The processes of death or how I'm drowning in paperwork!

How do you end a life? How do you close the books on something so precious? Answer: with mounds of paperwork! Within minutes of Mom passing, someone was shoving a clipboard in my face with some document that required my signature. I have no idea what it was but I know I received a yellow copy of it. Not sure where that ended up. But that was just the beginning. There are so many forms and certificates and filings necessary to close out a life. As I continue to sort through the maze of bureaucracy, I still frequently think "what do the stupid people do?" Now this isn't a judgment of any kind, but I have 9 years of college education and struggle with my understanding of all of these processes.

And I can't help but think that this is what a life is boiled down to. A stack of papers. I have Mom's paperwork sorted into 4 separate folders. It took me a month or so but I was literally drowning in paperwork. Ironically, if you're the one still here going through the grief process focusing on small things can be a chore so asking me to decide major things now is really comical. In fact, once I made the DNR decision that early March morning, I didn't honestly think I'd ever be able to make another decision again. But I have and I will. 

So here are my words of wisdom regarding the paperwork. Try to get your loved one's world very small before they die. I learned this after Dad and it made a huge difference. All of Mom's bills were in my name. Nothing had frustrated more than calling to cancel a light bill and having the operator insist she needed to speak to my Father. My response had become "well, that's going to be a little hard but if you get through to him, please let him know there are a few things I'd like to talk to him about." I found this usually diffused an already difficult situation. Also, try to organize quickly. I spent several weeks drowning before I sorted the folders. That has made all the difference in controlling my frustration level. And finally, just be honest with people. If you haven't paid the bill because you threw it in a stack and couldn't face it, tell them. Explain how tough this has been. Let them see or hear your humanness. I cannot tell you how wonderful people are when you just lay yourself out there raw and exposed.

The paperwork has slowed slightly now that we are almost 3 months out but it's just the lull before another round as we close the estate in June. But I'm not quite as raw and I am beginning to trust my decision making ability again. Someone asked me just this week how I was and I said, "I'm doing a little better but I'll be okay." Her response "of course, you're your mother's daughter." Thank God for that.


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No one waiting

I flew home from Costa Rica this past week.  It was the first time I'd traveled by plane since Mom died.  Normally I would have checked in at every point.  "At the airport."  "On the plane."  "Just landed in Houston."   "I'll call when I land in Lafayette."   

   It had been a good trip.  We stayed busy and being responsible for 17 college students kept me occupied both mentally and physically.  So there wasn't much time to think.  But coming home was different. As I landed in Houston it hit me...no one was waiting.  No one was waiting for the phone call.  No one was waiting to see me.  For 10 days, no one had been waiting and there was no one waiting now.  I got my luggage, walked to my car and cried all the way home.  

It is these moments that matter most and the ones we take most for granted.  Just part of life's routine.  If I could go back in time, I'd cherish those phone calls that sometimes seemed a nuisance. I wouldn't take them for granted.  But so often, we go through life believing that someone will always be there waiting and we don't realize how comfortable that feeling is until it's gone. 

Revolting development...

   This should have been my first post, but it's the blog I never wanted to write.  I've been postponing it because I knew it would be so difficult.  When  I started writing this blog, it was to heal and express how I was feeling.  And these were things I've been trying for over two months to forget, to not feel. This is the recounting of the day my Mom died, March 6th.

