouldn't admit it. Which led me to ask what kind of
human being could sit and pray for their parent to die, even if it was out of love and mercy. But, of course, that is now my burden to bear, one that others have endured in the past, and one that I will endure in the future.
My prayers were answered on Friday morning at 8 am. Her suffering was over.
So, why am I writing this? Not for pity. Please don't send your pity. I don't want it. First, I want you to call your mom and tell her how much you love her. Don't wait until tomorrow, or the one day out of the year that Hallmark tells you it's ok to be nice to your mother, the guilt of the holiday forcing you to tell her how you truly feel. I want you to call her whenever
you can, hug her a little extra tight the next time you see her. Tell her thank you. Write her a poem. Cook her a meal. Take her to the movies. Most of all, I want you to be thankful if your mother still has her health. I want you to be thankful that you may never know the pain of watching your mother find the only joy in her grandchildren is watching them play because she's too afraid to hold them for fear that she might drop them. Or the overwhelming joy she gets when she remembers their names, a feat that many take for granted, a feat that my mother found insurmountable the last few months of her life.
Second, I've come to the knowledge that many come to when facing the death of a parent, and I suppose that warrants me this time on my soapbox. Life is short. Life is too short. Get out from behind the television (advice that yours truly will find very difficult to follow) and do something every day that makes you feel alive. Play a sport. Go for a run. Ride a bike. Play with your kids (if you have them). Tell someone a joke. Spend time with friends and family. Laugh with them. Lay in the grass and stare at the clouds. Live life. Please God, live your life.
My mom and I had many difficulties in our time together. Her disease was a burden for many, her most of all. And I know that there are still others who have had worse times in this world, some who haven't even known their parents. Knowing this, I am so very happy for the time that I had with her, and I understand that it was a blessing. I only wish I had done more.
I hope this wasn't too preachy. Just needed to get some things off my chest. No matter what our fights and difficulties, I always loved my mother unconditionally. My only fault was not telling her enough.
Please, don't wait for tomorrow, and don't limit your affections for your mother on Mother's day. Appreciate every day you've had with her and every day to come.
And remember, live life.
With Love,
Jason
I've loved a lot of sick people, and many of them have died, but I've never watched a person die before. I pray none of you ever have to.
My mother-in-law, Pam, lost a 30-year battle with MS on Friday morning. I could say many things right now to remember her and honor her, but I'm not going to. Perhaps on another day when my heart can take it. Instead I will share with you my husband's words...
If you asked me what sticks out most in my mind about my mother when I was growing up, it would probably be that she yelled a lot, which might hold true for a lot of kids. Sometimes,
she was a real pain in the ass. As a parent myself, I now realize that was part of her job. And I'm thankful for it (in most instances, of course). The second thing that would come to my mind would be her infectious smile and the loud, sometimes bordering on obnoxious, laugh that inevitably followed that smile. The kind of laugh and smile that took up her whole face, hiding her eyes behind her rosy cheeks. Thankfully, it was the latter that became more
prominent later in her life. No matter what her state, she always found something to laugh at, even if it didn't make any sense to anyone else in the room.
The long and short of this is that my mother finally lost her long and grueling battle with Multiple Sclerosis Friday morning. It's been a very tough week, especially for me and my grandparents, as my mom went from doing ok (by which I mean she was able to understand
us and respond to us with enthusiasm whenever we visited, although we still couldn't understand what she was saying) to her death in less than a week's time.
It started with a phone call notifying me of an increase in fluids and medicine on Monday and progressed to a frantic phone call from the hospice nurse in the middle of the workday on Thursday. In what is undoubtedly one of the worst days of my young life, I sat with my
grandparents and my wife around my mother's bed as she gasped for air, her body sweating with the effort to breathe while her organs failed her. And I found myself praying to God that He would just end her suffering in whatever manner possible, although I knew deep down what that meant even if I couldn't or wouldn't admit it. Which led me to ask what kind of
human being could sit and pray for their parent to die, even if it was out of love and mercy. But, of course, that is now my burden to bear, one that others have endured in the past, and one that I will endure in the future.
My prayers were answered on Friday morning at 8 am. Her suffering was over.
So, why am I writing this? Not for pity. Please don't send your pity. I don't want it. First, I want you to call your mom and tell her how much you love her. Don't wait until tomorrow, or the one day out of the year that Hallmark tells you it's ok to be nice to your mother, the guilt of the holiday forcing you to tell her how you truly feel. I want you to call her whenever
you can, hug her a little extra tight the next time you see her. Tell her thank you. Write her a poem. Cook her a meal. Take her to the movies. Most of all, I want you to be thankful if your mother still has her health. I want you to be thankful that you may never know the pain of watching your mother find the only joy in her grandchildren is watching them play because she's too afraid to hold them for fear that she might drop them. Or the overwhelming joy she gets when she remembers their names, a feat that many take for granted, a feat that my mother found insurmountable the last few months of her life.
Second, I've come to the knowledge that many come to when facing the death of a parent, and I suppose that warrants me this time on my soapbox. Life is short. Life is too short. Get out from behind the television (advice that yours truly will find very difficult to follow) and do something every day that makes you feel alive. Play a sport. Go for a run. Ride a bike. Play with your kids (if you have them). Tell someone a joke. Spend time with friends and family. Laugh with them. Lay in the grass and stare at the clouds. Live life. Please God, live your life.
My mom and I had many difficulties in our time together. Her disease was a burden for many, her most of all. And I know that there are still others who have had worse times in this world, some who haven't even known their parents. Knowing this, I am so very happy for the time that I had with her, and I understand that it was a blessing. I only wish I had done more.
I hope this wasn't too preachy. Just needed to get some things off my chest. No matter what our fights and difficulties, I always loved my mother unconditionally. My only fault was not telling her enough.
Please, don't wait for tomorrow, and don't limit your affections for your mother on Mother's day. Appreciate every day you've had with her and every day to come.
And remember, live life.
With Love,
Jason
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Back to reality...
Did you think I had abandoned you? I didn't. It's just hard to get motivated after returning from vacation. Me and the hubby went down to Cabo San Lucas, Mexico a couple of weeks ago. It was great! We went with a group of about 15 adults to celebrate my mother-in-law's 50th birthday. NO KIDS!!! Did you catch that part? It was wonderful!
I went parasailing, we went on a pirate ship and snorkled, and walked, and walked and WALKED! We bartered (although not very well) with the locals in the market by the marina, ate lunch at The Hard Rock Cafe and partied at Sammy Hagar's CaboWabo Cantina. The CaboWabo is a great place for a party, but I wouldn't go there for the food. It wasn't disgusting, but it wasn't any better than what I could defrost in my own kitchen in about 10 minutes. Just trust me on this one.
I just wanted to let you all know I'm here, and I promise... I will be posting again soon!
I went parasailing, we went on a pirate ship and snorkled, and walked, and walked and WALKED! We bartered (although not very well) with the locals in the market by the marina, ate lunch at The Hard Rock Cafe and partied at Sammy Hagar's CaboWabo Cantina. The CaboWabo is a great place for a party, but I wouldn't go there for the food. It wasn't disgusting, but it wasn't any better than what I could defrost in my own kitchen in about 10 minutes. Just trust me on this one.
I just wanted to let you all know I'm here, and I promise... I will be posting again soon!
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