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Commentary
At the end of my mother's life, I could finally see her
My elderly mother looks like a snow leopard in her bed at a rehab facility, her spotted faux fur coat draped over her like a blanket. The cream and white synthetic pelt complements her barely wrinkled face. My mother completes her ensemble with leopard print pajamas, matching sunglasses and red leather gloves.
She insisted on bringing the coat with her for the ambulance ride to the emergency room after a fall at her apartment, and later, for the trip to the skilled nursing facility or SNF, the acronym easier for us all to digest. “Don’t crush my coat,” she instructed the EMTs as they strapped her to the gurney.
That was weeks ago. Now she sleeps fitfully, bundled up for warmth, though the temperature in the facility feels subtropical to me.
I peel off a sweater. I’ve learned to dress in layers for these visits. I pull a chair closer to the bed for this, my promised return to tuck her in for the night. My mother stirs, pulls off one glove and squeezes my hand. Hard. Her bony, purple-veined hands, a Dorian Gray portrait, divulging her 94 years on the planet.
Our lives — hers and mine — have been one long, wild, intertwined ride. For decades, my mother rushed at breakneck speed towards her wishes and desires, while I hit the brakes as we rounded every turn. Since grade school our mother-daughter relationship has been flipped. I was the responsible one; she was the impulsive one who needed reigning in. I reminded my mother of her inability to cope in the world. But now my mothering is a comfort she allows herself.
I fear our journey together is heading towards its ultimate conclusion.
For her last birthday, I booked a windowless conference room for a celebration with immediate family, featuring home-baked carrot cake and Irish cream I concocted with just a touch of whiskey. We watched a video my brother put together with photos from our mom’s life.
“The video will be upbeat,” he promised. I prayed my mother would see it that way, too, and not compare “what was” with “what is.” I hoped I could suspend reality as well.
My mother showed little reaction as the video years flew by — her as a child, a big floppy bow clipped in her little Dutch girl bob, her with my brother and me bundled up in snowsuits for sledding, my mother in miniskirts and wild hats dancing with my friends at parties.
She didn’t perk up until she saw the short video messages from the professionals who had cared for her while she was still in her home, and became her friends. Her visiting nurse sang "Happy Birthday," her physical therapist cheered, decked out in a silly hat and Mardi Gras beads, her home health aide celebrated “my beautiful lady.” The highlight and video finale was my Aunt Marie’s attempt to sing and play the accordion. My mother smiled and gave her sister-in-law two thumbs up for her off-key performance.
Relieved, I grasped her hand. We got through it. And I saw a glimmer of my mother’s old self.
Respecting my mother’s desire for independence and self-determination by countering the reality of custodial care is my job now. “Custodial” fits the narrative my mother has always feared – that she would be written off by a system that views elders through actuary tables and medication schedules.
I spend my sleepless nights planning how to give my mother the best possible end of life now that discussions have turned to transitioning to 24-hour care. Maybe I’ll bring her picnic lunches and set up a small folding bistro table with fancy plates. Or lug a floor lamp into her room to soften the fluorescent overhead lights. “Indirect lighting is much more flattering,” my mother has always counseled.
I don’t have the power to pick how and when my mother passes. If I did, she’d drift off in a dream, hunky Chippendale dancers lifting her up to the heavens. But I do have the power to help those entrusted with her care to see her.
Of course, even I have struggled to see her over the years. What teenage girl trying to impress a cute boy wants to hear him talk about how cool her mother is? Why was she compelled to buy multiples of every item that tickled her fancy? But it wasn’t envy I felt through the decades of my mother’s wild outfits and suspect housekeeping — it was embarrassment. I was afraid people would judge her — and me. I didn’t appreciate her outsized joy for life. I didn’t understand that it was a roadmap I could follow.
I’m not sure what life will be like for me when our invisible cord is cut. I think of the trips I would like to take when I am free from caretaking, and I feel guilty. I recognize that no vacation, renewed workout regimen or interesting work project will fill the painful void of life without her.
My mother’s eyes flutter. She releases her grip on my hand.
“Mom, you’re tired. I should go.”
I kiss her forehead.
“Sweet dreams.”
She smiles and raises her hands for a fist bump. Our knuckles meet. In unison, we lift our arms and wiggle our fingers, our imaginary confetti dropping stardust around us both.
