"It Was Fun"

Tuesday, October 12, 2010

“It Was Fun”

Without the Major League Baseball playoffs, I’m not sure how we would have weathered the weekend my mother died.

Mom drifted in and out of a comatose state in her final three days. After my sister used her most persuasive lobbying skills, hospice nurses and doctors arrived to increase massively her dilaudid, but abdominal cancer is very painful.

I returned to Washington after 24 hours in New York. My plan was to attend my brother-in-law’s wedding and then fly to Washington, but I never felt right and spent most of my time staring into space. Nina saw it right away and encouraged me to go back to DC.

The preceding night was exruciatingly difficult for Eve and Dad. My father picked me up at Union Station and said, “I’m glad you’re back. We have beef ribs for dinner, but go see Mom before you eat.”

My uncle Mark, a celebrity chef, who is missing Thomas Keller’s 55th birthday to speak at my mother’s funeral, has fed my mother and family for months. In the final week, he was here twice a day and prepared nearly every meal.

I walked in the house, sprinted up the stairs, and entered Mom’s room. Even in the two days her color had grown paler and her breathing more labored. I stroked her hand and said

Mom, we’re all here. We love you, it’s time to let go.

She would have none of it. Instead she raised her eyebrows and moaned a little louder.

Three days earlier, I told her how proud I was of her bravery. She denied her terminal illness for several months, but over the summer started to speak more openly about death. She turned her head towards me and whispered, “Aaron, I’m not sure I’ve really come to terms with this.” Then she grinned. I knew she wasn’t ready.

By the time I returned, she was rarely conscious. Nerves were frayed. My sister who was working the pace of an intensive care nurse with only one patient — was exhausted. We worried about Dad’s ability to sleep but he refused to leave her. They slept side by side to the very end. Dad on the foreign side of his queen sized bed and Mom in a hospital bed. They often held hands through the night.

At times Mom would babble incoherently. Occasionally, the sentences were clear, but made no sense. Dad kissed her Saturday night. She kissed back and with an energy surge frequent to those near death told him the simple, poetic truth: “It was fun.” These were her final words.

Sunday my uncles surrounded us, Mom’s pain grew worse and I found myself unable to spend more than a minute with her. All throughout this process, I tried to stay steady and keep our family loose. But Sunday I started to lose it. I watched baseball, football and frequently checked my fantasy teams. I went upstairs, but I couldn’t say anything. I covered my ears when I heard mom moaning because Eve was changing her position in bed.

Renee, our superhero hospice nurse reminded me,

“Sons really have trouble watching their mothers die. It’s the daughters who do the best work. Don’t feel bad.”

The Redskins pulled out a squeaker.

Mom’s brother Frank and his wife Nina found all the amazing food in the refrigerator and pulled a dinner together. Mark arrived with a cake. You see, Sunday 10/10/10 was my father’s birthday. Towards the end of the evening, Eve put a candle in the cake and we sang Happy Birthday. He turned 74, the same age as my mother. For the first time in 50 years he returned to his wedding weight.

Sunday night found Dad rooting for his hometown Phillies as Mom settled into a pain-free, calm sleep.

When we woke up the next morning, I heard Mom’s shallow, moaning breaths a floor away. I started to get dressed when Eve called me. Then Dad called me more forcefully and I tumbled down the steps into their room.

Mom had died.

Dad was shaving, Eve was preparing her morning care, I was getting dressed and she just let go. Eve felt for a pulse and I lay down next to her to try the same. My heart was racing so I couldn’t figure out what was happening. Was it my pulse or hers? Her chest was still and finally her face relaxed.

Death is peaceful; perhpas because dying is its opposite.

We spent 15 minutes with her body, largely in silence. Then we picked up the phones and started calling family.