Honor thy Mother

My mother, Barbara, was a complicated woman.

I guess we all are.

Born in the 1940s, raised in an abusive home, and bounced through the foster care system, she learned very early in life that she was on her own. During my life with her, my mother spoke very little about her life growing up. She spoke very little about much, except to express disappointment or rage. She and my father were married for about a decade (second marriage for them both). After that marriage dissolved, Mom never re-entered the dating scene. Or any scene, outside work. With a lot of life experience, it’s now much easier for me to sympathize with her cold and distant nature. If we put up walls, we’re protected. For Mom, those walls allowed her to become strong, determined, successful… and alone.

When I, the youngest of seven, had moved out, Mom decided she needed a change, and moved from my hometown in Central NY down to North Carolina, the state where three of us, her kids, were scattered at the time. She wasn’t one to act on a whim, so she’d secured employment and an apartment prior to her move. This move turned out to be the best thing she’d done for herself. The people she worked with treated her with respect, and she soon settled in as a member of the firm’s “family” for nearly 18 years. I eventually moved to the same city she lived in. I’d started my own family, and lived about 2 ½ miles from her. We were very different people, yet very much the same. So, the contemptuous relationship we’d always had, remained. And she became (mostly Grouchy) Gramma to my kids.

She lived with us briefly, in our tiny apartment, in 2006-2007 as she battled cholangeocarcinoma (cancer of the bile duct). There wasn’t much information on this particular cancer at the time, but there was one very real statistic. There was zero data for a percentage of life expectancy after 5 years. Mom chuckled at the idea that some statistic had anything to do with her determination. That says everything about my Mother I always knew to be true. She was the embodiment of strength. And, I always envied that. So, I nursed her through her post-surgical care, took her to her chemotherapy and radiation appointments, and celebrated with her when she rang the bell after her final radiation treatment, and entered remission.

In 2011, I took Mom in for her annual CT scan. This was the 5 year scan. The scan we didn’t dare mention up until that day. We went in, she had her scan, and we left. We sat on pins and needles until her oncologist called her with the results. “I can’t tell you how excited I am to let you know that you’re cancer free!” he said. “I can’t believe you had any doubt!” Mom replied, as she smiled. Because, of course she’d say that! When she hung up the phone, she looked me square in the eye and said, “No data will ever tell me when I’m ready to stop living!” Can’t really argue with that.

In 2015, my then-husband and I bought a house to accommodate my mother coming to live with us. She was in her 70s, though only her body showed any signs of age. Still sharp as a tack! The following year, Mom moved in. We’d spent several months renovating the basement into a two bedroom apartment that she deemed suitable. She was close enough to not have to wait for help, should she need any. Yet, she had the privacy and independence she insisted she’d keep. She was content, and that’s what mattered. Okay, looking back, that’s what mattered. At the time… well, it was just as you can imagine, living with an overbearing and demanding mother. Fun!

Anyway, she was soon settled in. And before we knew it, the time came for her 10 year scan. The final scan. THE scan. We went, then came home, and Mom went on about her business because this was just a formality for her. What’s the big deal? She’d had a clear scan for the last 9 years. So, imagine the pure shock when her oncologist called and told her that she was no longer in remission. “Thank you.” she said, softly, then hung up the phone. Mom didn’t say a word to me, but I knew. She asked to be left alone, and I obliged. The next few weeks were filled with phone calls, emails, doctor’s appointments, and lab visits. Meanwhile, I’m raising two kids, one of whom has very special needs. Not to mention barely holding on to a bad marriage. But, Mom was facing cancer that metastasized to her liver, lungs, and bones. In typical Mom fashion, she was determined to beat this. She’d never faced a challenge she couldn’t overcome, and wasn’t about to start then. Week after week she’d get blood drawn to see if her platelet count was high enough for her to receive chemotherapy. She eventually agreed to a port-a-cath, because the veins in her arms and hands would no longer allow the intrusion of a weekly jab. She had labs drawn for months, but only received 3 treatments. Her determination was no longer enough as her body became weak and frail, and unwilling to cooperate with her plans to beat this thing.

