. . . to Tell the Story of The Death of My Mother

On a Sunday morning last November, I got the call that I had been waiting for and dreading.  My mom wasn’t expected to make it through the day.  She did.

That evening, I received another call saying that she wouldn’t make it through the night.  I live over 500 miles away and I had said goodbye to her the last time I saw her.  She didn’t know who I was and (I thought that) I was going to be okay when she eventually died.  I thought that it would be a relief to know that she was no longer in pain, she would once again knew who we are, and she would remember her life.  Mom somehow managed to make it through the night.  We went about our normal daily morning routine.

Monday, late morning, I got THE call.  My mom had died from Alzheimer’s.  I was at work (a brand new job – it was my third day working there).  I left work and went home.  I cried.  I sobbed.  I couldn’t believe it.  I hurt to my core.  My heart hurt – literally.  My body hurt.  My brain hurt.  Every ounce of my being was hurting.

I talked to my husband, who works about 500 miles away from me.  I cried on the phone.  I sobbed about how it wasn’t fair.  I didn’t think that it would hurt this much (this became a recurring feeling and thought).

I talked to my brother.  We cried together.  I didn’t think that I could hurt this much.

I called our older daughters to tell them.  I called cousins to tell them.  I called my father to tell him.  He broke down.  They may have been divorced for over 40 years but that didn’t matter at that moment.  I didn’t think that it would hurt this much.

With my brother’s help, I (somehow) made plans to fly up north.  Our cousins would let us stay at their home.  We were flying up on Wednesday, the funeral was Thursday, and we were flying back Saturday.  My husband would meet us up there on Thursday.

I sobbed, cried, yelled, and waited for our youngest daughter to come home from school.  I was waiting outside so she saw me as she got off of the bus.  She started crying as soon as she saw me since I was crying, too (though I was trying not to).  I never knew that I could be in this much emotional pain.

Friends and family called, texted, emailed, and PM’d me on Facebook.  I tried to answer everyone but I was in a fog.  I didn’t know that I could hurt this much.

I went to work on Tuesday.  If I stayed home I would have gone crazy.  I wasn’t myself and I shed a lot of tears but it made the day much easier.

I am usually one of those people who find the humor in situations.  I don’t (outwardly) let things bother me.  During this time, I was the exact opposite.  I had a very hard time smiling or feeling anything other than grief and pain.

I wanted to see Mom one more time.  I knew that she had been wasting away because she had forgotten how to walk and eat.  They brought her out after preparing her (we are Jewish so she had been completely wrapped in a shroud, etc.).  My brother did not want to see her.  My youngest daughter did want to see her grandmother.  This was the first time she has seen a dead person.  My husband went in with us, to be there for both of us.  When our daughter was ready to leave, I asked for a few minutes alone with Mom.  I talked to her (I still do, though not out loud anymore) and I tried to kiss her.  The casket was too high (or was she too low in it as she was under 100 lbs. and well under 5′ tall) and I couldn’t reach her.  I tried but all I could picture was me pushing a little too hard and the entire casket falling off of the platform.  I settled for kissing my fingers and placing the kiss on her forehead.  The grief was unbearable.

Mom was cold.  I guess I never thought about how they keep bodies who aren’t being embalmed from decomposing.  I learned that they refrigerate them.  Mom never liked being cold.

I decided that I would give a eulogy.  I was honest in my speech because our relationship was not perfect.  I hope that I was able to communicate the love that I had for her and that I know that she had for me.

My brother gave a eulogy, too.  His was “off-the-cuff” based on his 3 notations (one of stick figures!) on a scrap of paper.  His was difficult for him (and me) to get through.

When it was time for Mom to be lowered into the ground . . . I kept shaking my head and saying, “No.  No.  No.”  I couldn’t believe that she was in that box that we were placing in the ground.  In Judaism, it is considered a good deed for the family and friends help to bury the coffin.  I put a few shovels of dirt in the hole.  I helped to bury my mother with a pain that I never knew existing.

It is now months later.  I know with all my being that mom is no longer in pain, she knows who we are, and she remembers her life.  I know that she “talks” to me and helps me.  I know that she loves us – her husband, her children, grandchildren, and children-in-law.  She IS in a much better place which she deserves.

The pain has subsided but it is still there.  I don’t think that it will ever go away.  I don’t know if I want it to.