Ain't No Time to Hate!

I bought a bumper sticker last week in Kenosha that says "Ain't no time to hate!" It's the perfect lead-in for a story about something that happened to me (okay, maybe I happened to it...) a couple weeks ago. Joe and I were in line at Jewel and were waiting for the cashier to finish processing a Latino family's groceries. They paid some in cash and some w/ vouchers, I think. There were two women in front of us; a woman probably in her 50's or 60's and another in her 80's, I guess--mother and daughter. The daughter was SO loudly complaining about waiting that at first I thought she had Tourette's Syndrome. She was spewing forth all sorts of ugliness about immigrants, Welfare, non-English speakers, and what her taxes were going to. They must have been able to hear her because she was getting louder and louder. I hope for their sake they didn't speak enough English to understand.
To lighten the mood a little I remarked kind of just in their direction, "So, are you looking forward to Christmas?" The older woman half turns her face my way and says in a thick Slavic or Russian accent, "Who you talkin' to? I don't know you. You mind your own bizness..." Her daughter explained, "Oh, she's just saying that because I'm talking about these trashy people who should go back to their own country!"
I was fixin' to blow--serious storm warnings in Rieman town!!! I turned my back to them and started singing, "Oh, I wonder what my Jesus would do...yes, I wonder what my Jesus would do...if he were here today, what would he think of all this hate? Yes, I wonder what my Jesus would do!" (I think it was to the tune of some coal miner song Bucky Halker performed....Joe thought sure it was a real hymn.)
Since the vile, steady stream of vitriol was still forthcoming, I then moved into the show-stopping Let There Be Peace on Earth. I didn't sing at the top of my lungs; I now wish I had gotten the whole store singing.
On went the diatribe. I was so extremely angry that I was a little afraid that I'd get into a shouting match with her. In order to keep my sanity, as I was unloading my groceries I was singing Peace on Earth when I was upright, and muttering (pardon my French), "Fuck you, you nasty bitch" whenever I bent over to pick up more to put on the checkout counter.
When I finally got to our turn in line, the sweet young man who was our cashier and I almost hugged--we smiled huge smiles at one another and commiserated about that awful, awful woman and her mother. Here she was telling the Latinos to go back to their own country, when her own mother isn't even from the US!!

I know I should have stepped up and done something, but what? You can't combat hatred with anger or with more hatred--I KNOW that!
I had an unsettling thought about that woman, that nasty, nasty woman. Can you imagine what her life was like growing up? And what if she still lives with her mother? Her whole life has been one of intolerance, suspicion, fear, misinformation, and hatred. She probably developed these "coping skills" very early in order to survive.
What are your thoughts? What would you have done?--Patty

Remembering Mom's Last Year

10-25-05

I’m writing this because I don’t want to forget anything. And really, also to help myself let go and grieve. As I go back and read this stuff (I added this first sentence later…), I keep remembering the hope. How can she be dead after so many reasons to hope?

It really started back in January, 2004, when Mom found out that she had macular degeneration—the “good kind,” that is. The doctor told her to increase her vitamin intake and eat more green leafy vegetables, nuts, and fish. Something, probably the vitamin A, caused her to have an extreme allergic reaction. She had to go to the emergency room and began what was to be a 7 month relationship with prednisone. Of course, no one should take prednisone that long; however, each time they tried to stop it, Mom broke out in hives all over. Sometimes her tongue even swelled! They finally found a way to gradually wean her off of it, but the prednisone had done its damage. Mom had developed type 2 diabetes and, eventually pneumonia.  In August Mom was hospitalized for pneumonia. In the chest x-rays they found a suspicious spot and began monitoring it. We used to say it was the pneumonia that saved her life. Oh, how I wish we could still say that.

In late November/early December of 2004 doctors told Mom the spot had changed, and they wanted to do a biopsy. The biopsy was malignant. About the second week of December they did a biopsy of lymph nodes to stage the cancer. The surgeon was surprised that they were clear. After meeting up with Mom & Curt (Carol was waiting there with Curt in the waiting room) at the hospital, Joe and I spent the night at the house, Curt stayed with Mom in the hospital in GR. It was the first time I really cried, I think. Seeing her after the surgery made it all seem too real.

Christmas was rough. Mom was feeling awful inside and out, and she was so scared. She vacillated between cheerful, tearful, and angry. We were all scared. Joe and I tried to cheer her up, and I think it helped. We had planned to arrive Christmas Eve, but decided to come up a day early because Mom was feeling low. So we left after work and drove up. We stopped at a gas station (Mr. T’s on 57) and I called from a payphone. Curt answered, then I talked to Mom. I told her I was out running errands and thought I’d call to see if she needed us to bring anything. She said no, and then we chatted about the weather. She told me there was chance of snow, and I said I guessed we’d better leave early, then. She said yes, that was a good idea. Not 5 minutes later we pulled into their driveway and walked into their kitchen. I called out, “Is this early enough?!” It was a very happy moment for all 4 of us.

