Choices

Yesterday. Opening my eyes. Adjusting to the day being Sunday. The first thought. Foremost in on my mind. Was my visit with my mom. Nausea immediately overtook me. It had been maybe three weeks. Since our last visit. Since Covid had hit the residence. Visits suspended. Residents more isolated than even dementia.

And when I received the email. That all remaining residents. All staff. Had tested negative. I asked requested if we could possibly arrange a visit. An immediate response. Sunday at 1pm?

(Two residents had died sooner earlier than anticipated. Because of Covid. Mom had experienced a cough and fever. They worried suspected. She might too. Be positive. But no)

I imagined we would be sitting outside. On the other side of the fence. In the fall chill. I would need layers and gloves as my hands get cold.

As we moved through morning errands. The dread sadness fear arose inside me. Of my mom. Still being alive. Still suffering. Of knowing that I must be with her. Witness. Companion. At her side. Through this transition.

Sadness overwhelms me. I feel it throughout every fiber of my being.

Decidedly. With conviction. I choose to engage in meditation. Something to help me. Prepare my body. Still (Steel?) my mind.

Using the Peloton app, I find Chelsea Jackson Roberts. She talks me through an acceptance meditative peaceful 5 minutes. I did not have a lot of time and hoped this would help. It did. And then I looked at the clock. Felt my stomach churn. Decided I had just enough time for another 5 minutes of meditation. This time I did a body scan. And I felt the stress and fear and horror subside. A bit.

J.P. walked into our room and I declared myself ready. I also suggested that we take our mutts for a walk in the woods after our visit with mom.

Thus we were off. On the 1 ½ mile drive to my mom. Barely enough time to worry or fret or even breathe. I had my jacket and gloves. I was ready.

J.P. parked the car. Around back. This section has been isolated from the rest of the residents so the protocol now. To protect the most vulnerable. Is that staff only use this one entrance. Visitors sit along the road. Outside of the fencing. Chairs are set up. At a distance. To visit.

Sharon called us over. There was another visit taking place. So I thought. Figured. Perhaps she was summoning us inside the gates. To visit on the patio area. Still at a distance. Just shifting to make another visit possible.

We walked through the gates. Sharon motioned us towards a table. It was then. That I saw. The PPE apparel accessories. On the table.

I felt my breath go shallow. I felt my body my mind my inner safety sanctity sanity. Stiffen. Look for an escape. I would detach. A bit. We were entering the building.

J.P. and I tied the backs of each other’s bright yellow gowns. We put our gloves on. I thought maybe they have her sitting just inside. In the dining section. And they are taking extra precautions. Ok.

We followed Sharon inside. And then down the hallway. It became suddenly crystal clear. That we were going to mom’s room. That she was not healthy enough to visit us. Anywhere else.

It became very quickly nauseatingly apparent. That a combined 10 minutes of meditation. Of my feeble weak attempt at self-care. Was not enough. Nothing could be.

While I intellectually knew. Have known. Have discussed each week. With mom’s hospice nurse. That she is declining. Trouble swallowing. Daily doses of time-released morphine. Losing weight.

Nothing

Not one single solitary thing

Or even a multitude of things

Can ever

In a million billion years

Prepare one

For watching. Witnessing. Death in action

I was flooded with recollections. Memories. Pictures of people in concentration camps. People starved. Dying. No longer resembling people. Walking skeletons. Skulls defined under thin papery skin.

This was my mom.

I tried. For half a second. To keep a smile on my expression. My eyes. She looks always directly into your eyes.

And then I crumbled.

At her smallness. At the tiny person she has become

I could feel her bones. Such little skin covering them

Skeletal

Air

I lowered my head. Placed my gloved hand on her thigh. And wept. Hard

I sobbed. Quietly. As I did not wish to disturb her.

(As if anything else could cause more disturbance)

I sobbed. In my mask.

J.P. placed a hand on my back and reached his other hand out for my mom. He gently held her hand in his and spoke to her. He told her about the girls. Said we were all doing fine. And that he would protect us always. That we were all safe. That these strong young women were my mom’s legacy. He thanked her for raising me. Thanked her for the daughter she helped to grow flourish thrive. Because he loved me forever.

My sobbing subsided. An Elvis song played. We had programmed a lot of fabulous music we knew she would like.

