drek

It's been six months (just over) since my Mom died.  It seems like I should be less surprised about that.  Or less surprised that it hurts still.

In which I stumble on a thought, maybe a point, and maybe even an idea that might be helpful to no one but me.

When someone you love dies, it changes you.  Or at least it changes how you see yourself.  Which is my way of saying my Mother's death either changed me, or it changed the way I see myself.  I am not sure which, but one or both is definitely true.  

I know I'm technically still my Mother's son.  It just feels like that doesn't mean the same thing now.  Not that I had completely figured out what being her son meant when she was alive.  It's complicated, and probably more than a little boring for someone to read about.  Not that boring you is going to stop me, but it's not exactly what I'm trying to think about here.  What I'm trying to think about is how does her death change me.  Is it just in how people view me, or is it also about how I view myself.  And is this a permanent change or something that I'm going through and will come out the other side of, at some point.  

Certainly, I'm feeling and thinking about things differently since her death.  And I'm not my sunshiney-best right now, that is for sure.  But I feel like that is the superficial stuff.  That stuff will change as I get used to the idea of her not being around.  Of her being dead.  

Oh, I'm beating around the bush, I think.  There's a thought here that I'm not quite expressing, mostly because I don't know how.  So, I'm just gonna type and we'll see if I get there.  My mother died almost four months ago.  I've muddled through, all the while hoping that I would either be a different person or be the same person, and never knowing which, if either, is happening.  On the one hand, I watched my mother die.  It should be really traumatic, and it was.  But, I don't have any idea what that means about me.  I don't know if that's a natural thing I saw happen.  I don't know if I am scarred by it, or if I find it comforting that I got to be there for here at the last.  I feel both, which is okay.  So, yeah.  I'm conflicted.  Okay.  That's progress.  Progress is good.  

I wish I weren't conflicted, which only adds to the conflict, but that's me.  That's always been me.  So, that's good.  I'm still me.  

But at the same time, seeing that was traumatic.  There is scarring.  And that's the kind of scarring that changes a person.  Have I changed?  Probably.  But it's hard to tell for sure.  It's only been four months.  So, yeah, who knows, I guess.  Not a terribly comforting way to leave things.  But the comforting thing is it's still so new* that I can hopefully help shape the way this changes me.  I don't want to be someone who faces disappointment and loss by simply enduring the hardship.  I want to continue to learn from loss.  I want to find bright spots.  I want to find a way to live positively.  

How to do that, is the hard thing.  My Mother's last few years were not, by my estimation, happy years.  Her husband of over 30 years divorced her, leaving her for another woman.  She never quite recovered from that loss.  She was still angry about it the last time I saw her, which was over six years after it happened.  She had every right to be angry.  I was not, and am not, happy about it either.  But, she let that loss determine too much about who she was, and how she thought people saw her.  Other losses, prior to the loss of her husband, also seemed to have this effect.  My Mom loved to smile and laugh, but it grew harder and harder to see that smile in her last years.  She seemed just to endure life.  There was little joy in her life, it seemed to me.  Some of this, no doubt, was depression or some related mental illness.  And that complicates how I look at things, because it means that in a lot of ways, her actions were not the ones she would have chosen if she had not been suffering from those illnesses.  But, if I am able to choose how to approach life (and I think I am at this point at least)**, I do not want to simply endure.  I want to make sure I find joy no matter what loss comes to me.  

My Father's last few years, on the other hand, have been outwardly happy.  He is living with his woman-friend.  They are not technically married, from what I understand, for financial reasons.  But other than having the legal paper, they are married.  He lives near his family, and gets to visit them.  He seems to frequently visit his woman-friend's family.  He calls their children his grandkids, and seems very happy.  But I like his path less than my Mother's.  My relationship with him is reduced to pretending everything is okay and not discussing anything that might be uncomfortable.  My Father does not endure, he only enjoys.  And if he does not enjoy something, he ignores it.  I don't want to do that.  I want to be able to face my challenges.