   It started early on a Sunday morning.  I, as usual, had silenced my cell phone for the evening. So  it was only when I awoke that I noticed I had just missed a call from Mom's assisted living facility.  I used to always hold my breath when this number came up on my phone and this time was no different.  I immediately called back and the nurse told me that Mom had been sick since she woke up and that her pulse rate was unsteady.  She told me that they were sending her to the hospital and they suspected she just needed some fluids or something.  This seemed logical.  There had been a stomach virus going around the facility and Mom had been doing great.  No need to suspect anything else.
    I hastily threw on clothes and rushed to the ER.  I beat her there.  It seemed like hours before she arrived.  In that time, I called my brother and texted many friends to ask for prayers.  When the ambulance finally arrived, I rushed to the back and stood there as they opened the doors.  There was my Mom in her floral pajamas, smiling down at me..."well, isn't this a revolting development."  One of her favorite phrases.  We both giggled.
   They rushed her into a room and immediately started hooking her up to machines.  Like frantic ants whose mound has been disturbed, the ER staff scurried around my Mom and in and out of the room.  Worried looks on their faces.  I couldn't understand what all the fuss was about.  She had a stomach virus.  A kind, handsome doctor pulled me from the doorway into the hall to quietly inform me that my mother was having a heart attack.  I told him that couldn't be because she didn't have a heart condition.  He was so patient with me as he explained that well, he needed to check any way.  They all left as quickly as they had appeared and Mom and I were alone for the first time.  I stood by her bed and held her hand and  I cried.  She lay quietly as she squeezed my hand and held it tightly.  And then they were back.  She was whisked away to the cath lab and I was escorted to the waiting room.
    On an early Sunday morning, I sat alone in the surgical waiting room.  I leaned my face into my hands and sobbed.  I pleaded with God.  Please.  I'm not ready to lose her.   I can't do this without her.  I wiped my face and headed to the cafeteria to find something  to eat.  I needed to stay strong...for her.  I picked at my food and popped a couple of Advil.  It had been almost 4 hours since that phone call.  I made more phone calls and waited.  After about an hour, the kind doctor reappeared.  He explained that one of Mom's arteries had been 100% blocked.  He had stinted it and her heart was strong.  No damage.  There was no reason why she shouldn't make a full recovery.  I breathed a sigh of relief .
   I went to ICU to wait for her.  They rolled her in and she was awake.  She smiled at me.  A smile that said I'm still here.  The nurses came and settled her in.  She WAS strong.  And she wanted to live.  See, Mom had found a new purpose since Dad passed away three years ago.  She was the welcoming committee, counselor, and friend of her assisted living companions.  Her entire married life, Mom had been the one in the background, the supporter, to be cliche...the wind beneath the wings.  She was content to support her husband and children.  That was her job.  As we drove back to Lafayette from Hammond one of the last times she went there, she wept and said, "I don't know what my purpose is now."  I told her that she obviously still had one because she was still here.  Well, she had found that purpose.  And she wanted to live.
   That afternoon the nurses kept asking her if she needed things and she would say, "No, but if I do, Patricia will get it for me."  That's who we had always been, but since Dad, even more so.  But she was fine.  We talked, we laughed, we planned.  We were going to my nephew's graduation in May.  I discussed my trip to Costa Rica in May and how I had hired a dog sitter already and she said, "Oh, I'll be fine to keep her by then."  She wanted to live.  Don't get me wrong, my Mom was ready to die.  She knew with all certainty where she was going and that she would see my Dad again.  But that afternoon, we both wanted her to live.  My brother kept texting and finally about 5 pm I convinced her that he needed to hear her voice.  She said her throat was dry and she would just talk to him tomorrow, but I pressed the issue and punched in the number.  I heard her side of the conversation, animated, normal.  She was fine, she reassured, and no, he didn't need to come.  She said goodbye and handed me the phone.  As she did this, she took my hand and said "I told him we didn't need him.  You and I have got this."  And she smiled.
  As the night went on, she was still sick.  She couldn't keep anything down, not even water.  I fed her ice chips.  Only a few at a time.  I wiped her face and put Vaseline on her lips.  And we got quiet.  Something wasn't right.  I knew it, but I wouldn't let myself believe it.  She was just tired I kept telling her.  It had been a long day.  She just needed to rest.  Tomorrow would be fine.  God, please just get her through this night.  I thought that if we could just make it through this night, everything would be fine.  She was so restless.  Talking out loud and gesturing in the air.  Not like people say. She wasn't seeing the other side.  She was talking to her friends at the assisted living.  She was organizing them as she often did.  And she would awaken and knew she had been doing it.  I googled all her symptoms.  Was this normal?  She was going to be fine.  She wanted to live.
     Around midnight, she finally quieted and seemed to be resting. I lay awake on the pull out chair, listening and watching the machines.  Every 15 minutes, a new reading.  I watched and waited.  And as the machine beeped and clicked, I heard a familiar sound.  Mom was praying.  I couldn't make out the words, but I had seen and heard this before.  The quiet murmuring of a prayer.
     I stood by her bed and held her hand.  "Just rest, Mom."  She looked at me, "I'm so tired."  "Yes, I know.  Try to sleep."  "But, I just feel so sick."  My heart grabbed in my chest.  This was my Mom and she never complained about anything.  I can't explain it, but I began to panic.  I knew in that moment that I was going to lose her.  But denial was strong.  And she wanted to live?
   Those were the last words my Mom said to me.  She drifted off to sleep.  Not me though, I watched the machines and prayed.  It was about 30 minutes later and the numbers started to drop.  I jumped up and ran into the hall to meet the nurse heading my way.  "Are you worried?"  She wasn't.  Probably just a bad reading.  Do it again.  Still bad.  And here the ants came gain.  Injections, oxygen...and the numbers continued to drop.  "Did she have a living will on file?"  No, I had forgotten it at home.  "What do you want us to do?"  But he said her heart was strong.  He said she would be fine.  And she wanted to live!! Yelling at her.  Calling her name.  No response.  Her eyes opened once, but they were empty.  I backed into the corner of the room as they worked.  I felt like a scared little girl.  Why were they asking me these questions?  I was just a child.  "You have to tell us now!"  Quietly at first and then with a yell...NO! Do nothing.  A young male nurse brought me back to the side of the bed.  I held her hand and she was gone.  I collapsed into the arms of a buxom nurse.  "I've got you, baby."  A room full of strangers and me.  They didn't know me, but they had witnessed Mom and I all night and they knew, and they shed tears for me.  Each one assuring me that I had done the right thing.  I had made the correct decision.  I had honored her to the end.  And the nurse who held me told me how proud of me she was.  "I've had families with living wills in their hands not be strong enough to do what you did tonight by yourself."  Through my tears I whispered, "But I didn't get to tell her I loved her."  She smiled, "All night she trusted you to take care of her. She wanted you and you alone by her side.  Baby, she knew you loved her."
   I sat there numb.  Motionless.  "Who can we call for you?"  By now, it was after one in the morning.  I needed to call my brother.  All I could get out was "She's gone, she's gone, she's gone."  He would come, but it would take time.  "Baby, I can't let you leave here alone."  I was shaking uncontrollably.  "Honey, focus on me.  You're going into shock.  Breathe."  I made several phone calls before someone answered.   No hello, "Are you alone?"  "Yes."  "Where are you? I'm on my way."  She was there in about 15 minutes.  We packed up our things.  I held Mom's  hand one last time and my friend and I walked out into the night.
    I drove home alone.  I wasn't thinking clearly.  I sent many texts that simply said, "Mom is gone."  One of my friends from work was awake...at 3 am.  She responded, "I'm so sorry.  What do you need?"  "I don't know."  "I'm on my way."  She sat with me until the rest of the world woke up and read those texts.  I honestly don't know what I would have done in those hours without her.  Other friends arrived around 6 and then 7 and 7:30.  It's a blur but I remember I couldn't stop shaking and crying.  Friends stayed with me until my brother arrived around 10:30.   In about 24 hours, my world was forever changed.  My mother was my best friend, my confidante, my encourager, my biggest fan, my hero, my role model, my spiritual adviser, my everything.  And she was gone.
    It's been almost 3 months since that night.  Time has helped some.  The shaking stopped.  It took about a month.  Doctors said I was in shock.  A sort of post-traumatic stress thing.  I finally started eating and sleeping again. I smile and laugh again.  It still feels hollow though.  I've been forcing normal for weeks.  I still don't know how to do this without her, but I'm learning.   I guess I'm growing, changing, developing....a revolting development...true words.

