By Elisa Lewis
That distinctive horn of Mom's old
car, signaling yet another intrusion into an overwhelming day. She
was stopping by to visit, a short drive from her apartment. It was
just last autumn when the visits here diminished rapidly and my
visits to her increased dramatically. Her car soon sat silently in
a "tenants' parking space," while my car never seemed to be silent
in its many trips carrying me, a harried daughter, to be with Mom to
figure out medicines or bills or lost keys or lost cat. The biggest
intrusion now was the illness that was taking away my mother's
independence.
Just last autumn, after so many
years of Mom's strong presence and both of us trying so hard to have
a good connection, so much was now getting in the way of that. All
the years of fighting to show that I was an independently
responsible woman, but never quite convincing her that I made the
right choice in who I married, where I lived, where her grandson
went to school and all the other things that make for a turbulent
mother/daughter relationship.
But she was with me now, apartment
living and driving so quickly a memory - so ill, so quickly. The
tenacious, outspoken, expressive, generous, domineering, gregarious
little mother was now here in my house, because she needed to be and
because I wanted her to be.
So, the short-long, difficult,
intense journey as caregiver had begun - wakeful nights with many
assisted bathroom visits and wakeful days of appointments, phone
calls, paperwork, feeding assistance, medicine taking, adjusting
pillows and legs and head and room temperature and TV and, of
course, many assisted bathroom visits.
My husband was supportive and
helpful - he looked past their history and saw the needs of the
present. My adult son, who has disabilities but the wonderful
ability to be kind and to say the right, comforting things, and who
always was the first love of Mom's life, was there to help in his
own way.
But, most of the time, when there
were no nurses or visiting aides, it was just Mom and me at 3 a.m.
when she needed a drink of water and I didn't have to go far from
our makeshift set-up in our living room. Just Mom and I, sleeping
across the room from each other, only a few feet away, and yet all
those years we often seemed oceans apart.
Mom passed away on July 17, just
two weeks after her 84th birthday. I feel it was a blessing that she
didn't linger - cngestive heart failure, bouts with pneumonia,
mini-strokes and dementia can be unpredictable with lengthy
suffering. We spent a lot of time together at the end of her life;
there was finally no arguing and battle of wills. It was just a time
together when there was no time for the "baggage."
I'll always remember my mother as a
unique, unusual person. It will be hard to stop thinking that we
should have had a better relationship; but I take comfort in how far
we came, when that ocean became a gentle stream that we could
finally cross to each other's side.
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