One Way Ticket
This is a story that many have told. It touches every life eventually. Circumstances may differ but the result is always the same. There is the struggle that precedes the leaving. This is the first chapter in our race to find peace within the dying.
I’ve been quite busy the last few months caring for my mother.
With each passing day I struggle a bit more with our reality. She’s not getting any better. She sits deeply nested within herself and the high walls she has built over the years. Ears closed and eyes fixed on Family Feud as the days pass without clear meaning or memory. A deep well of loss and fear swirl upon the surface of her face. Those eyes that once had the power to see straight into me can now only gaze in wide-eyed confusion at a life that is drifting away.
Her eyes, still a translucent hue of a vivid seascape, are too often as bleak as winter. It unsettles me that she is unable to cry – whether in sorrow or joy. She is emotionally paralyzed. What traumas have robbed her of this most basic response to pain? She tells me there are no more tears left. Is there a part of her that has already left us? She sees the worry lines deepening on my face and assures me that she will try harder tomorrow. It would seem the storms of life have taken control of the ship.
The doctor’s diagnosis was grim.
She had congestive heart failure with complications that would make her survival unlikely. This quiet unassuming widow and mother of eleven, a woman fortified by the love and devotion of her children, defied their prognosis. It would take the placement of two well placed stents, a strong will to live, and the “help of angels” as professed by her cardiologist, to see her through. She survived. But the trauma of this experience would go on for several more weeks as she was then transferred to a post care facility for further evaluation and rehabilitation.
This would be another test of her will to live. The conditions in this place can only be described as a waking nightmare. The ceaseless chaos and noise wrestles with your tenuous grip on reality and all you can do is disassociate from the madness until the day of escape. This heart patient, that struggled to maintain healthy oxygen levels, was forced to wear a “ritual” mask as she strained to cycle the requisite repetitions to qualify for release. I asked her about this experience and if it made the task more difficult and she responded “I could barely breathe” but she was determined to get back home.
Unfortunately, she was in her own bed only a few days when we had to rush her back to the ER as the fluid around her heart began to build up again. This was the day I arrived. The day I said goodbye to my husband, got on a plane, and traveled back to my childhood home to care for my mother. It was a one way ticket. I could not know what turbulent times would follow in the wake of my arrival.
My brother and I spent the next week cleaning and preparing the house for her return.
We would learn, after the fact, that on the last day of her most recent stay in hospital that what we feared would happen – it happened. She was clear about her decision. She told them no. The white coats, acting like drug thugs, pushed their sick agenda on a sleep-deprived traumatized old woman until she gave in. Two shots at once. I was so angry I could have easily tortured them with their own “medicine”. This would make any hope of recovery much harder. We had to quickly re-calibrate our focus to shift from that space of anger and back into our intentions of love and healing. Knowing full well that we must prepare for the worst. As if that is possible…
Over the next several weeks I could not sleep. I listened as one would for their newborn in the stillness of the night. She just coughed. Should I get up? Yes, get up and check. Another noise and so on… There were many medications that had to be counted, sorted, and administered. Too many. She was a mess. Each morning she would call to me and as I reached her bedside I would realize that I just stepped in a puddle of… Every day I washed the sheets and sanitized the bedroom floor.
At the soonest opportunity, we were able to get her medications reviewed and adjusted. This led to a productive bounce towards a more stable state of mind and body. Finally, some progress!
Still, there were other issues.
We worried over the condition of her feet and wondered at the probable cause(s) of the discoloration and sores. In attempting to resolve the problem with herbs and ointments, we did have some success but, eventually, she was put on a prophylactic high dose antibiotic. I have no idea if this helped the situation. We continue our natural approach to healing and pair it with the podiatrist’s protocols. The healing is slow and wearisome. The discoloration and sores crop up like wildfires and we must put them out before they spread. I have discovered that Pascalite clay wraps work very well to move the blood stagnation and remove infection. Dealing with this constant problem is quite distressing to all of us – especially to Mom.
