Waiting For Death

The nighttime darkness has yet to lift even though the clock on the ceiling says it’s morning. The rain continues to pound on the roof and sides of our yurt. It’s been raining through my intermittent sleep. The crackling of fresh fire replenished from last night’s embers provide warmth, and flickers generously. I am about to face another day. My first cup of coffee. My new computer.  Fresh opportunity to receive what comes. My mother is still dead.

It’s been a challenge.  Remembering my 11-day vigil at Norwalk Hospital, being with her as she transitions from life to peace, has become a comfort and gift to me. Together, with my brothers, making a decision to discontinue artificial nourishment and hydration, meant the eventual demise of my mom’s living system. Without food or drink, the journey can take up to 3 weeks. In hospital, with incredibly devoted nurses, doctors, patient advocates and Hospice specialists, I too, want to protect her and comfort her as she passes away. I set up camp next to her bed, and engage in every bit of her activity.

I watch her as she lay on her comfortable, crib-like bed, slowly shifting one leg at a time to one side or the other. She seems to want to climb out. Where would she be going really? Doesn’t she know she doesn’t have to do anything? She can rest now. Death will be coming for her. Death will do all the work.

I think she does know. Mom lies in her bed engaged in 
animated and spirited conversations with her angels. With eyes wide open, a fine, cloudy layer of film separates her from this world. She
dramatically engages with others with whom 
she plans to be, arms gesticulating and hands waving freely towards the ceiling until, finally, in prayer fashion, she rests her clasped hands tenderly on her heart. She speaks continuously. It’s not language that I can understand. But, for sure, ‘they’ do…her angels. Together, plans are being made. Plans to finally let go…. release her worldly commitments…be free!  I promise to be with her until the end. 

Occasionally, the babble is interrupted with some familiar words. “Where’s the fire”? pops out in the middle of a babbling monologue. Or “Let me ask you a question” which startles Paul and me. That was something mom would say before dementia complicated her speech. Sometimes I think I hear familiar patterns like, “….just go through the kitchen…” or ….Moshe….”.  Moshe was her father’s name.  I laugh sometimes when I listen to her soft babble. Her intonation modulates as she reaches, and her tone changes depending on the plans she is creating with her angels. I am comforted by this. Mom is moving on to join her angels. She might even reconnect with my father!

Mom does not eat or drink. Her body and brain are no longer communicating. She lies in her bed, struggling to breathe. Her eyes are mostly open, staring up towards the ceiling, and I suppose right through to the heavens. She waits. So do I.

My 61 years with my mom haven’t always been easy. Leaving home at an early age allowed us to recreate a new relationship. From various long distances, over the years, we talked always, visited with each other often, fought and laughed and shopped and shared. There are some places in the world we explored together, sharing adventures and new experiences. It wasn’t always easy…but she was always my mother. No longer bottle feeding me, or doing my laundry or making my meals. She no longer takes me to theatre or grabs me for a quick movie. She hasn’t called me on the phone in 10 years, and she sometimes doesn’t even know what my name is. But…. my mom was always my mom. She changed. She no longer serves me the way she did in my childhood (maybe that’s actually a good thing). But Roberta Hirsh Block was my mother. Always! Right until the very moment she took her last breath.

I love you mom! And…crazy as it seems…. I miss you too!

The nighttime sky is still dark. The clock on my ceiling has progressed, but the morning light has still not arrived. Maybe today will be dark. Maybe tomorrow too. The sun might take some time to brighten my world right now. I will give in to this…to sit, to cry, to pray and to remember…at least until the sun shines again.