All your tears...

     In the beginning, they never stopped.  I actually couldn't understand how I could shed so many tears.  It took nothing to make them start.  A word, a song, a memory, a comment, a photo...everything brought on tears.  After many weeks, I couldn't believe they would ever stop.  And they haven't.   They slowed.  There not as frequent, but they still come.  I cry the most these days in my car.  On the way to school or a tennis match.  I know that may seem odd but these are the times when I called Mom. Always, every day.  That was our routine.  On my way to and from school.  To see how her night was and check on how she felt.  To hear what adventures her day held, quarter bingo or a craft project or a visiting music group.  "They're very nice but they're getting older and she really can't hit the notes anymore, but I go to show my support."  And then I'd call on the way home.  "Did you win today?  How was lunch? What did y'all eat?"  Nothing special.  Just each of us sharing in the other's ordinary.  But oh how I miss those conversations.   On the way to tennis, we'd talk about the match, who I would be playing with, where we were playing.   And always after to tell her the details of the, hopefully, win.  Mom had played tennis in her younger years and she still understood the particulars of the game.  In fact, her father had built them a dirt/clay court next to their home when she was a teenager.  It was just another mundane thing that added to our bond.

  Now, there is no one to call.  So in the silence, I weep.  Weep is a better word than cry.  We may cry in joy, but we only weep in grief.  Some one told me once that the composition of tears shed in grief differs from all other tears.  So, of course, I googled.  Turns out, my friend was right.  

