Mom’s Final Wishes

Yesterday evening, as the sun was setting, I chose to open one last file of papers to end another day of sorting through the vast accumulation of stuff that my mother gathered over the years. The very first paper. The one on top. Is the picture. I have translated below my mother’s words.

Help Me To Go, Please Let Me Go

1. I don’t want to simply exist, spending my days just sleeping, eating and defecating
2. I don’t want to be dull and uninteresting, staring blankly, only able to discuss my meals and bodily functions
3. I don’t want to lose all my manners- food dripping out of my mouth, my nose running into my food, belching with abandon, passing gas without regard for others, coughing without covering my mouth, making others suffer with my body odor because I have lost my sense of smell.
4. I don’t want to use up my children’s inheritance on keeping my semblance of self alive. I want them to enjoy the qualities such inheritance may provide.
5. I want to be remembered as a warm, loving person, full of vitality and interests, a lot of fun and endless conversation over ideas, challenges, inspiring, a pain in the neck at times, one who inspired a disciplined life but also one keen on adventure and discovery, not the vacantly smiling blob in the chair or the thing in the nursing home which must be visited.

Please either make my mind work properly or enable me to die. Please don’t just keep me going, going, going. I am not afraid to die with dignity. My biggest fear is that I am, rather, scared of being a burden, of being remembered as a senseless old fool.

This. Is what I found in a folder. There is no date. Which is quite unusual for my mom. No idea when she composed this. But it feels like she knew. Had some inkling as to what might be happening with her mind.

Even though she fought me so very much. Swore. At me. The universe. God. That she was completely fine. That all that was wrong was me.

Somewhere. Deep inside. She knew.

I was near the end of my day of going through files and papers and shredding and recycling. And then. I found this.

My breathing stopped. My heart froze. As I read each item. And realized. Recognized that each and every one. Was true. Had happened. Boxes could be checked. And nothing. I could do nothing. To fulfill her wishes.

My eyes closed. Trying to shut out all that I had just read. Trying to push it away and not digest it. Wanting to take back time and perhaps maybe accidentally have this paper fall into the bin. Without having read a single word.

I knew I would be rather useless the rest of the night. Trying to engage in conversation. Pretend to be interested in other topics.

J.P. had entered the room while my eyes were closed. He approached and I opened them. But there were tears. All I could do was hand him the paper. Huge sigh. Knowing what this meant. How it would affect me. How it would stick with me. Stay and reside and force me to deal with this new in-my-face unalterable reality. Another horror found. Not the first. Probably not the last given the number of boxes left.

Shockingly. Haltingly. Gut wrenching. Sadness. Mixed with my own fear that I do not inherit this.

Wide awake at 3am. Trying to do anything to not think about this paper. The truth. The surging desire to rid myself of all knowledge.

Morning comes and I know I must write something. And then I need to go through more papers and files and boxes. I will not leave this legacy of pain and horrors for my children.

(The day after… writing helps me sort through the pain. My pain. But if I use the word “the”, I am somehow separated from it. Able to depersonalize. Like watching a fictional character and yelling at them to warn them of impending doom. But not an active participant. My mom also addressed a letter to me about her “estate”. Tomorrow we meet again to discuss her care plan. There are currently two residents and one staff member who have tested positive for Covid. I cannot even fathom the reality of this. But I want to leave you with the sweet, precious final words of my mom’s letter…)

No one loved their children more than your Dad and me. You have been our treasures. I know we shall get to see all of you and love all of you again after you have led long, fruitful and happy lives. Please take care of our precious grandchildren. I’ll be waiting with Dad for all of you. Much Love, Mom/ Grandma