On a cold morning in January 2017, Mom and I returned home from her lab appointment. And I sat across from her and pulled all the brave I could muster from deep inside and said, “Mom…do you really want to keep doing this?” She looked at me, stunned. I could hear her voice in my head asking who the hell I thought I was talking to. I stated my case, we argued, a lot. I asked her to think about it, and when we met with her oncologist the following week, we could ask his opinion as well. She agreed to see what her doctor thought about it. But, still, her fighting spirit had already made up her mind.

Just to give you an idea of this physician and his belief in the power of not just medicine, but of the mind. my Mom was the only patient he was treating at the time. He’d been a board member for the last few years, but agreed to treat Mom because he remembered her, and believed that if anyone could beat this again, it was her!

I remember sitting in the exam room with Mom, when Dr. L comes in and greets us. “Barbara,” he said. “How do you feel things are going?” Mom took a breath, ready to begin the speech she’d obviously rehearsed, repeatedly, in her head. But, instead, she paused. “You tell me.” she said. He responded softly “I know how determined you are, and how much we both believed this would be another victory for you… Unfortunately, your body is telling us it’s not able to match your will to fight.”

I’m sure it was just a moment or two, but I doubt any of us in the room were prepared for the overwhelming silence that seemed to last an eternity. I don’t think Dr. L was any less impacted delivering that prognosis, than either Mom or I was receiving it.

We discussed her care options, and made a good plan. Before leaving the exam room, Dr. L asked Mom if she had any goals for herself. “I’d like to make it ’til my birthday,” she said, in an almost childlike tone. “I think that’s a reasonable goal,” Dr. L said, with a confident smile.

On a mild February morning, after several weeks of at-home comfort care, I received a call from my mother. “I don’t think I’m okay,” she said. “I think I need to go to the hospital.” Without pause, I responded “I’ll be right down.” And that was the last phone call that anyone would receive from my Mom.

I called the hospice facility. They sent an ambulance for transport. And, by the end of that day, Mom had begun “actively dying.” I had my then-husband bring my older child the following day so he could say goodbye to Gramma before she passed. Mom soon became comatose, as is normal. Her friends and co-workers came to visit. Each hoping she’d wake for a moment to know they were there. But her body had already begun to shut down, one system at a time. In just a few days, her lungs would take their final breath. Her heart would pump blood for the last time. And, very peacefully, her life would end.

Mom’s goal was to make it until her birthday, March 5th. She passed away on February 22nd. She was so close. So, when I met with the funeral home to schedule her service, there wasn’t any hesitation. Her service would be on March 5th. She wanted to be here until her birthday. This was the only way I knew to honor her. To help her reach her final goal. To see that even in death, she had the last word.

I gave the eulogy at her service. The main message was that we rarely get to know people outside our own relationship with them. In the days before and after her passing, I’d spoken with a number of her co-workers, some family members we hadn’t seen in 30+ years, her former neighbors, etc., and they told me their personal experiences with Mom. Stories that made me realize how little I really knew of this woman I called Mom. They knew a woman I’d never had the privilege of getting to know. The woman they described was very thoughtful, funny, and kind. Compassionate, generous, and respected.
To me, she’d always been a cold, stone wall. Impossible to please or impress. Strong, intimidating, and accepting no excuses for anything less than perfection.

Through a period of reflection, though, I realized she did leave behind the very best parts of herself. I see it in my children, who are thoughtful and kind, silly and funny, generous and leave a lasting, remarkable impression. I know my children live as I’ve taught them to live. They’re far better people than I could even try to be. But only after her death did I realize those remarkable traits came from a life influenced by my mother, not despite her. Helping people has always been my purpose. Learning about people soon became my passion. It was because of her that I began working with the terminally ill. With each person I’m able to treat with kindness, compassion, dignity, respect…I honor my Mother.