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Spokane, WA
This profile photo is my mom and me at the beach--she is 26 and I am about 18 months. LOVE the joy!! I am a mom of three and a teacher; being a teacher means I have to go back and cut the f-bombs. There were a few. Because Alzheimer's sucks badly. This blog, for nine years now--skipping a few while I was too cheap to buy my domain name-- helps me un-peel and process the endless layers of sad woven with weird and--impossibly--comedy.

Sunday, January 29, 2017

The Victory of Presence and the Failure of Poetry


Oh poetry, I’d like to talk about the death of my mother with you. But you give me an inferiority complex.

I wrote poetry about wanting to wake up my infant son the first time he slept through the night and I stood outside the door struggling--with engorged breasts--about how long to let him sleep.

I wrote poetry when I had to put my baby girls back in their cribs at the Neonatal intensive care unit at the hospital after trying unsuccessfully not to fantasize about watching them dancing drunk-toddler style at some awful outdoor concert in the future. It would have been my mom’s idea--Artfest, probably.

The theme of the night my mother died started with poetry.

I had read Maya Angelou’s “Mother” before but I think I’d forgotten it was from the perspective of a daughter.

I knew at some level I was being formulaic with the way I approached sitting by my mother’s death bed.

Taking the Angelou book, and Rilke’s Love Poems to God--which I hadn’t read yet..(I just knew I loved Rilke quotes.)
As an afterthought I'd brought David Sedaris in case things got dark and the night got long and I decided we needed a laugh.
The night wasn't long, and it got very dark, pretty quickly and I made it through Angelou’s shortest publication to date in little over five minutes. I began to read Rilke; about him reading to God
I took a photo of me reading with my feet up.




Her breathing had been labored the night before. And her head--it was tilted up and sideways. It made my neck hurt.
Hospice had been called a handful of times in the past nine months. But this was no false alarm.
I had thought “hospice” was a series of visiting angelic-looking kindly-trained nurses or even volunteers--the kind who’d have avocado seeds sprouting in plastic cups above their kitchen sinks at home.
I’d pictured they’d be watching over my mother so she wouldn't die alone. That’s not hospice. Not for my mom; not on that night.
Hospice’s “comfort care” is a steady administration of Ativan and morphine. If there had been family around asking questions and hovering they’d have known what to say. But it was just me and her.
So I’d been reading Rilke and I can’t remember exactly what line I’d read that kicked me into present moment.
Her breath was more shallow; more labored.
A line, addressed to God had said “You are leaving me” and I began to cry.
I put the book down and laid down next to her.
She was wearing the fleece jammies she’d had on the previous night when my dad had touched her right leg ever so lightly and crumpled into tears.
My son had never seen his grandpa cry; he'd never known these two people together or witnessed any love between them. They'd been divorced for eleven years when he was born. Alex, my tough man child went over to hug my mom, too.
I don't know what Mike did. He was most likely handling something while I wandered in a daze.
My girls were scared to get close.
Scared of grandpa crying.
There was hugging and everyone was hungry. We had been on the way to my twins' birthday dinner.
Isabella put her arms up and said “HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME!” just sarcastic enough to prove she was my kid.
Back to this night, I stroked my mom’s face, and said,
“Hi mommy, I’m here, it’s ok.”
And it was like that. For five minutes or even two. I couldn't tell because it wasn’t real time. It was another world God time. I hadn’t felt like that since I’d given birth to Alex. When it was just me and my body and the concern on the midwife’s face and the mention of a drop in oxygen and me, grabbing God by the lapels and saying, “Alright it’s you and me. We are getting this kid out.”
It’s how I felt with her. My mom’s eyes opened and locked with mine..like almost a surprised or sad look. Her blue eyes were watery.
I reassured her “Hi it’s me, it’s me, it’s me, mommy."
"It’s ok. It’s ok.”
And I felt so grown up..like I was helping--the way you know a sick child feels reassured that you are there. Even if you can't make their fever go down.
I knew different something was happening so I left and ran out to get some kind of nurse.
She came back with me--and some other nurse guy.
She said she’d passed. Then my mom breathed one more time and I got back to her face.
And I pet her again and hugged her.
The nurse said she’d passed. This time she was accurate. She even checked her pulse and looked at her watch.
I stroked her face more..her eyes were open and so was her mouth. It had been breathing wide open for a long time and you can't close the mouth like they do in movies.
But the nurse aid closed her eyes--also like they do in the movies.
I began to gush over my mom.
“I'm so proud of you! You're so smart! You're so smart you waited until I was here. I love you.”
And the nurse people changed her pants while I left the room and then I went back to her side and laid there. Anxiously.
I wrote these notes on my phone then:
“I'm sitting next to my mom’s dead body. She is still
Pretty. Pale, yes. But no longer struggling to breathe.
I was on 18 % battery left when I got here and I recorded a little of her breathing to show Mike how different it was from the night before. Were these death rattles? I couldn’t tell but it was like a kind of loud mouth breathing.”
I had posted an hour previously on Facebook to send me prayers and then I posted that my mom had just died with my hand on her face.

I see now that I was throwing a high-tech message in a bottle and waiting for responses. I don't do lonely or quiet well even in the best circumstances.
I texted my friend, whose dad is terminal.
“I’m just chilling with my dead mom next to me like ‘Weekend at Bernies’ except without bad acting and sunglasses. Hospice is coming to talk to me about stuff.”
“Are you a little in shock?” she asked.
Pretty sure I was.
“She’s a pretty corpse. Is that weird? My phone is...about to turn off (i didn’t want to say die).”
I couldn't text or call my little brother because he was on stage performing comedy in Minnesota. I had blocked him from my Facebook post so he wouldn't find out our mom died on Facebook. How much better was it to find out she'd died by text?
After the phone died, I grabbed the one attractive sweater from her closet, and a pair of socks. My feet were cold and sweaty.
And about a half hour later, my mom’s essence was no longer there. I didn’t want to be either.
I left the room when hospice came,  answered “cremation” and I think made inappropriate jokes.
I remembered the night my grandpa died when I was in the eighth grade. I had picked up the phone, too, and had heard my grandma say “the mortician” and hung up.
She hadn’t even sounded sad. “How did she get over it so fast?" I wondered at the time.

Anyway, I cried all the way home.

Thoughtful young me

Thoughtful young me

Seventies chicks

Seventies chicks
Me and my mom Lynn, 1973

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