Posted on by lgandre

Remembering Mom

As my plane descended into Manchester, a sick feeling settled into my stomach.  So many times I had arrived at this airport to be greeted by my smiling Mom and Dad.  Not today.

In fact, I felt a heaviness knowing that she would never be there to greet me again.  

Mom was diagnosed with congestive heart failure several years before this.  She did everything she could to take care of herself—eating, drinking, and exercising just like they told her.  But most of all, she just kept going.  She kept doing.  

While there were some medications, procedures, and just overall bumps along the road; for the most part, she did much better than expected.  And even though her heart function has been hovering at 12-15% for some time, she lived a surprisingly normal life.  Loving, serving, and giving of herself.  What her heart lacked in health and strength in made up for in grit and bravery.  Less than a year before this arrival in Manchester, she had kayaked 17 miles down the Delaware River.  She was nearly 72. 

As painful as those final days with Mom were, I choose to write about them now because I want to remember. Even in the hardness, there was a sweetness that popped up along the way like the heads of bright wildflowers beside a lonely dirt road that leads to a place you don’t want to go. 

It’s hard to say exactly when the “final days” began.  She was hospitalized Thanksgiving of the prior year (2022) and again shortly after Christmas.  But for me, it was a little harder to know for sure what was really going on since I usually get cheery, upbeat telephone reports insisting she was fine.

I purchased a plane ticket for her to come and visit us in South Carolina for Mother’s Day (2023).  Unfortunately, she would not be able to make that trip.  She was in the hospital—one of a series of long hospital stays.  A quick google search of her symptoms and reports told me what I hoped was not true—she was in stage four heart failure.

When I came up with the girls to visit Mom and Dad at the end of May, she was back in the hospital. There were still a scattering of Christmas decorations around the house. It was plain she hadn’t been feeling well for some time.  

The girls and I got to see her a few times in the hospital during that week.  Dad was holding on to hope that she would bounce back and be able to enjoy plans that they had made for the summer.  In fact, they were so determined,  that after she was released in early June, Mom and Dad drove down to South Carolina for a wedding.

Shortly upon arrival, she was having trouble with nausea and ended up getting admitted to the hospital June 13 for her final hospital stay.  Since she was in Greenville, South Carolina, I was able to see her for eight of the ten days that she was there.  My siblings made long trips to see her and, of course, Dad stayed with her for the long, long days. Paul stayed all night with her.  Erin’s daughter played harp for her in the hospital.  Allyson brought her “Gladly” the cross-eyed bear.  Still, we were never able to all get together as a family—something that grieved Dad and I deeply.  

After the initial admission, the hospital doctors seemed to be giving good news.  Her organs were stable.  They expected her to get better.  One of the nurses even told me that she thought Mom’s main problem was anxiety and perhaps that why she wasn’t able to eat without vomiting.

I appreciated the good news, but I knew Mom’s problem was not anxiety.  Mom knew her problem was not anxiety.  She had fought all she could fight and her body was shutting down.  Understandably, Dad wasn’t ready to give up and when they moved her from ICU to the cardio wing, it seemed like perhaps there was progress.  Mom and Dad were anxious to get back to New Hampshire and we talked about ways she could make the trip.

Still, Mom was not able to eat without nausea.  The numerous meds they tried seemed to make no difference.  Her system just would not process food of any kind; sometimes she could not keep a drink down; no matter how small the sip.  They gave her an IV—messing with the delicate balance between her fluids and her heart.  Finally, the labs began to tell the story that my mom had been telling through her weakness: her system was shutting down.  She was not going to get better.

I’m thankful my brother was there when they delivered the news.  Erin and I weren’t far away.  Mom was weak and by this time; unable to stand.  They were ready to discharge her from the hospital and home was a thousand miles away.

There are moments from that day that were horrible.  A few that were strangely sweet. Lots of “I love yous.”  Lots of tears. A few goodbyes that Mom wanted to say over FaceTime and phone.

Mom seemed somehow relieved that someone had given her permission to stop fighting—even if it was an arrogant doctor with the heart of a grinch and the soul of a Scrooge.  She was ready to pull all the plugs, cords, and wires, and go home.  Home to New Hampshire.  Home to heaven.

The five of us tried to work on a plan of what to do next.  There were so many details —big and small—to work out over the next 24 hours.  Curtis helped us find an airplane, a pilot, and a plan.  We spoke with palliative care, hospice South Carolina, case management, and hospice New Hampshire.  We worked to find rides for Mom to and from the airport.  She was now not able to even sit in a wheelchair or do any functions herself.  

As I watched the team arrive with a gurney and wheel her out, all I could think of to say was, “we’re blowing this joint!”  Looking back, it seems I was so heartless, but I was just numb.  

Mom lived one more week at home, if you could call the last week “living.”  She slowly slipped away from us and to Jesus.  

To my mom, the last six days were too long. The last six weeks, longer still.  The last six months, an eternity.  She didn’t like being waited on.  She didn’t enjoy feeling her body giving up—function by function.  She didn’t want to feel like she was unable to be useful to anyone—that all should could do was require energy from other people.

But God knew we needed every day He gave her.  He knew we needed some time to show her we love her; to listen to her last words of wisdom; and to process the inevitable. 

She told me she loved me. She told me she felt no pain. She believed I would get married and my girls would have a wonderful dad.  I’ll treasure those words forever. 

But, even as I reflect on the sweet memories of that last stay with Mom, the weak woman in the bed is not the one I remember. There was so much more. 

So, even as I want to remember those days, there is a long list of things she taught me that I want to remember more:

  • Read the Bible
  • Work hard
  • Give till it hurts
  • You have two good legs
  • How not to make money
  • Life’s not fair
  • Invest in your kids
  • The bacon is done when the smoke alarm goes off
  • Speak to authority with respect
  • Finish your food and carry your plate
  • You don’t need a TV

So much I could say about these things and the love and the spankings that made them stick.   But alas, life hasn’t given me time to do them justice.  Yet. 