Intermixed within this controlled chaos we, the siblings, battled one another. This one is unreliable, that one is not listening, and so it went. It was so very hard on everyone. The future was quickly unwinding in directions we were not prepared to go. But we did. Emotionally spent, as each of us battled for our own way, we eventually reached a détente. It was time for peace and a way forward.
I appeal to you, brothers, by the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, that all of you agree, and that there be no divisions among you, but that you be united in the same mind and the same judgment.~1 Corinthians 1:10The only place where disagreement can occur is when truth is dimmed by passion, by sympathy and antipathy. A time is coming when mankind will more and more be taken hold of by a comprehension of the inner world of truth. When that time comes agreement will prevail over all individuality. Ever greater peace will be achieved when truth, as such, is understood.~Rudolf Steiner
I learned that I have much to learn. That there will be many more trials ahead and bridges to cross. A one way ticket awaits us all. Of that we can be certain.
Almost four months have passed.
She is still quite weak and fatigue is her constant companion. The remaining medications need to be evaluated once more. Her fragility at times makes me wonder if a soft breeze could actually loose her spirit. She is so disconnected from the world around her but this is not dementia (not yet). Memory loss, a casualty of the health crisis, keeps her muddled and unsettled. The real problem, quite literally, is a broken heart (e.g., physical and spiritual brokenness) but love remains. There is a daily give and take as we trust each other to hold it together. There are even times when I can call out her sense of humor for a much needed, although brief, moment of levity.
In the course of each day she is as predictable as the sunrise – “do we have walnuts? I like walnuts. Bananas?” “Remember to turn out the lights.” “Can you fix the TV?” “Where is your brother?” “Is it time to take my pills?” “Can you cut me an apple?” “My father almost beat my mother to death, you know…” The repetition is like a hammer at times. On the days that my strength is lacking I admonish myself for not having patience. For I know, one day I will look back and long to hear her voice again.
As I put her to bed we say the Our Father and we pray for our family and those that we know are in need.
One night, as she settled into bed and I adjusted her pillows she asks me, “Will you stay with me?”.
You mean, stay here, living with you?
“Yes… stay here with me.”
The unspoken words “until the end” are suspended in the air waiting to be secured by my response.
Yes, I will stay with you, Mom. She then says, “I worry about Ken. What will happen?”
I tell her that I would be lying if I said this wasn’t difficult for us.
“We are trusting God. It will be alright” I tell her.
As I turn out the light and walk down the familiar hallway of my childhood home a thousand memories greet me – and I am thankful for my life. I am thankful for the opportunity to share my love, such as it is, with another living soul. One that has been my rock. The one that stood firm and constant through every challenge that sought to break me. And now… now it’s my turn to be the rock. For her sake, I must not allow myself to sink too deeply into the shifting sand that now swallows my feet. This sensation is both soothing and terrifying as the paralytic rhythm of the lapping waves makes haste to engulf me.
It feels good to be writing again.
It allows me to check out of the monotony of life. To immerse myself in the gratifying art of paint by words in a world ruled by numbers. The evening solitude brings contentment to an otherwise unextraordinary existence. It’s as if I am pinned in place like a butterfly in a display case, although, still alive and longing to take flight.
When the last word is typed my contentedness must concede to my loneliness and my longing to be with my love. That separate but dove-tailed part of me that has been witness to all the high’s and low’s of my adult life – married life. The one that patiently waits for my return. This song is for you.
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Hello— i followed your substack link & have been exploring you blog. This is so beautiful — and sad — and familiar. I took care of my mother at the end too. Very like — Siblings & all. Maybe some day I’ll write you my story. But this is about yours. And I send so much love and blessings. Thank you for your writing and your courage. Thanks for your love. Thanks for sharing. May our Good and gracious God in Christ Bless you.
Deborah, thank you so much. I appreciate your response and blessings. Feel free to share your story… I would love to read it. True sacrifice changes a person and always for the better. Much love in Christ!
Great post!
Thanks so much for reading and commenting! What a world we live in, eh?
I have only one comment to make about these two incredible women – my wife Erin and her mother JoAnn – and that is this: https://kennethmdouglass.com/the-greatest-love/