Experiencing A Final Chapter with My Mother

My mother always read to me. Every evening, she would slide beside me in my twin bed, snuggle beneath the carnation pink covers and read outloud. I’d fall asleep to the sounds of Dr. Suess, Dick and Jane, Shel Silverstein, Katy No Pockets, and Madeline.

It’s no doubt that is a huge reason why I am a writer today. As my mother was also a teacher, she was very apt at correcting my grammar.

“Never end a sentence in a preposition.”

“Announciate.”

She shared adeges and mnenomic devices:

“It is i before e, except for after c, or when sounded as 'a' as in neighbor and weigh"neighbor and weigh.”

“Don’t judge a book by its cover”.

Today, my mom asked for a sharkle.

I handed her a tissue.

“Thank you.”

Her words have eluded her. Years of fighting against dementia are finally loosening thier grip. I watch her slide away into a peaceful cocoon of blissful rest. It is nothing like I thought it would be, this. Watching her pass. It is much more beautiful than the fear and pain I imagined we would experience on both sides. Not that it is easy.

But, it is extraordinarily sacred. A gift, that like her guidance, is given with love. This time, by a much higher power.

I’ve learned no matter what happens, or how bad it seems today, life does go on and it will be better tomorrow.

For years, mom hasn’t known what day it is. Today she doesn’t know where she is.

“You are in your bedroom, mommy. We are here with you.”

“Where is Chan?”

I wonder if she is waiting to say goodbye to her son who passed away nearly 10 years ago now. I hope not. But, I know that she is already talking to her sister as she enters into the veil between here and there. I pray that her loved ones who have crossed over can guide her where she needs to go, and that she can let us go without fear.

I’ve learned that regardless of your relationship with your parents, you will miss them when they’re gone from your life.

I spent years of resentment in the shadow of my mother’s dementia. It reemerged this week when I came across many gifts I gave her that had been shoved away in the corners of her life.

And, I remind myself that she only moved them because they were not familiar to her. These gifts had been given after her memory failed to hold them. This realization helps soften the experience of watching her pass. I want to be grateful, I don’t want to be angry.

I’ve learned if you pursue happiness, it will elude you. But, if you focus on your family, your friends, the needs of others, your work, and doing the very best you can, happiness will find you.

“Dianne talked to me, but she had to go away and said she would be back. She’s busy playing bridge, I think.”

“It is a like a bridge, isn’t it?”

“What?”

I held her hand and we talked about the veil.

“You have so many loved ones like your sister Dianne, waiting for you, who want to talk to you. I hope you know that we will talk to you from here anytime you want.”

“What?”

“We will be able to communicate always, mommy. I will be here, and I will listen.”

“Oh that is nice, honey.”

These moments of clarity are beautiful. Her smile shines bright.

“Goodnight, mommy.”

“Goodbye,” she said.

That is why I slid in to bed beside my mother last night. I didn’t want her to die alone. In the morning, she woke up and said,

“Now, it’s time for you to go back to bed. I need to get ready for work.”

She was thinking of me as a little girl, and it made me smile about all of the memories we have made together.

Today, I am washing my clothes because I only packed for a couple of days, and I can’t leave her now.

The scent of Tide brings forth another memory of childhood. Turtlenecks holding the scent on a cold winter’s day. No matter how much I’ve been marketed to that I should be using the organic detergent, it just smells amazing. She still uses the liquid. There are no pods here.

I’m brushing her hair and telling her all the wonderful things she has done for us in her life and she is smiling, as if in awe of all she was capable of. She cannot speak today, but she is connected somehow, I just don’t know how.

It feels so unfair that her words have been taken from her. That her body is being taken from her. This is the point where I wonder what the point even is. Her contract with God, the timing of it all, lingering, continuing, declining at this point feels like a cruel punishment. If she must go, and we must let her go, why does it have to be so hard? I thought I understood death, but I had no idea.