My mother died very slowly. I can’t remember what year she was diagnosed: I don’t even know how they diagnose emphysema (or chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, as they call it now.) Looking back, the signs were there—increasing use of the inhaler she had for”asthma” and the bronchitis. The signs may have been hidden by her frequent of steroids for ”bursitis.” (She spoke of these things—I have no idea who diagnosed what.)
She smoked. A lot. Sadly, she stopped once (cold turkey) when I was a kid because the routine chest X-rays (required for teachers) had shown a spot on her lungs and she had nasty surgery. I swear I remember the fact that the doctor told her (she said) “it wasn't caused by the smoking Marge”. And so she started again.
No, she was not addicted. No one knew nicotine was addictive, back then, and we seem to have been genetically resistant to addiction, as a family. How do know this? Well, when she was finally diagnosed with COPD she again stopped cold turnkey. I remember she was royally pissed that it didn't help in the least—but there was no difficulty just stopping. We have strong genes in my family.
I was in California by the time this diagnosis was made, so this would have been the 80s’. She was probably terminal by the time the diagnosis was finally given to her, and she retired from teaching. There was no hope--she was dying. There is no cure for COPD, and few treatments. We were told of none.
Finally, it got bad enough that she could not live alone--way out in the boonies--so my sister and her husband arranged to buy the house next door to them in Evanston and move her from Florida to Illinois. Not a choice she was on board with, but she was helpless.
She had lived over 40 years in that eccentric house built by my father, tucked away in the piney woods outside Tampa. Decades of books and probably precious 45 LPs of Woody, Leadbelly and who knows who else. I remember editions of “Gargantua and Pantagruel.” A.A. Milne books, “The Wind in the Willows”—classics, 40-50 or more years old. Who knows what those books might have been worth…? I know things of value were just ditched. (I spirited away a Federalist mirror which was later said to be pre Civil War. I had a little help from my friends.)
I was supposed to drop everything and come help move her, but there was no internet then--you can’t just leave a law practice for an unknown period of time. Years later, when I went to help with Aunt Gertrude, late in the 90s, I stayed in touch via the Internet and even took on a new divorce mediation. But not in the 80s. She was not understanding…. And I was not able to do much, or rescue much.
All I can say for sure is that at some point after the move was somehow completed, we were told that “any insult” would kill her. That means any cold, any injury—any upheaval to her system. If my sister knew this—which is how I knew--I am sure Marge did too.
Imagine what that must have been like—a death sentence… but at a time no one could predict. No one. No help for the slow suffocation except an oxygen tank—life became a day by day decline in brain function due to lack of oxygen; a slow deterioration of lung function until every breath was a fight. Every single breath. And every day there was nothing to do but think about it. Reading became impossible—all she had left was the television and the visits from the grandkids. And… her thoughts.
Now that I am old enough to know certain things will never happen in my life, I can see this better than I could then. Then, I still had so many possibilities--I looked forward, and I did not think back on my life. Now I do.
She smoked. A lot. Sadly, she stopped once (cold turkey) when I was a kid because the routine chest X-rays (required for teachers) had shown a spot on her lungs and she had nasty surgery. I swear I remember the fact that the doctor told her (she said) “it wasn't caused by the smoking Marge”. And so she started again.
No, she was not addicted. No one knew nicotine was addictive, back then, and we seem to have been genetically resistant to addiction, as a family. How do know this? Well, when she was finally diagnosed with COPD she again stopped cold turnkey. I remember she was royally pissed that it didn't help in the least—but there was no difficulty just stopping. We have strong genes in my family.
I was in California by the time this diagnosis was made, so this would have been the 80s’. She was probably terminal by the time the diagnosis was finally given to her, and she retired from teaching. There was no hope--she was dying. There is no cure for COPD, and few treatments. We were told of none.
Finally, it got bad enough that she could not live alone--way out in the boonies--so my sister and her husband arranged to buy the house next door to them in Evanston and move her from Florida to Illinois. Not a choice she was on board with, but she was helpless.
She had lived over 40 years in that eccentric house built by my father, tucked away in the piney woods outside Tampa. Decades of books and probably precious 45 LPs of Woody, Leadbelly and who knows who else. I remember editions of “Gargantua and Pantagruel.” A.A. Milne books, “The Wind in the Willows”—classics, 40-50 or more years old. Who knows what those books might have been worth…? I know things of value were just ditched. (I spirited away a Federalist mirror which was later said to be pre Civil War. I had a little help from my friends.)
I was supposed to drop everything and come help move her, but there was no internet then--you can’t just leave a law practice for an unknown period of time. Years later, when I went to help with Aunt Gertrude, late in the 90s, I stayed in touch via the Internet and even took on a new divorce mediation. But not in the 80s. She was not understanding…. And I was not able to do much, or rescue much.