So, as I have done so many times before, I look at my parents as cautionary warnings.  I think I am much more susceptible to going my Mother's way, mistaking silence for strength, and not getting help when it probably would be better, healthier.  Being aware of that is probably helpful.  Hopefully it means I am on my way to doing things differently.  Doing things my own way.  I think that's part of the reason I share my thoughts on this blog.  I don't know that anyone reading this gains much by it, but I gain a lot by having a place I write down my thoughts and share them.  It's therapeutic.  And I think it keeps me thinking about who I want to be, and how I can get there.  

*Note 1. Four months isn't that long a time to be dealing with this, I think, especially since some of my dealing with it has been trying to not deal with it.

**Note 2.  I do not mean to make light of my Mother's possible mental issues, or to brush them aside.  They were a big part of why she acted the way she did in her last years.  I don't mean to imply she could have acted differently if only she had made the choice.  I only mean that I think I can act differently because I do not suffer from depression right now.  

Gumshoe continues

It's like I didn't forget about this.  Sorry for the delay.  It's been busy.
http://desmoinesgumshoe.blogspot.com/

More about me

Last night I had a dream about my Mom.  I've had some of them over the last couple months since she died.  Most of them I don't remember.  The ones I have remembered have been pleasant.  Mom is happy or smiling.  It usually leaves me with a melancholy happiness.  I'm sad when I wake up, but in a way that feels natural and good.  I miss her, it makes sense.

But last night's dream was different.  It was the first time she talked to me in her dream.  She only said my name, before I jolted awake.  I'm sure there was something in my head, some memory floating in there somewhere that tried to make her voice sound the same, but it didn't work.  I knew it wasn't her, but at the same time, the fact that she spoke to me in my dream was very disturbing to me.  I'm having trouble putting a finger on why.  I'm not someone who believes the dead communicate with us through our dreams, so it's not that I think my Mom was trying to communicate with me.  If I had to guess I would say it's a subconscious way of trying to get the contact I'm missing.  And maybe I wasn't ready for it.

*******

I have this recurring feeling that everything should stop.  That work should stop, that the lawn shouldn't keep growing and need me to mow it.  That it should all be put on hold so I can think about what the loss of my Mother means to me and how I want to deal with it.  But, of course, none of that stops.  And I need to take the time to think about that stuff on my own.  Except that I really have not wanted to.  I've enjoyed being a little overwhelmed with work stuff, and the lawn.  And when I have the free time, I've buried myself in books, video games, movies, or anything else that would let me feel like I do not have time to think about my Mother's life and death.  It has only been semi-conscious, but it strikes me that this is probably not all that healthy.

Of course, sharing all those thoughts here is probably not the best idea either.  But at least I'm going to start doing some of the work.

And of course, none of that stuff is going to stop.  And that's good.  In a lot of ways it feels like I stopped.  Stopped being a part of things in the same way.  Like I was jarred out of living the way I had been comfortable living, and now I'm rejoining things.  Slowly.  Or, I was trying to do it too fast, and now I'm going to do it more slowly to give me time to be more conscious about what I'm feeling.  I need to be more reflective when I'm feeling overwhelmed.  I need to be more thoughtful when I'm hurting.

Mom's last years were not happy ones.  It makes me sad to think about that.  It makes me feel guilty.  But it is the truth, I think.  There's nothing I can do to change it now, just like I think there wasn't much I could do to change it as it was happening.  I loved my mother, but she made some decisions that I think she regretted.  She made some decisions I didn't agree with.  And I don't view her life as any sort of cautionary tale, but I know she wouldn't want that for me.  She wanted me to be happy.  So, I have to do things differently.  I have to commit myself to living a happier life.  The misery is fine if it's not a permanent thing.  And it hasn't been, really.  It just washes over me sometimes when I don't expect it.

Maybe none of this makes sense.  It's hard to make sense of my feelings right now.

My Mom.

