CRUMBS OF CANDOR: A choice blessing

Published 7:00 am Sunday, July 12, 2020

Sunday morning, I awoke to replay the events of a year ago yet again in my mind. We had made a quick trip to Michigan for the funeral of hubby’s brother-in-law. The day of his funeral, one of hubby’s two best friends slipped quietly to the other side of the veil.

It was my fourth trip in 2019 to Michigan, as I had been making the journey every couple of months for a few years to help care for my mother, giving my baby brother and his wife a break. Actually, they had requested I be there while they took their dream vacation through Europe, but a nice niece stepped up for me to housesit and dog-watch.

We usually stayed at their home, so we cohabitated with my niece and her daughter in their absence. It turned out to be a great blessing, because it afforded us the opportunity to spend hours talking. The BRC-1 gene runs rampant in our family. Both of us have it, and she was undergoing chemo treatments at the time. It was a choice blessing to share so much with the one who first made me an aunt. We strengthened our bond, and under any other circumstances, we would not have had that precious time together.

This somewhat unexpected trip afforded me precious time with my mother, too. She knew who I was upon my arrival, but events unfolded quickly.

She was in a nearby nursing home. My presence as her firstborn always calmed her, so I spent as much time as possible with her. On July 5, 2019, following the second funeral, I spent the rest of the day with her. Her decline was rapid. She had difficulty swallowing liquids, so I fed her the few bites she ate — a few bits of her lifetime favorite, coconut cream pie. She inquired as to where my dad was, the first mention of him in more than thirty years. My husband asked her if she knew who he was. She looked at him a few seconds, then said, “Yes. You’re Bob.”

They were her last coherent words. The next morning, she was placed on palliative care. I stayed with her as much as possible.

Over the next few days, family members were in and out. Sometimes, they irritated the stuffing out of me with their boisterous and raucous humor and loud laughter. Other times, they irritated me as they tried unrelentingly to make her remember them. I explained patiently and repeatedly that she was no longer in the present and that she had no recollection of us or our existence. That counsel, based on previous experience working with Alzheimer’s residents, fell on deaf ears.

In Mom’s mind, she was living in earlier years, and so whenever I talked to her, that is the time period I referred to. Mentioning the people I knew she had been close during those years calmed her. The staff quickly recognized that.

As they came in to attend to her needs, they called her by name to assist them in turning her. There was no response or recognition. When I spoke up, calling her by her childhood nickname, they were delighted as she opened her eyes and cooperated with their requests.

It was bittersweet for me, and it evokes tears as I write this, but they began to call her by that name since it was the only thing she responded to.

On July 9, she became restless, and a staff member stayed in the room with me at all times. No map or instructions were needed. It was apparent that Mom was near the end of her earthly journey. I contacted all my siblings and told them to come quickly.

Watching the clock, it became obvious to me that they were taking too long and might not make it in time.

The activities director sat with me at Mom’s bedside. I held Mom’s hand; her breathing was somewhat distressed.

Inspired to do so, I stood up, brushed her hair off her forehead and tenderly spoke to her, using her childhood nickname.

“Jada, I love you. You are such a good girl. Mommy and Daddy are waiting for you,” I said.

Instantaneously, she relaxed and gently exhaled for the last time. The employee stood and placed her arm tenderly around my shoulders as she whispered, “You gave her permission to go. That was beautiful.”

Soon, the room was filled with activity and drama amidst the weeping and wailing. As for me, it had been one of the most beautiful and choice experiences of my life; a tender mercy of the Lord to have been alone with her as she peacefully left us behind.

Every day, I still have the urge to pick up my phone and call Mom.