MOVarazzi

Monday, December 3, 2012

871. It's Hard

It’s Wednesday morning and the phone rings and it’s your sister and it’s That Call, the one you have been dreading but knew would come at some point.  You are at work, of course you are at work, and you try to talk discreetly into the phone. 

“What did the doctor say?”
Now you are standing in the doorway of your boss’s office and you are calmly telling her that you have to go, you are holding your keys and then you drop them.  They make a loud clanging on the marble tile. 

You are in the parking lot making calls, calls to airlines and rental cars and your husband, and everyone is helpful and efficient while you desperately try to hold it together.  “Please don’t die before I get there,” you whisper to no one. 
The flight is five hours, the longest five hours of your life.  Your insides have been stretched and rerouted and knotted in an uncomfortable way, making food impossible. 

You get there and your sister looks drawn.  Your mom is alive and talking, but she is on her knees hunched over in bed, like she is praying.  That is the only way she can breathe. 
She is lucid, her mind is sharp, it is her body that has deteriorated these past two years, eaten from the inside out by cancer.  Your sister tells you privately that the last x-rays show cancer in 90% of her body, little cancer spots everywhere looking like reverse Christmas tree lights.  You wonder how someone can still be alive this way, but looking at your mom you know that it is sheer force of will. 

You stay with her you talk to her you hold her hand you feed her yogurt.  She says a few words.  Your brother comes then your uncle and lots of neighbors and a handful of random cousins and friends.  They are here to say their goodbyes. 
The Hospice lady gives you a pamphlet called, “When Death Is Near,” and you stare at the title wondering why it can’t be called, “When Death Is Lost and Has No GPS.”  You don’t want to read it, but you do. 

The next few days are a blur with unusual words like morphine, coma, and mortuary tossed around. 
On Monday morning, she dies.    

You were able to reconcile with her four days ago, to say what you needed to and have her nod, but it’s still hard.  She’s your mother and now she’s gone. 
MOV

19 comments:

  1. This was beautifully written. I am sorry for your loss. xxx

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  2. A reconciliation...peace. So sorry for you loss.

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  3. I'm so sorry you lost your mom. This post brought up a lot of feelings for me. I lost my mom to an auto-immune disease that attacked her lungs, so I know the pain of watching someone die that way. I'm sorry you had to go through that, but so glad you could be with her, and had the chance to clear the air with her before she died.

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  4. No matter how hard you try, no matter how you "prepare," you are never really ready to lose your mom. I lost my mother years ago and I still miss her. I was only 27, my sister was 20. She never saw me graduate from college, she never saw her second grandson and she never saw me happy, married to your dad. Tears and sympathy for your loss in so many ways.

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  5. MOV, I am so sorry for your loss. (((((hugs)))))

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  6. I feel every ounce of this pain. I wish I could write as eloquently the feelings I had watching my beloved Dad pass away before my eyes this summer. Sometimes I can hardly bear it. Sometimes I do pretty well. You'll probably feel the same way for a long time. I'm so happy you were able to make peace and now I hope you can have peace.

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  7. Awe..hugs, MOV...may she rest in peace, and may you find strength in your faith, sweetheart.... It is so hard to lose a parent. (((HUGS)) This is so beautifully written, clearly with much introspection and with love ~R

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  8. Wishing you strength as you go through this holiday season. I'm sure your family was so happy to have you home. Take time for yourself. It's important.

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  9. Oh MOV, I'm so very sorry. I am glad you were able to be there. My thoughts are with you.

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  10. Out of great pain comes beautiful writing.

    Love,
    Janie

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  11. I wish I could have written something like this when I lost my mother. Please know I understand what it's like and I'm thinking of you.

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  12. first time visiting/commenting on your blog; I am so sorry about the loss of your mother; it is always hard when we lose our moms; they know us the best, they were the first ones that loved us, they love us unconditionally; they are our cheerleaders. So hard when they are gone. It is good you got to see her before she passed, but like you said; it is hard. It will get better, but it will never be the same as before when she was alive and you will always miss her. Again, I am so sorry.

    betty

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  13. Holy shit.

    I'm so sorry for your loss, you know that.

    But wow, what a post.

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  14. I DO NOT HAVE ANY WORDS THAT WILL MAKE IT BETTER BUT I WILL SAY THANK GOODNESS FOR HOSPICE WORKERS (I DO HOSPCE HERE & THERE, WELL I DID BEFORE I GOT SICK WITH CANCER MYSELF). I AM VERY PLEASED YOU HAD THOSE 4 DAYS MOV. SENDING YOU LOVE & HUGS ~JANICE`

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  15. When my father was dying, the hospice worker was wonderful. She brought in a CD player and lots of CD's of hymns etc. that my father was familiar with. He was deaf but she said many dying people regain their hearing in the last few hours. She also told us what to expect at each phase of his death process, and when to call the family together. It was very comforting.

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  16. Thank you, dear friends, for your kind words and thoughts of sympathy. You are truly a wonderful community and are helping me get thru this.

    MOV

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When you write a comment, it makes me feel like I won the lottery or at the very least like I ate an ice-cream sundae. (This has nothing to do with the fact that I did just eat an ice-cream sundae.)