Dad is engaged now to be married to my aunt Penny in a few months.   I’m very happy for him.  He needs a wife and Penny will be amazing.  I’m sure there’s plenty I can learn from her as well. Loving my mom doesn’t mean he can’t love someone else.  

But it also doesn’t mean we can’t look back with full hearts on Mother’s Day and be thankful for the beautiful woman I got to call “Mom.”  And for the wildflowers peeking their vibrant heads along the edges of a road that led somewhere I didn’t want to go. 

Posted on by lgandre

Life is not Fair

My Mother’s Day Post (Part I)

They asked me to babysit for their five boys while both parents were out of town for several days.

I was more than willing. I like boys. I like babysitting. And a few days off from my regular job sounded like a little adventure.

In case you don’t have a brood of boys of your own and have never babysat for one, I’ll summarize the experience for you:

For three days, everything was a competition.

Everything. Was. A. Competition.

It could be a game, it could be setting the table, it could be brushing teeth, but it was competition. That means there were cheers from a winner and tears from a loser.

More often than not, that also meant at least one angry boy stomping off in the middle of the competition saying, “You’re cheating! I don’t want to play with you anymore.” That was from the one destined, in just a few short minutes, to be pronounced the loser.

And more often than not, that would be followed by another pious-looking boy saying, “That’s fine. I don’t want to play with a cry baby like you anymore either.”  That was from the one destined, in just a few short minutes, to be the self-pronounced the winner.

Meanwhile, the youngest of the pack would be busy destroying the game pieces, unsetting the table, or eating the toothpaste. He was about three—old enough to know better, but as the baby of the family, he bounced back and forth between baby and big boy at his convenience.

That’s pretty much how the three days unfolded.

We played games. We read stories. We made meals. And I got to show off my mad mothering skills including the timely use of phrases like, “life isn’t fair” and “You need to do what I asked you to do first, then we’ll see.”

And I got to referee a lot. End a lot of competitions. Take a lot of losses for the team. Dry a lot of tears. Whew! They say girls are dramatic.

The only time I really remember having to exercise a serious dose of discipline was when I asked the three-year-old to come to me to go down for his nap. Instead, he ran.

I lunged for him, but he was a bit quicker than I thought. I had been losing a lot of competitions in the last few days to avoid tears and outbursts, but I knew just enough about parenting to know that I could not be the loser of this one.

Unfortunately, he knew the house and the hiding places far better than I. We were in the basement before I caught up with him and when I picked him up, he was screaming and crying as if I was cruelly ripping him limb from limb.

I don’t remember exactly what I did, but I’m sure the most serious part was my tone of voice. I do remember thinking that he was probably going to hate me and turn the rest of the babysitting experience into a miserable one.

Instead, I remember checking on him in his bedroom a little later, and seeing him curled up on his bed fast asleep. He woke up from his nap one of the sweetest, cutest, most obedient boys ever. Who knew?

So now having told you about the boys, I’ll tell you about the real challenge I faced.

The cats.

I don’t remember the names of either one for sure, but for some reason, “Blackie” is coming to mind, so we’ll go with that. We’ll call the other one Whitey, just for balance.

Blackie and Whitey were indoor cats. I found that out when we opened the front door for some reason and Blackie darted out the front door.

That started a mad scramble, a flurry of fear, and a chorus of yelling from all five boys. They were sure that Blackie was going to run into the woods and get eaten by lions, tigers, and bears.

I was less convinced of that that, but I was severely outnumbered, so we all went outside to find that Blackie had taken refuge under the porch. It was one of those long porches—almost the full length of the house—and Blackie’s outline could be made out between the lattice that extended from the ground to the porch floor.

“We have to get her!” the boys were exclaiming. “If she gets out and gets in the woods, my mom will be very mad at us!”

That’s it. They played the “M” card. A babysitter’s worst nightmare…Mom will be MAD!

We all coaxed and called, but it was a cat for Pete’s sake. Cats run their own schedules.

“I think she’s just going to stay under there.” I offered. “She’ll be fine for a while.”

“No!” They all agreed on something for once. “She’s going to run into the woods and get eaten!”

So I gave in.

“Who wants to climb under there and get her?” I asked, surveying the few feet that offered just enough space under the beams for someone to slide on their belly and get the dumb cat.

“We can’t go under there.” They chorus. “We aren’t allowed.” “There might be snakes.”

Why am I not liking this???  I mean, why have five boys if you’re not going to send one of them under the porch to grab the cat?

“Someone needs to get her.” They looked at me—all five of them with imploring eyes about to fill with tears. The fate of Blackie was weighing heavily on my shoulders. And I surely didn’t want Mom to be MAD.

So…I took a deep breath and I crawled gingerly under the stairs, calling gently to Blackie so I wouldn’t startle her.

She waited until just as I was about to reach her, and then…predictably, she jumped back. She still wasn’t far away—close enough to entice me just a little bit further.

Light was coming through the lattice, but not really enough to enable me to navigate the space cleanly. I slid through slime and spider webs. I slid through mud and moss. And every time I got close enough to grab Blackie, she would spring further away, luring me slowly the entire length of the porch.

I hoped that at least there, I would be able to act fast enough to corner her against the lattice, but no such luck. Blackie was through the lattice, across the lawn, and into the woods in one horrible instant— leaving me with nothing to do but slowly inch may way back through the mud, moss, slime, and spider webs and admit my defeat to five broken-hearted boys.

Major fail.

I will continue soon.  And it is a Mother’s Day post.  I promise.