My mother died just over three months ago. 

I’ve started this entry a number of times—each time with the length of my mom’s death from now changing.  And each time, I’ve stopped right about there.  In a lot of ways, that sentence says it all.  People, even people with living mothers, understand a lot about what happens to someone after they read that sentence.  That sentence is somewhat universal.

But it doesn’t capture everything.  Everyone’s relationship with their mother is different, and how someone deals with that loss is different.  I haven’t really dealt with it all that well. 

***********

Last November, my mom had successful open-heart surgery.  It was successful in the fact that she did not die, and that it was supposed to help her with clotting issues, and general tiredness she’d been dealing with in the last few months before the surgery.  The day of her surgery was hellish.  It was my brother’s birthday, which had to have been completely unpleasant for him.  My wife and I drove with my sister to the hospital early that morning.  We met up with my brother in my mom’s hospital room, where she’d had to spend the night to be monitored.  Then things happened fast, and all I remember is flashes.  We were making awkward small talk, and she was taken down to an area to get ready.  We were able to go with her.  We were asked who should be the contact person, and we said my brother.  Mom requested a priest, or pastor, or whatever the spiritual hospital person is called.  That person came and a prayer was said.  And then she was gone. 

They showed us to the waiting area, where we took up residence at a table and pretty much played games all day, while keeping an eye on a screen that was to update us about Mom’s progress.  For most of the day, it simply said, “in surgery.”  The day went pretty smoothly.  I don’t remember much about the day, except that I did everything I could to stay busy or distracted.  I didn’t want to let myself have too much time to think about what might be happening in a room not that far from where I was.

Eventually, the surgeon came out, and said that everything had gone well.  Mom was alive.  The surgery was a success.  And we were all thrilled.  So happy that now Mom would have a better quality of life. 

*************

After the surgery, everyone was happy, and Mom seemed to think the surgery had gone well.  She went to a facility where everything seemed to go well.  Not perfectly, but they decided that she could go home, and that everything was good.  But then it seems as though it didn’t.  There’s disagreement about why things went south.  I go back and forth about the reasons why Mom didn’t recover as well as hoped.  Some days I assign the blame to doctors, care workers, Mom herself, or Me.  Other days, I think this is just something that happens.  Sort of like an accident or fate.  Maybe nothing could be done. 

Either way, the fact is she did not recover.  She had trouble walking.  She would fall and have trouble getting up.  She seemed weaker.  She would see things or be really confused.  Once she swore the light in her room would move down toward her bed.  Another time she swore the paint in her room was a different color yesterday.  She also swore to having conversations that did not happen.  But she also refused to leave her home and go somewhere that would be able to help her.  My brother did the best he could, but she needed much more help than anyone who was not trained was going to be able to give her.

She eventually did end up in a facility.  The plan was for that facility to help her get to a place where she could live alone again, if possible.  Unfortunately, while she was there, she caught an infection.  By the time it was noticed, it was too far along.  It shut down her organs and there was nothing that could be done.

********

Sunday, April 20, 2014.  I got a text message from my brother saying I should come down and see Mom.  I knew things weren’t going well, but I didn’t fully realize how badly they really were going.  I told him I would be down on Monday, but that I didn’t know when I could leave. 

I went into work Monday morning, told my boss the situation, and left.  My wife and I left a short time after that.  The drive down took forever.  I remember hearing songs from Neil Young’s new album being played on the radio.  If you haven’t heard the songs, Neil Young recorded the whole album in a vinyl recording booth that makes actual vinyl records of the music being made inside.  The sound is scratchy, beautiful, and has an instantly retro feel to it.  One of the songs was Springsteen’s, “My Hometown,” which was intense, and gorgeously done.  Neil Young’s voice was so sharp and so honest, it made me cry.