J.P. held both of mom’s hands. He gently swayed with her hands in his. To the song. He held her gaze.

(I looked upon this man. And thanked the universe that this amazing man person being is in my life. Even at the most difficult time, his love shone through. All of the pain. This was real. Authentic. Love)

He thanked her for the dance. Showed her pictures of the girls.

She closed her eyes a few times. And then. After a bit. Would slowly open them.

I thanked her again for being my mom. I told her to say hi to Dad for me.

J.P. told her she had done a great job. And that it was now time for her to rest.

(Later. In the evening. He said to me. Your mom is a series of 0s and 1s. She needed us to be honest. About what is happening. I laughed heartily. Being the daughter of a mathematician. This is an incredibly apt description of my mom)

After an hour. We took our leave. I hugged her as best I could. I was fearful of hurting her or applying too much pressure to her frailness.

We met up with Sharon. She (just like the Director who had poked her head in during our visit) said multiple times to let them know if there was anything they could do to help me. Me. That I could call whenever.

(When the people who work with dementia patients hospice workers and death on the regular. Ask you if you need anything. If there is anything they can do to help. You know. Understand. Can interpret. That this is bad. That the end is near. That they see the tears in your eyes. That they understand your grief. And sadness. That this. All of this. Is appropriate)

They said they would be placing mom back in her bed. That she would sleep.

They disposed of our gowns and gloves.

J.P. pulled me in close to him. As we walked to the car.

Stunned. I asked him if he knew they would bring us inside for a visit. If he understood how close we were to the end. He was not surprised.

And somehow I was. Somehow. In all of this. I was unprepared.

Although. Later. We surmised that in all of the worlds. I could never be prepared.

Ella hugged me when I walked through the door. Unbelievably undeniably I was able to shed more tears.

We sat outside. I could not decide what to do. Be still, drink alcohol, go for a walk, vomit.

I felt most like vomiting. But I hate to vomit. Too much food poisoning in my previous life working in international public health.

Stillness was not an option. As I felt. Was. Too agitated.

Alcohol had its appeal. But. No

This time. This place. Was where when how. I would choose to be. In this moment. In movement forward. In how to face deal handle the trauma and pain.

A choice had to be made.

We took our four stinky dogs for a walk. In a nearby woods. So they could sniff and check out wildlife. So we could all feel present. Part of. The earth’s heartbeat.

We returned home and I drank a margarita. My mom’s favorite drink. But it tasted too sweet.

J.P. made a healing delightful shrimp creole for dinner. I practiced engaged in stillness while he made this beautiful creation concoction.

We enjoyed wine with our dinner.

See. After all. Processing sadness. Finding a path to individual healing. Takes multiple several angles approaches types practices.

And then. A full complete night of sleep.

This morning. Waking again to the full complete realization. Of the sadness which often overwhelms overtakes me. I chose again.

I choose myself. To be as healthy as possible. To understand acknowledge the sadness. And to still try hope strive for maintain a normal happy life.

(Sadness is exhausting. I wondered. Out loud. In front of J.P. last night. If there would be an end. If. When Mom passes. I would be spent. Sadness tapped out. Too much. Felt. I am tired. Of all these feelings. Of this extended pain.)

I made a promise vow to myself last night. To try to do choose ways methods things that help me. Be strong. Be human.

I did another meditation. With the same person. Voice that is calming. On courage.

I committed a full 10 minutes this time. Because I needed breakfast before going to the gym.

She spoke to me. Said these words or something like them. When you feel like retreating. Choose to be present. In this world. Choose courage. You can still be fearful. But find your strength.

I choose to be present.

Anyone who has ever experienced any kind of pain trauma anguish. Knows understands. Just how hard this choice is. Can be. To not retreat.

(Even though. I feel that is my best easiest route. One that I am well practiced rehearsed in. To walk away. From pain)

But. Choosing to be present. Is not just for me about me. It is for those that I love. To not detach from this. From them.

Means accepting the pain. Feeling it wash over. And then. Finding the courage. The strength. The inspiration.

To keep moving

(Pic of me, Kai and Cooper…taken by J.P. on our walk yesterday. Perhaps he took it to remind me of a good choice. Perhaps to use when he knew I would have to write about it)