All I can say for sure is that at some point after the move was somehow completed, we were told that “any insult” would kill her. That means any cold, any injury—any upheaval to her system. If my sister knew this—which is how I knew--I am sure Marge did too.
Imagine what that must have been like—a death sentence… but at a time no one could predict. No one. No help for the slow suffocation except an oxygen tank—life became a day by day decline in brain function due to lack of oxygen; a slow deterioration of lung function until every breath was a fight. Every single breath. And every day there was nothing to do but think about it. Reading became impossible—all she had left was the television and the visits from the grandkids. And… her thoughts.
Now that I am old enough to know certain things will never happen in my life, I can see this better than I could then. Then, I still had so many possibilities--I looked forward, and I did not think back on my life. Now I do.
She must have. She must have pondered her marriage and how it ended. How we two girls turned out. The things that had brought her to be dying slowly, cell by cell, and dependent on others—a cruel irony, as she had always wanted to be taken care of… but not like this. No dignity and my sister resenting, more and more every day, the added burden. Of course none of this was said. But I can imagine.
She never did get a single cold. I can’t tell you the exact number of years--but a lot. Long enough for me to come to realize there was no pain she had caused me that was not because that same pain had been visited on her. It was an epiphany I was able to arrive at thanks to the human potential movement. (They scoffed at me for doing so much come to grips with her death when it had not happened yet, but that turned out to be an enormous blessing.)
I never said a word to her about this shift inside me—but she knew. I could tell. I DO remember that it happened after my divorce and after Daddy died, so I know it was 1990 or early 1991. There was a phone call I remember (after the workshop where the epiphany happened) when I was living in the magical house. I was sitting in my home office, so full of light, looking out at the wonderful yard. I could feel that she knew-- the knot of tension that I had had at my core was gone--that hurt and probably rage I had had… was gone. That is a memory I will have forever.
Not long after, I had to take an job at a law firm – with no husband, I needed more income—and thus I moved back to Orange County to start the new job. Out of the magical house into a condo of maybe 500 square feet. I left my beloved kitty to roam free in Tujunga—I could not coop her up and leave her all alone for 10—12 hours a day. It was November 1991.
When my brother-in-law called we both knew time was short. She had had a stroke, a very small one. I already knew I was not going to let her die alone. I think she lived alone. For all she was so tight with my sister, I know there was a lot of rage. (Maybe both ways--but my sister felt free to vent. She was furious. At me, at my mother, at the care giving.) So I got on the next flight out and flew out to O’Hare to do what I knew was needed.
I arrived over the weekend—and called the firm Monday morning to say where I was. By then she had died (time had indeed been short) so I knew I would not be gone long. They had no criticism, no beef… but I had, somehow, known that, too.
The day after I got there, maybe Sunday, I awoke in the wee hours to check in and I saw the end was near. I lay down beside her, and was there when she passed. (I wrote about that in the late 90s and it was published in “Soul Moments” by Phil Cousineau.) I noted the time of death and called next door. It was over.
Yes, she knew... It was to my sister that she turned to tell her story, to make sure someone knew who she was, and that someone saw her in the waning days… but she knew my sister was angry and she knew I was not. So it was I who had the honor of being a witness to her passing and I who received the gifts that came from being with her as she transitioned to that place where there is Peace. (I felt that peace.)
Even Noël knows, on some level, that I had managed what she had not. She said so when I drew a picture which was part of the small ceremony we had after – there was no body, per my mother’s wishes. She said “I’m not there yet.” She had not forgiven. I can’t ask if she ever did. We can't discuss such things. We can’t discuss most things.
I may never have anyone to tell my story to before I die. Maybe my witness will be the internet. But she knows. She knows.
The day after I got there, maybe Sunday, I awoke in the wee hours to check in and I saw the end was near. I lay down beside her, and was there when she passed. (I wrote about that in the late 90s and it was published in “Soul Moments” by Phil Cousineau.) I noted the time of death and called next door. It was over.
Yes, she knew... It was to my sister that she turned to tell her story, to make sure someone knew who she was, and that someone saw her in the waning days… but she knew my sister was angry and she knew I was not. So it was I who had the honor of being a witness to her passing and I who received the gifts that came from being with her as she transitioned to that place where there is Peace. (I felt that peace.)
Even Noël knows, on some level, that I had managed what she had not. She said so when I drew a picture which was part of the small ceremony we had after – there was no body, per my mother’s wishes. She said “I’m not there yet.” She had not forgiven. I can’t ask if she ever did. We can't discuss such things. We can’t discuss most things.
I may never have anyone to tell my story to before I die. Maybe my witness will be the internet. But she knows. She knows.
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