Losing Mom brought change on a daily, weekly, monthly basis. There was a change in her eating habits, medication dosing, daily routines. There was a change in her sleep cycles, energy cycles, and tolerance for company. There was a change in her physical ability, emotional capacity, and mental acumen. This was difficult to face, let alone embrace.
The season of losing Mom invited me to stay present with, and learn to embrace, change.
From diagnosis to death, each week felt like a year of her life passing. Decline was rapid. Time felt like a river rushing by, full of treasures. I reached my hands in to pull out moments and memories. What I caught, I could keep. Everything else slipped away and was carried off, never to return.
When I fixed a favorite food she craved or bought a favorite snack, it was tempting to stock up, as if I had found the secret to keeping her longer. Alphabet macaroni and cheese made with Velveeta? Buy up all of the tiny ABC macaroni boxes to make sure they are always on hand. Crunchy Cheetos and milk? Cheetos are BOGO this week, so stock up with four bags.
Mom ate a tiny ramekin of macaroni and a handful of Cheetos with a sip of milk before moving on to craving Outshine lime popsicles. Pasta boxes remained stockpiled in the pantry and open boxes of Outshine popsicles with lemon and tangerine flavors collected in the freezer. The river rushed by, carrying off her appetite.
The change in Mom’s appearance from beginning to end was drastic. She experienced the aging process in fast forward. Early on she asked, “Is it bad that I’m glad I’m not going to get old?” Though not old, she aged quickly. The river rushed by carrying off her energy, her strength, her stamina, her smile.
In February 2021, the fun times and laughter gave way to sobriety. Mom was a doer and giver of gifts. During one of our Thursday mornings together with the sisters in town, she decided to make a list. She wanted to get us Zojurushi coffee mugs. Mom loved this brand because it kept her coffee hot all day. She began writing our names on the back of a blue envelope and asking our favorite colors.
We laughed, noting how true to form it was for her to make a list on the back of a used envelope and commenting on how buying or doing things for us was a sign of her deep love. I fantasized about treasuring this final gift and memory. Laughter quickly faded when I looked at the envelope and saw a jumble of letters, incoherently scattered on the page. The river roared past, sweeping away her cogency along with our mugs.
Mercifully, facing her memory loss and disorientation was a brief season, unlike friends who have watched parents linger in slow decline with Alzheimer’s or dementia. Still, it was heartbreaking. I knew that our end would be soon, just not how soon.
The mom that I knew was gone. A boat was on the way, coming to carry her down the river.
At her next visit, the hospice nurse evaluated Mom’s symptoms and gently said that it looked like February would be the month to say goodbye. We joke that Mom thought, “Wanna bet?” It did not work out that way.
When the hospital bed was delivered, I noticed how hard it was for Mom to embrace change and accept the reality of her diagnosis. The fun and games part was over, the seizing the day and gathering rosebuds and adventures had passed. The river’s roar intensified.
Dark humor sustained me through February 2021. In a nod to Groundhog Day, my brother joked about taking Dad outside to see his shadow so that we would know how many more weeks we had left of mom. It was morbid, I know, but having to embrace the change in medicine doses, in mental capacity, and in physical ability while watching your mother decline makes laughter in any form a blessed relief.
Writing about these days brings images of my parents’ house to mind. I remember the faithful fire in the fireplace, a puzzle always in progress on the dining room table, upstairs bedrooms filled with siblings, the keyboard in the living room, the landing on the stairs, perfect for staying out of the way, the Christmas lights winding around the front pillars piercing February’s darkness.
It’s been three years since this endless month. When I allow my mind to go to the riverbank, I feel proud of myself and how I have embraced the changes these three years have brought. Then I stand and bless the place I can never return to as the river rushes by.
Julie McClay lives in Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley with her partner of 31 years, four of their eight children, and six fur and feather babies. Two precious grandchildren bring deep joy and delight. Julie is a lover of stories and words. She serves clients, both in person and virtually, through Heart Path Story Coaching, offering a creative space of kindness, curiosity, and Story Work. Writing and Art Journaling are key elements of her process.
When my friend Jim was diagnosed with brain cancer, I went to “gallows humor” almost immediately. Mixing the darkness of what was happening and what was to come helped me deal with it. During Jim’s nine-month journey with brain cancer, I laughed every day, even if it was at something dark–which it often was. Every day, too, I was grateful for all that had been and even for what was to come because I was learning something new every day. Condolences.
Yes! This. Thank you so much for your kind response.
Julie, I remember when you were caring for your mom, taking her to doctor appointments on top of going to school and maintaining all of your children’s schedules, and still having dates with Steve. You really amazed me back then and still so. You expressed embracing change so creatively in this memoir. You honored your mother well, as well as yourself. Grateful for you,
Theresa Howard
Thank you for remembering and for these kind words. You bore witness to that season with me. Hugs.