Mother

Today marks one year since she was taken from me.  The grieving no longer dominates my time and thoughts as it did at first, but it is still there, and still comes back to me very strongly at some times.  It's part of the capacity to remember and feel, without which we would be less than human.

She took care of me when I was a baby, of course, although I don't remember very much of that.  For most of my life she was more of a friend than anything else.  We usually lived pretty close together and I was able to visit fairly often.  Then for her last nine years, after her stroke, the roles were reversed.  She recovered a good deal of lucidity for several years, but couldn't drive or live independently any more, and my life became increasingly focused on taking care of her needs.  Even towards the end when it became more than I could handle and she had to go to a nursing home, I kept on visiting her every day, making sure she was getting proper care, interceding with the management when anything felt awry.

Perhaps it was that long period of role reversal that made her death hit me so hard -- harder, I think, than the loss of a parent does with most people.  Perhaps it was more like losing a child.

I saw the slow horror of the aging process up close, year by year toward the end.  Her short-term memory failed, she became prey to delusions, lost her ability to think coherently.  For the last couple of weeks she couldn't speak intelligibly and hardly seemed to understand what was going on around her.  But she always recognized me.  I think I was still making things a little better, by being there.

At the very end, something went wrong with blood oxygenation and there was nothing but gasping and fear.  When the nurses asked me, I told them to focus on minimizing suffering rather than prolonging existence.  It's a kind of decision no one should ever have to make, but by then it would have been madness to say anything else.

The next morning it was over.

Those nine years changed me.  For a long time afterwards, I was haunted by feelings that she was still there somehow, in some realm beyond this life, and still needing my help in some way.  I no longer have such episodes now.  I guess my brain has finally grasped that she is gone.

All those years of visiting her every day, keeping her safe, shopping for her, taking care of her apartment, advocating for her, managing her medications, dealing with crises large and small as they arose -- as hard as it sometimes was, it was worth it, more worth it than anything else I've ever done.  And at least I know that whatever other shortcomings I may have, when it came to the most important and most difficult challenge life ever presented to me -- I did not fail her.

If I am wrong about the nature of existence and there is a kind of life after this one, or if it is one day possible for lives ended biologically to be restored in some way -- then what I would wish for the most is that we occasionally be able to meet and chat over afternoon tea again, as we did in the good old days.