      Rose-Lynn Fisher wondered if her tears of grief would look different compared to her tears of joy, so she began to explore them up close under a microscope. She studied 100 different tears and found, for example, that the ones our body produces to lubricate our eyes are drastically different from the tears that happen when we are chopping onions. The tears that come about from hard laughter aren’t even close to the tears of sorrow. Like a drop of ocean water each tiny tear drop carries a microcosm of human experience. Her project is called The Topography of Tears.  Interestingly, emotional tears have protein-based hormones including the neurotransmitter leucine enkephalin, which is a natural painkiller that is released when we are stressed. It's like when we shed tears of grief, our tears act as numbing agents against the pain.  Plus, the tears seen under the microscope are crystallized salt and can lead to different shapes and forms.  (Information retrieved from http://www.lifebuzz.com/tears/).

This is a picture of the tears shed in laughter:

This is the photo of tears shed at a joyful reunion:

And this is a picture of tears shed in sorrow:



All these tears and all these chemicals are amazing to me.  But even more amazing is the scripture that states that God records every tear shed.  

 "You keep track of all my sorrows; 

You have collected all my tears in Your bottle; 

You have recorded each one in Your book"  

-Psalms 56:8 (NLT)

I can hardly wrap my mind around that.  God knows every tear I've shed and those yet to be shed.  In my car, I'm not alone.  God is there listening, counting, collecting, and recording.  He made these tears to be different.  So, I will continue to weep with no shame knowing that these tears were divinely designed to help me heal.  

The faces of grief.

    A friend of mine sent me a picture of an artist's interpretation of the weight of grief.  A wire frame human shape kneeling and filled with rocks.  It's like that.  The weight is so great that every breath, every step, every word uttered seems impossible.  I couldn't express to friends how weighed down I felt.  But the artist captured it perfectly.




That night I began to search for other artists' depictions of grief.  Not surprisingly, most are in cemeteries.  Here are a few samples:

 



   


   

Like the weighted down human, many of the statues are bowed over in grief, unable to stand upright.  I know this feeling.  Even when walking or standing, I never fully feel like I'm standing upright.  My shoulders still feel weighted and bowed over.  Notice that several are actually prostrate in their grief. In the past months, I too have physically fallen to the floor overwhelmed by the power of grief. 

I also find it interesting that many of the faces of the statues are concealed, covered in their hands. I thought about this for a while and came up with several explanations. Perhaps it is because so much of the grieving process takes place in private. I often make it through an event only to cry in my car on the way home.  Or turn my head when something triggers the grief so no one can see.   I'm sure I'm not alone.  There comes a time in the grieving process that people no longer know how to respond to your tears. It's odd but somehow you see a look and just know that from that moment forward, your grieving will be something to keep to yourself. Oh how much easier would it be if this was not the case?  If you could continue to share the weight of your grief with others.  But unfortunately it becomes a lonely, singular burden that only you must find a way to bear. Finally, I thought of another possible explanation for the covered faces.  Perhaps the artists wanted to allow each of us to place our faces in the blank spaces.  To impose our own persona on the faceless griever.  Well it worked for me.  Each photo I found seem to be a mirrored reflection of my own grief.  I shared their plaster tears.  And as I searched, I felt compelled to keep searching for more images, more likenesses of my pain.  I suddenly didn't feel so alone.  Obviously many others across time had shared in this process.  And they understood.  I can't explain the comfort of seeing those images, but in some twisted way, I am now a part of this strange stone family. 

Tomorrow Will Be Different.

Today will be a good day.  Today is Mother's Day.  Mom died two months ago.  This will be the first Mother's Day in my life that there will be no card to buy, no phone call to make, or reservation to book.  But today will be a good day.  Today everyone will understand my sadness.  They will not expect me to smile or laugh.  In fact, today I can cry openly and it will be okay.  Today no one will tell me that time will help or that life goes on.   All my friends will think of me today.  They will send good thoughts my way.  They may stop and say a special prayer as I come to their mind today.  Today everyone will rally their support of me.  Today there will be texts and emails, greeting cards, and Facebook messages and maybe even phone calls to reach out to me.  Today I will feel loved. 

But tomorrow, as I return home, I'll pass through Hammond.  Past the exit where my parents lived, where I turned more times than I can remember now.  And there will be tears.  There will be heartache anew.  The pain will be just as real tomorrow.  In fact, there will be an overwhelming sense of loss and loneliness in the aftermath of Mother's Day.  Yes...there will be more tears shed again in private.  And on this day, there will be no texts, no emails, no phone calls, no cards.   Everyone will have returned to their own busy lives.  It's not that they love me any less, but the reminders won't come. So it is with grief, I've learned.  It's personal.   Each experience with grief is unique.  Only you walk the path you're on.  And tomorrow I will feel alone.

But today will be a good day.