When Mom Left

A week ago Wednesday, at 8:20 PM, my Mom passed away quietly in her 4th floor hospice room at Northwest General Hospital in Baltimore, Maryland.

It was the most elegant passing I have ever felt privileged to witness, and although the hole of grief seems overwhelmingly huge, her love and grace – and humor – are enabling me to move through it.

On Sunday, May 1st, we moved my mother into an assisted living rehabilitation center to better prepare her to walk again when the cast would be removed from her newly broken ankle. My brother had a lovely salmon dinner with her the next evening, and I enjoyed an upbeat phone conversation from my vacation digs in Sedona, Arizona.

The following morning I received an unexpected cell phone call from my brother, informing me that Mom had suffered a massive stroke that night. My husband, son and I managed to catch the next flight out of Phoenix and arrived in New Jersey in drenching rain. We drove all night and got to Baltimore, and the hospital around 9:30 AM.

The prognosis was grim. Totally paralyzed on her left side, blind, and unable to swallow, her Living Will made it quite clear that she did not want to be kept alive with a feeding tube. There was no hope for a recovery that would provide any meaningful quality of life, as she had defined it. Her only alternative was to be kept as comfortable as possible during the 2 weeks that it would take her body to dehydrate.

The odd thing was that from Day 1 in the hospital, she asked no questions about the future. She showed no fear, and only inquired about our current well-being. (In fact, she complemented by brother on his mouth-swabbing ability and suggested that he might want to become a doctor after finishing law school.) She was uncomfortable due to the stroke’s affect on her internal temperature-modulating ability, and the swelling in her brain, but she rarely complained before the drugs began to do their job.

She expressed constant appreciation of the love she felt surrounded her, even from the people who were invisible to us. She never suffered from dementia, just some strange dreams, and continued to be grateful for the care she was receiving. Fortunately, she was able to “wait “for the 30 hours it took my daughter to arrive from Australia and they were able to share a heartfelt, conscious goodbye.

A day later, she slipped into a fitful coma that became permanent a few days later. We thought that she might pass on the same day as my father had, two years previously – May 7th – but she picked her own time, May 11th.

There are two points I feel compelled to make here, as difficult as it is to write after such a short time since her leaving. First, I need to commend hospice for everything they provided to us all. The nurses, doctors, social workers and aides were always available and compassionate. My mom was visited by a therapy dog, Indian flute player, accordionist and 2 harp players who played selections and requests from old Yiddish favorities to her own request for Amazing Grace. Hospice workers are truly angels wearing hospital name tags.

The second point is a tribute to my mother, who showed me, at the end of her life, how to die with dignity and grace and gratitude. She’s been a role model to me in many ways, but this was the ultimate gift: she showed me how to live and she showed me to die: with courage, forgiveness and trust.

As soon as I figure out how to be a “mid-life” orphan, I plan to move ahead just the way she and my dad would want me to. All my life I’ve been focused on the well-being of others, but this time I think I’ll be charting more of my own way.

Thanks to all of you who have known about our last few weeks, and have reached out in your own ways. And thanks to you who didn’t know but I felt have been here with me in spirit.

As one of my sisters-in-law once told me, it is a privilege and an honor at the end of life to care for the one who cared for you. Not all families are as fortunate to have this opportunity, and I understand that. But for my brother and myself and our extended families, and for my mother’s sisters and brother’s extended family it was purely and simply, an unexpected gift.

Thank you to the powers that be for letting us all share this moment.

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“Don't be afraid of death so much as an inadequate life.”

Bertolt Brecht