We drove to the hospital.  When I entered the room, I felt like I had been running.  I saw my sister and brother sitting in the corner, both trying their best to hold it together.  My mother was in her bed.  Her eyes were fluttering, and unfocused.  Her arms were strapped down and moved on their own.  Her breathing was assisted by a respirator.  She was cool to the touch.  My mother was not really there.  The smiling, generous woman who loved to be goofy and always wanted to help me was gone.  But she was still alive. 

It was quickly decided that Mom wouldn’t want to live like this.  It was the obvious decision, given talks Mom had had with each of us.  Looking back on this, the fact that it was so quick and so obvious makes it harder to deal with later.  Decisions like this are supposed to be hard, and should take time to come to.  In the trial’s I’ve observed since, attorneys describe the “beyond a reasonable doubt” standard by saying it’s the kind of doubt you would have if you were making a decision about pulling the plug on a loved one.  And, I agree with that idea, and I think this was the right decision.  But still I wonder if the fact that it came so quickly for me means something about who I am. 

**************

My sister and brother and I each took a few moments alone with Mom.  To say what we needed to say to her.  To make peace with the decision.  To—I don’t know.  I spoke to her.  Or at her, I don’t know.  But I said things I needed to say, and I hope she heard them.  Hope she knew them long before this moment.  That will probably be a mystery for me.  I can hunt down clues and make good deductions and inferences, but I may never know.  Or maybe that’s just where I’m at with this now.  Maybe in time it will all be clearer. 

After we all had our time with Mom, they started weaning her off the machines that helped her stay alive.  The monitors were all shut off.  A magnet was put over her heart to disable the pacemaker that had helped her heart stay in rhythm.  We were left alone, and we just watched.  We watched as Mom died.  Her breathing slowed.  Her mouth opened and silently tried to gulp in more air, but with less and less success.  Her cool hands didn’t move.  Her eyes never focused.  And she died. 

It was about 6:00 p.m., on April 21, 2014.  It was a Monday.  The sun was shining.  The grass was so green from all the rain Iowa had been having.  It was a beautiful spring day. 

**************

The last time I think I talked to my Mom was on her birthday, which is also my wedding anniversary.  My wife and I had traveled to Galena, Illinois, which is where we went right after we had been married six years before.  It was a month before my mother died, and my mother and I chatted while I stood on the steep staircase that took me from the town to where we had parked.  I don’t really remember what we talked about.  I don’t think the she had caught the infection that took her life. 

I know I told her I loved her.  I also know I was really sad after her call.  Most of her calls had made me really sad.  That’s just where she was then.  She had a rough time dealing with her divorce from my Father.  She never really bounced back from that in a lot of ways.  I feel guilty about this now, but it was hard to look forward to calling her.  I skipped some weeks, because I did not know what to say to her.  Because I wanted to help her feel better, but I knew I wouldn’t or couldn’t.  She was depressed, probably in the clinical sense, but certainly in the less technical meaning.  It bothers me that I was not able to help her.  It bothers me I couldn’t get her to help herself.  But it really bothers me that when I think of my Mother, this is the person who comes forward first.  This person is my Mother.  But she’s just part of her.  She’s not the whole person.  She’s not the person who raised me.  She’s not the person who is proud of me, and wanted me to be happy and proud of myself.  She’s not the person who taught me to work hard, and led by example.  And the fact that I have to remind myself of that makes me sad.

But every once in a while, I remember something that makes me smile.  I suppose that’s the sadness falling away.  The stress easing.  The shock wearing off.  I know this is going to be something that will take a while to process, but sometimes those little moments lift my spirits so much. 

But mostly, I still miss my Mom so much. 

***********

I’m not sure why I wrote this.  Or why I’m sharing it with anyone who might stumble across this website.  I was hoping it would make me feel better, and it has—at least for the moment.  I was hoping something might be gained in my grieving process as a whole, and maybe it has.  I don’t know.  It seems like there’s a whole lot of things I don’t know right now.

And that’s okay.  Things are getting better, I think.  The other problems that have come up in my life are pressing, but I mostly feel optimistic about them now.  I mean, it comes and it goes.