A Dude's Guide. . . to everything

Good-Bye

by Richard

Saturday night at 5:15 pm, my Mom died.

My sister, one of my mom’s oldest friends and I were in the room with her. The spaces between her breaths grew longer and longer.

10 seconds.

30 seconds.

Finally, Mom took one final inhalation, exhaled and then died.

She made the world a better place just for having been in it. She helped more people than I will ever know and she did it without prompting, only doing it because she could.

My sister and I and all of our families are really feeling the weight of Mom’s passing right now. We lost her, but we have to believe that she is free now. Able to walk without a brace. In a place that has never heard of multiple sclerosis and where drinking wine doesn’t make it hard for you to get around.

And that’s the thought to which we have to cling. She spent her life getting us ready to get along without her. She wanted us to be prepared and, for the most part, we are. But it was one of those lessons we never wanted to put into practice.

Thank you, Mom, for always believing in us. I hope you won’t think less of us that your death is making us feel sorry for ourselves. But I promise it’s only for a little while. I think you’d forgive us these few days of tears, knowing we’ll still have years of laughter ahead of us.

Thank you, Mom, for that one final gift.

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The Way We Live It

by Richard

Mom continues to live her life according to a roller coaster, with the highs just a little bit less high each time and the lows a little bit longer each time.

On Tuesday night, Mom really enjoyed visits from a number of friends and family. They stayed until 10:30 at night with Leslie, talking and telling stories and laughing and generally having a great time. And so was Mom. Her eyes were following people around the room, she was smiling and nodding in all the right places and even managed to say a couple of words. It was a great night.

On Wednesday morning, Leslie had a difficult time waking Mom up at all. She just wanted to sleep and lay still in her bed.

And that right there is what makes this so difficult. We can see flashes of the old Mom, the old Catherine, the old Kaki (and she’d absolutely hate to hear me refer to her as old. She never thought of herself that way.), and then it just. . . goes away. And we’re left with the new reality.

We know that the best we can hope for is that Mom remains comfortable, happy in the knowledge that she made the world a better place just by being herself and that she can die knowing she is loved. And, yet. . . And yet. . . There are those flashes.

We can see exactly what it is we will be missing. And we know we’re don’t want to say good bye.

And this is beoming far too maudlin, dudes. Mom would hate this. Let me tell you one of my favorite stories about Mom.

This happened back in the days when dinosaurs ruled the earth and I had to walk five miles to school every day, uphill both ways, through the snow and avoiding alligators. I was in late junior high school, surely old enough to know better, and I was pushing all of Mom’s buttons. Every single one.

I can’t for the life of me remember what the argument was about, but it was ferocious. Finally, Mom had had enough. She reared back and was about to slap my face off. She tried. I, being the not-quite-manly man that I was, reached out and caught her hand. The blow never landed, but my smirk sure did.

I was about to make some joke about her not being big enough or tough enough to do anything to me and I was going to rule the place from then on out and I was going to –

Then Mom grabbed my wrist, turned around and flipped me right over her back and onto the ground.

I just lay there, stunned. I couldn’t believe what had just happened. Mom smiled down at me, shook her head sadly and then walked away.

Ever since, I’ve asked for a rematch. She’d just smile and shake her head. Heck, I even asked her for a rematch a few days after she went into Hospice. She just smiled and shook her head.

That’s my mom.

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The Meaning Of Life

by Richard

The grounds of Haven Hospice here in Gainesville are beautiful, dudes. Truly beautiful. Huge oaks tower out of the rolling, grassy fields. Draped in Spanish moss, the oaks provide a cool shade in which to relax on hot Florida days.

The rooms are large, with fold-out couches and fold-out chairs that make adequate, if not comfortable, beds. You’d never know these rooms were given over to the process of dying until you look into the beds that form the centerpieces of these spaces.

My mom lays in one of those beds. There are wood-like tops the the railings on either side of her bed, there to make sure she doesn’t roll off onto the floor during the night. Not that there’s a problem with that. Ever since the meningitis really hit, and the brain infection and the seizures, she hasn’t done much in the way of moving. Her forehead is her most expressive feature, wrinkling up in interest or surprise. It’s hard to tell.

Opposite her bed, where she can easily see when her eyes are open, there is a huge window looking out onto a beautifully green garden and patio. There’s even a bird feeder right outside the window. And that’s wonderful. My mom has always had a bird feeder at her house, delighting in watching finches, cardinals and hummingbirds alight on her various feeders. She loves the fragility and splendor of beauty on the wing.

For the most part, the birds outside Mom’s window go unobserved. Red-headed finches flitter down to take a quick bite and then fly off, but Mom doesn’t notice.

On the increasingly rare times when her eyes are open, Mom stares into infinity, her eyes focused on something we can’t see. I like to think she’s seeing something that makes her happy, something that lets her feel the peace she needs.

Yesterday morning, my sister and I came into Mom’s room and were greeted with a happy, “Good morning.” We talked for a few minutes before Mom gently closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep. And that’s where she spent most of the rest of her day, her breathing deep and fast.

For almost 40 years she fought every minute of every day to hold her multiple sclerosis at bay. She knew that if she stopped fighting, if she relaxed her vigilance for even a moment, it would be that much harder to pick up the fight. Her fight has entered its final round.

Yesterday morning, my sister and I told Mom how much we loved her and that we would support her no matter what she decided to do, if she wanted to keep fighting or of she wanted to relax.

“My time,” she said, “is up.”

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