we make a pact with each other, in the dark of night… a phone to our ear and miles of night between us. we are cut of the same cloth, and this is the reminder to leave a lifeline at the mouth of the cave before we enter. this is how siblings grieve together and apart, never ready to let go of mom even as she slips further away.
my mother is dying. it surprises me sometimes how matter of fact this is: this statement. the (sometimes) business side of my brain kicks in and allows me to not feel the enormity of this fact. until it arrives like a sledgehammer to my heart.
my mother is dying. she has been for three years. i fear that nobody is strong enough to endure this long process.
her body is forgetting how to work. how to live. how to move. she stands to walk (walking, always walking like a caged animal, beachcombing in the recesses of her mind perhaps, long sandy miles between houses and boardwalks along the coast of maine…) she stands to walk and her brain forgets to tell her body how to move. how to stand. how to balance. and so she falls. again and again. last time a broken collarbone. this time, staples in her head. there is a refusal of the wheelchair. not obstinately like a tantrum-ing two year old but silently in her sheer forgetfulness. she, in her mind, is not a dying 70 year old white haired woman. she is a young mother of one or two or three. a navy wife, a teacher, a healthy vibrant social butterfly trapped in the swiss cheese of her brain.
my mother is dying.
at the end of her long day, she often had my brother read my bedtime story. now, as a mother myself, i know why she did this. my favorite book was mousekin’s house… the golden pumpkin and the sleepy mouse hibernating all winter as the snow fell quietly outside his safe nest. we read that book a lot. i know now that it resonated with all of us. we are all one and the same, yet completely different.
we make a pact with each other. just after she returns to her home, we make a pact just after another seizure comes and we’re all on high alert. texts come in the dark of night. every phone call makes me wonder if this is it. if i should get in my car and drive through the night. she’s under observation, they take her vitals every four hours. we make a pact with each other just before hanging up … when we receive the simultaneous 10pm texts … she’s back at the emergency room. this is the quickening, i fear. the speeding up of the most long drawn out process of death.
i fluctuate between bitterness and cold. weepy and nonsensical. letting the golden pumpkin close in around me. we make a pact to keep each other accountable. to leave a trail of breadcrumbs… a life line at the mouth of the cave before we enter this death.
This goes to the heart. It is wrenching for me so I cannot even begin to know how it is for you, except for your words. What can I say…little I think that would be of any help.
Vi
this is a sacred time.
someday, we may sit over tea, quiet with each other, and i will tell you of my journeys with death…and with the moment of transition.
sip it in slowly, savouring every small drop as it passes through the portal. it is all sacred, sparkling, turning slowly in the light.
everything created will pass. it is in its nature to do so. but what is the uncreated…of you. of her. that abides. it is one. it is all. it is not different from you. from her. it IS who looks out from your eyes. her eyes. no matter the appearance.
so savour. eyes open. let your gaze be soft and subtle.
xo
I just wanted to say I’m sorry. I’m sorry it’s so hard, and so much. And that I understand – not exactly, but enough – to feel the tears and heavy heart and the sense of standing at the mouth of that cavernous place. Sending warm thoughts your way.
Such a painful time and no words can take that away. Wishing you strength and comfort from those who love you and surround you and from your memories of your mother. There will always be those memories that wrap you like a warm blanket when you need them. Peace to your family.
Much love to you as you navigate these waters.
I recently just found your blog and can’t keep myself from coming back and back again. Your writing is profound and perhaps cliche, but it moves me. It really does.
This post especially…my father is dying. It tears me apart that I can also say that so matter of factly. But saying it that way allows me to deal with it better…to prepare better. I sleep with my phone on the pillow next to me so that I don’t miss one of those texts or calls. Most times I can hardly sleep for fear I will miss one. It will be soon but I’m not ready for this long drawn out process to be over with just yet.
I know sometimes all you want or need is a hug…no words, no plans, no thoughts. So I am sending you a hug. xo
Sarah
secure that pack with blood. this journey you are on, this cave you’ve entered, surly will have more twists, turns and unknown rabbit holes. to have a pack with ones who bear history, knowing & backstory is a gift. i know.
guard & protect it, support & nurture it. wise woman, it is indeed a life line. X
My darling Meredith, of course your Mother is always on my mind. We had such good times together. Of course adding you five kids to it made it family. Love you, Aunt Dorothy
your words… are such a gift to others and to you. i think of you often and this heartache you are full of…. knowing how hard it must be to say goodbye in this way for so long.
I have no words…you have expressed the feelings, the emotions, the dread so beautifully. Sending you strength and love on this journey.
Beautifully written. Heart wrenching pain wrapped up around poetry. I
I hope the cave has reasonable ventilation and a few fairy lights here and there.
My Aunt Dorothy directed me to your post, telling me I just had to read your writing about your mother, her friend. This is both a wonderful tribute and a heart-wrenching story. As I watch my mother age, struggling with physical difficulties, my emotions sway and I, too, dread that moment when I’ll get the call, the final call. But for now I have her and that is what matters.
Hold on to the memories, to the love, to the connection. Your mom is blessed to have you as her daughter.
I’m sorry Meredith. It’s beyond hard to watch someone you love, someone who cared for you and raised you, to watch them slowly die.
Meredith … I landed on your blog for a reason. My heart tells me this. I don’t follow you on Twitter or Facebook, and I don’t read your blog … (however, I will be from now on!) My chance landing on your blog was because I needed to hear from you, a stranger, connected by a mother’s love, a mother’s lifetime, and a mother’s impending death. I offer you my prayers, a reassuring hug, and strength. I know too well what you are going through … my mom is dying as well. I grapple with the thought of how the world will go on without her. That to me seems impossible. How can I be so accepting of what is happening? How can I not save her? I am angry some days and afraid other days. On the other side of my anger, I am honored. Honored to be a part of my mother’s life. Honored that God chose me to come to this earth through her … with mom’s design. Honored to pass mom’s design to my children. And it will be my honor to be with her when she takes her last breath …
Praying for you as you continue on this journey.
oh friend. my heart is breaking for you. because I know how hard this is, I know what this feels like this. I know what it is to fluctuate between so many different emotions, to want to be able do something, anything, to make things her better. I wish there was something I could do. I’m here for you, friend. whatever you need. you’re in my prayers. xoxo
Thanks for telling the truth. I feel less alone and inspired to follow the artist’s way of living.