Mom went in for surgery on Tuesday, January 4, 2005. I went by myself this time and got to Grand Rapids (Meijers Hospital, Butterfield Campus) right after they took Mom in. Curt and Rae were there, and then Rae left and Carol came later, I think. Dr. Heiser removed Mom’s entire right lung and took more lymph node biopsies, too. He was amazed to report that the nodes were still clear, and that the cancer appeared to be non-spreading. There were 3 separate spots, but each seemed to be its own entity, not a growth of the other. In fact, the oncologist and Dr. H. recommended no radiation or chemo!

 I slept at the house and took care of cats, phone calls, mail, etc. Curt slept at the hospital with Mom. It snowed and snowed and snowed. Carol and I went in for lunch with Curt on Wed., and then I stayed at the hospital with Mom for a while on Thursday before heading for home. It was so hard to leave her there. I took her hand and she smiled up at me in our firm, no-nonsense smilish way that we do when we’re scared and sad. I told her the hard part was still to come when she got home, and that she would have a lot of work to do. She said she knew. I don’t think we said we loved each other that time. I did when I left Tuesday night, I think. That’s an odd thing…we just never said that much. On one of my last phone conversations with Mom, I was trying to say goodbye and told her, “I feel like I want to tell you I love you, but that’s just so sad!” She said she knew, and that it was sad. I asked, “What can we say instead?” She asked Curt’s opinion, and then remembered what he’d told her they’d said at church: “Make someone happy tomorrow.” “Okay,” I said, “But what do I say to you?” (I was thinking of the last days when there might not be a tomorrow, I guess.) “The same thing,” she said. So we ended the conversation that way. What makes me sad is, we never got the chance to use it again—she was much sicker than we thought and time was fleeting.

I didn’t see Mom from January to April because I’d had a very bad fall on January 8^th and ended up having surgery on January 10^th. Then on Feb. 17^th I had a non-weight bearing cast on my left foot for a month, followed by a moon boot for a few more weeks. Not a good year to be in our family, I told people! But once I was able, I went up at least once a month. Sometimes Joe went with me, sometimes I went by myself. We had good visits, and I felt like I was helping—Curt could take a break, we’d get him to eat some decent meals, and Mom seemed to perk up when we were there. She’d try to eat more, and sat up longer, and played games. The healing was so slow, and Mom was losing weight. We thought it was because of the trauma of losing her lung, pain, no energy, depression, etc. There were so many reasons for her body to be behaving the way it was. But then her upset stomachs increased, and so did the pain. We thought it was her nerve endings reconnecting, but a CAT scan in July (that of course should have been done months before) showed that the cancer was back with a vengeance in her liver and stomach.

Uncle Dick died at the end of July, and Mom mustered up the strength (and chutzpah!) to fly with Curt to help Uncle Joe & Aunt Shirley and Uncle Ross & Aunt Shirley pack up and clean up Uncle Dick’s house. I stayed at their house for 6 nights, catsitting and working on my dissertation. Mom got the CAT scan before the trip, and waited until she got back for the results. I think she knew how sick she was. Her friend Helen Beidinger told me, in fact, that she thought Mom wanted to say goodbye to her brothers. At the time I didn’t know the cancer was back, and disagreed. But Helen was right. She told me at Mom’s visitation that Mom had really opened up to her one day.

Skip to August 18. On August 18 Curt called to tell me the news about the cancer, that it was inoperable, and that Mom had 6-12 months. When Joe and I arrived August 19, the oncologist had changed it to 3-6 months. Mom told me she thought that was pretty long, and that she could feel her body changing. I asked her if she ever forgot she had cancer. She said sometimes in the morning she woke up feeling fine, and then would remember, “Oh, yeah.” She said she felt a little different every day, weaker, I guess. In the first visit she was still pretty upbeat.

I tried to go up a lot. When I found out on the 18^th, I emailed Pam Farris. Pam, the do-er that she is, took charge. She, Laurie Elish-Piper, and Norm Stahl all got together and worked out having all four of my classes covered for the first week of school. So I packed enough to stay for a week, and told Mom and Curt they could think about it and let me know if they wanted me to stay. Joe and I stayed Friday to Sunday, I think. They decided they’d need me more later. A funny thing was, that bag I packed for the week stayed at home on my upstairs landing—I forgot it!! We got a chuckle out of that…

The next few weeks were scary and frustrating. I intended to go up at least every weekend, but Mom & Curt often just didn’t want “company.” It hurt to be company, and it hurt to be unable to help. I wanted to help cook, clean, do for, you know? But I just seemed to be underfoot. It was a little better when I went up without Joe, just to have less bodies in the house. But even then I felt like a 3^rd wheel or something. On one of the last weekends when we had just stayed one night to watch the U of M/NIU football game, Curt told Joe as we left that Mom had asked for a weekend off. We found out later that week that it was 1-3 months, but they STILL didn’t want me to come the next weekend. Ouch. Curt said, “She just doesn’t want to talk, and no one seems to understand that.” In hindsight, the grown-up me knows that Mom was further along in dying than we thought, and had gotten to the point where she was withdrawing and only wanting certain people (Curt). There’s a really good book Hospice gives you when the patient is close to dying; and I also read the handbook. But we thought there were weeks, not days left.

So on September 14^th we got word that it was now 3-4 weeks. Curt paid for Polly & Nick to fly in from Boston. Joe and I drove up and picked them up in Grand Rapids on Friday the 16^th. We stayed at Carol’s because Curt was feeling overwhelmed, and there’s just no space for company (just 2 very uncomfortable beds). We didn’t get in until after midnight, and went over around 9 Sat. a.m.

Mom was awake and knew us, but seemed confused. She kept asking questions—how did they get here? Where are we going? Polly said that one meant Mom knew she was going to go somewhere when she died. Polly decided later in the weekend to answer that one. At one point on Saturday Mom took Polly’s hand and looked in her eyes and said, “What’s my name?” Polly tried not to gasp and told her “Nancy.” Mom nodded and asked, “Bradley?” Polly told her yes, and started to cry, saying, “Mom? Mom? Can I do anything for you?” She’d moved around a lot on Saturday—very restless, from bed to couch to chair to wheelchair to couch to bed. She threw pills across the room Sat. night when Curt tried to give them to her. Poor things—she didn’t want ‘em, and Curt was just trying to make her more comfortable. Curt finally called over to Carol’s to ask for Polly’s help. I was so glad he did that. 

On Sunday when Mom asked the where are we going question again, Polly told Mom that she was very sick, and the cancer was back, and she was going to die and be with Aunt Kay and Grandma and Uncle Dick. Polly was so strong and loving. The best I could do was hold Mom’s hand and say, “Mom, you know we love you. We don’t want you to hurt anymore. It’s okay to go, Mom, we’ll be okay.” I asked Joe to tell her he’d look after me. He did, and told her he’d make sure I was safe. Nick, bless his heart, then told Mom he’d look after Polly. I remember him telling her, “I love you Grandma, I love you so much!” All 4 of us were standing around her bed by then. We all agreed on Sunday that Mom shouldn’t be left alone—she’d scared the bejeezus out of Curt by climbing out of bed and standing in the doorway! So we sat in their bedroom with her in shifts, and Curt went to church. She was awake some of the time, kind of faded in and out. I remember I sat behind her on the bed and she sort of chuckled and said, “That’s a big hulk sitting down!” I teased her back and told her it was the biggest hulk she knew in the house. I thought to myself that would be a good time to say goodbye, with just the two of us, but I just couldn’t. When Polly came in later is when I was ready. I told Polly, “ I feel like I need to say something.” She told me to go ahead. It was while Curt was gone that we all said our goodbyes. Curt told us he had done so before we got there. Mom didn’t say anything, but she wanted to sit up and had tears in her eyes. We all did. Then Mom wanted to change positions again, and we did the bed to chair to couch routine again. I think she went to the bathroom, too. They hadn’t put in the catheter at that point. There was a hospital bed in the living room, but Mom didn’t want to use it. Go, Mom! She was exhausted, and slept most of the day on the couch, I think.

Around 5 Joe and I went for a short walk. When we got back, the most miraculous sight to behold: I was happy and sad (knowing what it meant from the hospice book), and a little afraid (I think it was kind of like the shepherds being afraid of the angel???)—there was my mother, sitting up in the armchair with her glasses on, watching the football game! Polly, Curt, and Nick were sitting in the living room talking with her. She smiled as we came in, and commented on the game. Then she asked Curt for some air. When he brought in the oxygen, she smiled at us slyly and said, “Did you know my husband is hard of hearing?” And then said to Curt, “I said pear, p-e-a-r, not air!” We all laughed (and cried inside). We had Nick put on the crazy McDonald’s French fry shirt he and Joe had found at Goodwill, and Mom laughed. She called him dipsy, or some name like that. And then while we were all sitting there, Mom said she wanted us to take a picture “before the weekend is over.” Wow. So Curt used his digital camera and took a shot of the four of us on the couch. We asked Mom if she wanted to be in it, but she didn’t. Then we wanted Curt in, too, and he handed Mom the camera. I tried not to exclaim, and she gave it a good try—just couldn’t’ stop her hands from shaking, though. So Curt set the timer and dove in front of us in time. When I get the picture posted, look at the difference in lighting—they’re just a couple minutes apart, and there’s golden light in the one with Curt in it. I like to think it’s Mom’s aura, or love, or blessing, or something—she had been holding the camera!!

Mom went to bed not too long after that, and the next morning was just blasted worn out. The hospice nurse came that a.m., and we waited on the porch for her to finish. Kathy (my cousin) came for a little while, too. Shawn was the nurse, and she was terrific. She had left that book for us all to read, and asked us if we had. She answered all our questions, told us what to expect, explained the morphine they’d be switching to and the catheter. On that day, Sept. 19^th, Shawn said 3-4 weeks still. We doubted it.

On Wed. the 21^st I happened to call Curt to check in and see if he wanted me to come up. He asked me if I’d gotten his email (I hadn’t checked.) He sighed, sort of frustrated, and told me that now the prognosis was 3-4 days. I was pretty pissed off that he’d emailed such news. Aarrgh. But he gets lots of slack for all he’s been through. I taught Thurs. a.m. and went to help register at the NIRC conference Thurs. night. I told both my Friday classes what was going on, and I cancelled Friday’s classes. I told Joe to stay home until Mom died and the funeral was planned—he’d missed a lot already for me, and who knew how long it would be? So I drove up Friday afternoon and picked up Polly around 5:30 or 6.

When we got to the house, Mom was in the hospital bed. She was semi-conscious, I guess. Her expression changed when Curt told her we were there. We both took her hands and kissed her face and said hi. She was very uncomfortable that night, made lots of weird sort of long grunts/groans. We took turns sitting in the chair by her. Curt showed us how to measure and give her meds—one dissolved in applesauce, the other was morphine in an eyedropper. Poor Polly the RN had to give her mom an enema the night before she died. Mom did not like that—made grumbly arguing noises first when Polly & Curt just were trying to roll her over to avoid bed sores, and then for sure about the enema. There were no iv’s, no machines. We were counting number of breaths per minute, and watching for things like her temp dropping or soaring (I think??), her jaw moving when she breathed—like gulping air. Curt took the night shift and sort of dozed off in the rocker next to Mom. Polly got up earlier than I did.

I took forever getting to sleep, and had at least 3 separate dreams in which Mom was dying. In one of them I kept seeing Aunt Kay, but no one else could see her. I asked Aunt Kay twice if it was time, and both times she shook her head, no. Then the third time I asked her, she nodded—yes. I think she was really there to help us. I woke around 8, and when I went out Polly & Curt were sitting by Mom. Her breathing had really slowed, and she had begun moving her jaw when she breathed. Shawn  (the hospice nurse) came around 10, and as she was examining Mom, Mom went almost a whole minute without a breath. Shawn looked up sharply and we gasped, but then Mom breathed again. Polly had gone downstairs, and I went and yelled, “Polly, you want to come up.” By then there was no pulse in Mom’s wrist, and Shawn could not get a blood pressure reading. She said she thought it would be anytime now, and asked if we wanted her to stay. The three of us told Shawn she could go, and that we’d call her when it happened. Shawn was going to work in her local office for awhile. Polly and I just sat there, sometimes side by side, sometimes on either side of Mom. Carol came over around 10:30, I think, and just quietly sat with us.

Polly showed me Mom’s carotid artery—that was the only way to catch her pulse, and it was working so hard, and she was so thin, that I just sat there watching it. I sat on her right side, facing the window, and Polly sat on her left, holding her hand. I had my hand on her forearm. Around 10:50 Polly went to get Mom’s meds. When she went to squeeze the eye dropper in Mom’s mouth, Mom’s jaw clenched shut. Polly startled and tried again. Clenched again. But Polly got it all in, and sat back down. Curt went into his office for just a couple minutes. Either right before all that or right after, I was sitting there with my chin on the guard rail and my hand on Mom’s arm. The tears were just rolling down my face.

I heard Polly gasp, and looked up. I didn’t see it, but Mom had turned her left hand over, palm up. The breathing came even more slowly, and that carotid got weaker and weaker. Finally, everything just stopped. We were so used to waiting between breaths that it took us more than a minute to realize there were no more. I looked at Polly, she looked at me, we looked at Carol, and I’m not sure if or what any of us said. Maybe, “It’s over,” I don’t know. I do know I went to get Curt. I said, “Curt, she’s gone.” He came in, kissed her forehead, and said, “Safe journey, dear. Give Dick my love.” I said, “Bye, Mom,” and Polly kissed her cheek and said goodbye. And so my mother was dead at 11 a.m.Eastern Time  on Saturday, September 24^th, 2005.

God, I miss her. I remember when I moved to DeKalb she told me she didn’t think she’d miss me so much. That’s how much I miss her.