Reeling in the Years
The day my mother died I was housesitting for friends with a hillside custom home and a Belgian malinois still warming to me. I’d called my dad in Oregon religiously since saying goodbye to Mom ten days prior. There really is no describing the pain piercing every part of you as you drive away knowing you’ll never again see the woman who made you.
The hospice nurses said she could go any minute, but as minutes turned to days and then to a week, I think we privately convinced ourselves she would simply live in a vegetative state forever. In reality it just took the cancer cells a little longer to consume her brain and shut down her ability to breathe. When she went, she went quietly—so not like the woman I knew and loved.
It must have been about 10 a.m. when I called for an update and my father couldn’t stop crying. “She’s gone,” was all he could muster between sobs. The gravity of those words pulled me down, literally. Next thing I knew I was wailing in a heap on the floor. I eventually hung up, I’m assuming. I really don’t remember anything but an inability to control my crying and Bella’s hyperalert stance from the living room couch.
I needed fresh air. “Come on, Bella. We’re going for a walk,” I said, and she immediately relaxed and ran to the door. I remember that walk clear as day; for starters, it was a beautifully clear day. I whimpered, and Bella smelled, peed and, for good measure, threw in a tiny poop. Good girl.
My friends texted during a layover in Dallas. I’d warned them my mom was dying but, as I mentioned, I figured she’d last through their trip. Despite my flimsy claim I was OK, they knew better and arranged for someone to take the dog so I could go home. My husband had long lost his parents, so he knew just what to say and do.
By the time I delivered the eulogy at the community church, I had regained control of my emotions and taken charge. The pastor and his wife were incredibly gracious. He was an ultra marathoner and recommended nearby trails for me. The service was my sister Kim’s idea, so I put her in charge of outreach. I didn’t know anyone except my parents' financial planner, who was there along with our family, a few of Kim's friends, Father Dan from hospice and a Native American woman whom my mother had shown kindness and support over the years. Truth be told, the crowd could have been bigger, though it was nice to send everyone home from the reception with doggie bags and a decent food donation for the next day’s service.
A few weeks later, my dad, another sister and nephew drove down to San Diego to heal. I figured my dad would look healthier, but instead he looked worse. I just assumed it was grief getting the best of him. I assumed wrong. It was again cancer, which unbeknownst to anyone had already expanded from his lungs to his brain. He was given 6 to 9 months. He lasted twice that long despite refusing any treatment that might leave medical debt. My mother’s three-year battle had taken a huge financial toll and he didn’t want to leave such a legacy. Therefore, he stuck with conventional chemo and radiation that insurance covered. He also changed his will at least four times.
I jumped on a plane soon as the same hospice nurse told me it was time. “Don’t worry,” she said. “He won’t go until you’re here. He needs your sign-off.”
By then I’d been traveling regularly between San Diego and Bend and never experienced weather-related delays. It figured this time my flight from Portland was grounded due to a snowstorm. I called to let everyone know of the delay. “Here, let me put Dad on,” one of my sisters said. In a raspy, weak voice, he told me, “Annie, I’m not gonna make it.”
I frantically searched for space in the crowded gate area before I burst into tears (and drew a concerned security officer’s attention). I kept thinking of what the nurse had said, about him not passing until I was there. So, I fibbed and told him I was getting ready to board the plane and he had to hold on just a little longer. Eventually, my lie turned to truth.
He too lasted longer than anticipated in that state between consciousness and the ever after. The hospice nurse who came in the middle of the night told me he was close as we upped the morphine to overtake his terminal delirium. First came the “happy state” and then the ragged breathing. I drifted off, only to awaken and find his breathing had smoothed out again. He looked like he was dozing, not dying.
“I don’t know, Anne. He’s an enigma,” the nurse told me on the phone. One morning later, the rattled breathing returned, signaling it was time we each sat and talked with him in private. I took the longest and around 11:30 I sensed a shift, nothing more than that, and called everyone into the room. He passed about 10 minutes later, with snow falling outside a big window and Enya quietly playing on a portable CD player.
In the weeks and months that followed, we’d all speculate on why he fought his passage. Those final days, and hours, haunt me still.
