For each day in November, many
people write and post to their Facebook status something in life for which they
are thankful. And although I know my life is full of reasons to feel grateful,
this month marks the first anniversary of Mom’s final battle with her monster,
Huntington’s disease.
The first weekend of November last
year, her tongue became an uncoordinated slug that thrust against anything we
put into her mouth. She could no longer draw upon a straw to drink, nor could
she pull soft foods into her. Dehydration robbed her body, making her skin pull
tightly against her bones. Hours in the emergency room led to some relief when
they started IVs to treat the dehydration. Nightmare days in the hospital began
where the nurses gave up on trying to get medication into Mom, leaving the task
up to me; where we followed Mom’s directives and refused tube feeding; where I
made the calls to set up Hospice care.
Last November slipped into endless
days of coaxing miniscule amounts of food, and then water, into Mom. Within the
first week of bringing her home, she stopped eating. Three weeks later, we
could no longer get her to take the drops of water we offered through a
syringe. Three days later, she died.
Thankfulness comes wrapped in grief.
Looking back, I recall spending hours in the rocking chair, reminiscing with
Mom about long ago events. She could no longer speak, but often she’d smile. I
knew at the time that she struggled to stay with us because of my brother’s
promise to see her on Thanksgiving. No calendar marked the days, but her heart
knew she needed to be with him one more time. When he entered the room, she
raised her hands and took his in embrace. Her smile warmed the room. Whatever
energy she had left, she’d siphoned off and saved in some secret spot, and she
drew heavily upon these reserves in the day that my brother stayed.
No one likes to talk about the
vigils we endure as loved ones die. No one wants to admit to whispered words of
release. For the next three days, I stayed with my mother and gave her
permission to leave us. I assured her that we’d take care of one another. That
the love she and my father had showered upon us would continue to hold us
strong through the rest of our lives. I counted the blessings of our life
together.
Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman
