Living in perfect symmetry

"How we approach death is going to depend upon our fear of life, how much we participated in that life, and how willing we are to let go of this known expression to venture into a new one. Fear and unfinished business are two big factors in determining how much resistance we put in meeting death."

"Fuck me," I said, mainly to myself, as I threw down Gone From My Sight, The Dying Experience, by Barbara Karnes.

Looking at Mom, in that hospital bed in the middle of her living room, with an oxygen machine between us, making a strange Darth Vader-like sound, I wondered if Barbara Karnes was full of shit. Even if she was right, I couldn't get my head around how Mom, with her wasted body, would be able to take care of any unfinished business. Perhaps she was dealing with it internally, down deeper than I could see, or understand. Maybe Barbara Karness was right? I'll never know, just like I'll never be certain Mom wasn't in pain those final days. I won't know if she suffered.

Hospice assured us she was not in pain. That all of her moving, and shifting in bed was part of the process. The dying process. Same as the sounds Mom made. Hospice looked me in the eye and said, "Your Mom isn't doing any of that because she is in pain, it is part of the process." Then, the nurse I'll never forget said something I'll never forget, "This is normal."

This is normal? Fuck normal.

I can't begin to express how much I wanted, how much I needed to believe the nurse. I had my doubts though, mainly because the one person who could honestly tell me whether or not there was pain, well, she could no longer speak. Hell, Mom couldn't even swallow at that point, which made giving her pain medicine very hard. Not that Mom complained, all she could do was make this consistent guttural moan like groan that competed against the oxygen machine's Darth Vader-esque sound. Eyes half open. Reaching out with her arms every so often as she shifted around in her bed. "This is normal," I said, to myself, as I looked around the living room at all of the photographs of the Boy(s). Seeing their pictures, especially in that setting, was like being stuck with a knife. It hurt. Bad. The realization that Mom, who so enjoyed being a Granny, would miss so much in the coming years. "This is normal," I said to Mom this time, wondering if she could hear me, even though she couldn't respond. Hospice said hearing was the last sense the dying lost. So did Barbara Karnes. "Isn't that reassuring."

Looking at the cable box, I saw that it was 2:25am, which meant I had 35 minutes until I could give Mom her next dose of morphine. That I had only massaged the valium cream into her wrists 25 minutes ago. Could that be right? 25 minutes? Time stood still late at night in that living room.

Confused, and afraid that I was going to give Mom more than her prescribed dose of morphine, I decided to recheck my notes. We had this whole medicine timetable that helped us keep up with all the drops, creams, and shots. I'm not sure which was more absurd, the fact that I was worried about giving Mom to much morphine, or the fact that I was watching The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air on Nick @ Nite while I worried about it. Seriously. There was something very wrong with Nick @ Nite playing on TV under those circumstances. So much so, that I muted The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, and decided to pick up Gone From My Sight. The Dying Experience and re-read it. Hospice had suggested it, and well, Hospice, and the people that work for it were amazing. Noble.

After reading Gone From My Sight for a third time, I have to be honest and say, the book didn't do much for me. In fact the book reminded me of a truncated inverse version of What to Expect When You are Expecting. I'm sure there are many, who in similar circumstances would take great comfort in the book, and the titular poem by Henry Van Dyke. Not me. In truth, the book pissed me off, and made me even more angry at the whole fucking situation.

To be fair, Ms. Karnes did know her shit. The guide in Gone From My Sight. The Dying Experience about the signs, phases, and timetable on dying were correct. Everything that I read, I saw. The thing is, I didn't really need the book. I felt Mom dying.

I'm not sure I can put into words, what I felt, but it was the same feeling I had a few days earlier when I had the urge to call Dad to see if we should move up our trip to see Mom. It was something I felt for a long time, if I'm honest. Nearly a year. I just kept telling myself that I was being negative. That what I felt wasn't real. Real or not, I felt that feeling again, hard, on Wednesday, October 18. I knew that Mom would die that day.

At noon, not really knowing what to do, I went with my gut and drug this old chair over next to Mom's bed. The chair was one Mom had bought at a garage sale a few years in the rear view. Most people couldn't get their ass in that chair, it was so small, but I have no ass, and more importantly the chair meant something to me. To Mom. She had bought it for Ethan. When he visited his Granny he'd always sit in that old chair at the dining table, the same table from my youth, and watch cartoons as Granny watched him.

Sitting in that chair, I took Mom's hand as I thought of The Little Warrior, and felt a palpable sense of loss because I knew he'd never get the same chance. He probably wouldn't even be able to remember his Granny when he got older. That hurt.

Holding Mom's hand, I looked into her eyes, and told her I loved her. I'm not sure if she could hear me. Or even see me. Her eyes, although open, were fixed. That didn't matter though, because the one thing the cancer had not ravaged was Mom's eyes. They looked the same as they always had. They looked like my eyes. They looked like the Boy(s) eyes. Staring into her eyes I quietly, and I'm ashamed to say, awkwardly told my Mom all the things I felt I needed to tell her. If Hospice and Barbara Karnes were correct, and the ability to hear is the last sense to go, Mom heard me. I'd like to think she did. The same way I'd like to believe she wasn't in pain those final days. That she knew I was with her, helping take care of her. Helping my Dad. Most important, I hope Mom knew that I sat holding her hand when she died at 1:26pm on Wednesday, October 18. Only 8 days past her 65 birthday.

I had never seen anyone die. Not in real life anyway. I'm amazed and sad that the first person I saw enter into death was the person who gave me life.

Still, nearly two weeks later, I can't get my head around the fact that Mom is gone. That she is no longer around. That I live in a world where I cannot call her, or go see her. I saw her take her last breath. I saw her body shudder and then watched it get, well it got lighter. If you are religious or spiritual, you can say that was when Mom's soul left her body. If you are not, you could say it was simply her muscles relaxing upon physical death. In the end, we all believe what we want or need to believe.

As for me, I simply cannot believe my Mom is dead.

Until I BLOG again...Nothing is as down or up as us.