The Day My Mother Died
The most beautiful day of my life
My mother had been deteriorating for seven years. She had dementia. Probably caused by a series of small strokes. We called it Alzheimers, though, because in the 80s everybody called it Alzheimers. Prior to that, it was “Senility.” Now it was Alzheimers.
She heralded the illness herself, the night before we were all leaving for a family trip. My mother, my brother and his wife, and my aunt and uncle lived in Michigan — though in different towns, and my then-husband and I lived in Washington, DC. We would all meet up with the California cousins in Las Vegas, to celebrate my aunt and uncle’s millionth wedding anniversary.
“Susie,” she said on the phone, “I’m having trouble packing.
A few weeks later, she self-diagnosed by saying, “Something happened inside my head.”
My mother had always been a woman of few words — descriptive words! — but not many of them. Over the next seven years, her words became fewer still, as she lost the ability to articulate them, and probably, even to think of them. Same with feelings. But she’d never been very expressive with her feelings. Like many immigrants who grew up in poverty and privation, her emotional voice had always been limited. She held her feelings tightly to herself, never leaked them onto anyone else, and always, always did her best.
Even on the last day of her life.
It was a Monday. Mom was in the hospital — no. One of those rehab places. She’d broken a hip a few days earlier and I’d flown in over the weekend to be with her. To an astrologer, it was pretty clear that we had arrived at the hour of her death.
Plus, it was time.
Her decline had accelerated. And, though the surgery had gone well, the prospect of explaining over and over that she couldn’t get out of bed by herself, was harrowing. Of course, the other option was to tie her down. This sweet, unassuming woman who never wanted to be a bother, never demanded special attention, shackled to her bed without even understanding why, was unthinkable. Whatever “quality of life” she’d been having, was over.
It was time.
Mom had developed pneumonia, as so often happens at the end. She didn’t feel sick, though, and her flush cheeks and fever bright eyes restored a touch of her former beauty, along with a deceptively healthy-looking glow.
Back home in DC, I was performing, which I rarely did anymore. So I’d been doing exercises, lots of meditation, and was in good physical and mental shape. As part of some random Spiritual Practice, I’d also been “working with stones” during this time. So I brought my little bag of stones — lapis, rose quartz, malachite, amethyst, turquoise, others — and, as I sat next to her, telling her what a wonderful job she had done, and how beautiful she was, I placed them on the pillow around her.
I had absolutely no idea what I was doing, but I moved them here and there, talking and smiling, and giving her all the praise and attention she deserved. At some point, I said: “You’re fabulous!” And, fever sparkling in her eyes, she smiled shyly, and said “You’re fabulous!” The first words she’d said in weeks. Months? And the last she would ever say at all. And she’d said them to me! She’d said I was fabulous.
Soon, she grew tired. But still present. My mother was such a conscientious person, I was afraid that her gifts of tenacity and sense of duty would be the very things that punished her at the end. Would keep her alive, when she no longer needed or wanted to be.
I tried to tell her she had fulfilled her obligations. Every one of them. And had done them beautifully. That it was okay to let go.
She pushed her shoulders off the pillow, extending her arms toward me with a shrug. “How?” she clearly said without words. “What do I do?”
“Oh!” I said, “You just lay back, and relax, Mom!” I may have even said something about “walking toward the light.” I don’t exactly remember, because, suddenly, I was overcome with self-doubt.
What the hell do I know!? Light Shmight.
I looked at the pretty stones arranged around her head in a meaningless design, and I looked at my mother, waiting for an answer.
An answer to the mystery of life dissolving into death. It was megalomaniacal — messianic — to think I could provide it.
But she was waiting. And she’d used her last words to tell me I was fabulous. And the truth is, this was as good as I get. As loving as I get. As clear and strong as I get, from months of exercise and meditation. If I was wrong, I reasoned, if my thoughts and feelings are wrong, then everything I am is wrong. And there’s nothing I can do about it.
I might as well trust myself.
And so I did.
I told her to relax and let go, just as if she were going to sleep. Nothing fancy. Just relax. Knowing what a good, good job you’ve done.
She leaned back against the pillows. Exhaled. Died.
Who knows if I actually helped her “cross over.” But she let me think I did. And that changed my life.
