I've written about grief and the grieving process more times than I'd like to admit over the past few years. In a way I feel like I have become somewhat of an expert, between watching others grieve and going through the process myself.
For over six years I have been saying good-bye to my parents, in one way or the other. When my brother, Scott, passed away, the long and difficult process of letting go of them started. Why? Because on the day Scott died, my parents starting dying, day by painful day, until there was nothing but a shell left of both of them.
As days turned into weeks then months then years, the parents I'd known vanished, replaced by people who blamed each other, became increasingly violent and verbally abusive with one another. Mental issues gave way to physical ones with constant trips to the hospital. Hospital visits led to rehab and then assisted living. Even though I was able to describe all of this in a few short paragraphs, the battle and the pain and the exhaustion cannot be contained that easily and compactly.
I have written about some of this and have been grateful for those who have offered prayers, comfort, empathy and compassion. Sadly, too many of you have been in my shoes, in one way or another. Though I have felt like my mom was close to death more than once, but battled back, this time I fear that her death is eminent. Mom has been bedridden now for over a year, her physical body deteriorating. But worse than that, her mind has been fading for years. If you don't know my mom, but know my daughter or me, you can get a picture of a fraction of how strong a woman she is; I got all of my strength from her. Mary Rose Kiker was indeed a force to be reckoned with.
This past week has been difficult, to say the least. My mom's body, it appears, is finally starting its permanent shut-down, after 86 years of some serious kick-ass living. As I look into her eyes, I don't see much there and I know she just wants all of this to be over, as she told me months ago. I want to tell her that it's okay to go, even though the very thought of life without her terrifies me. Even more so, it terrifies my 87 year old father. Wednesday night I asked my dad, as we both sat and stared at my mom's lifeless body, how he felt. He replied, "I'm very afraid." I knew what he meant for I feel the same. I told him that my brother, Eric and I will take care of him. And we will.
I continued by pointing out that my mom has absolutely no quality of life and has not for some time now, that she doesn't really talk, can't walk and is probably miserable lying in that bed. My mom was always a doer; hosting dinner parties, learning to speak Italian in her 70s, taking dance classes, traveling; the list is endless. I told my dad that someone has to go first; he nodded his head and said, "I know." I told him that if he went first, she would be the one that was afraid. So, I said, it's better that she goes first so she doesn't have to be the one who is alone. He just looked at me and I knew he knew I was right. One of my dad's looks can speak a million words; this one certainly did. As I spoke my words, I was trying to convince myself as much as I was trying to convince him.
As I got up to leave, my mom was awake, but not very coherent. I kissed her on the forehead, looked her in the eye and told her that I loved her. There was no response this time, but the night before there was. She had said, "I love you, too, Erin." Normal words for most people, but we just started saying those three words to each other less than a year ago. Funny how long we waited to say them, but how they now flow easily off the tongue because time is short. I will forever treasure those words and forever wish I had said them years ago.
I like to think I am prepared for her eventual passing; the "experts" are saying she has one to two weeks. In a way, I hope they are right, although I will not be ready when the end comes. Part of me wants to cling to her, just like my dad does, willing her to live and to get out of the bed and be whole again. In reality, I am simply not ready to live in a world where my mom isn't. I want to go shopping one more time, take her out to dinner, go on another cruise together...I want just one more of anything with her. Time has gone by too fast and I have spent way too much of it being angry with her. I didn't appreciate her enough and didn't allow her the space to just be her. I regret that.
I'm grateful that God gives the gift of reconciliation so willingly because He created it. When He did, it's so easy to understand why: it's the most wonderful, soul-freeing thing that can happen between two people. My mom's illness has been a gift to me in the fact that it has brought forgiveness and peace I never thought possible; I hope my mom feels the same.
Tomorrow my daughter and I will go visit my mom, quite possibly for the last time. Of course, any time we see a loved one it could be the last time. May we all live in light of that fact.
Waiting for the End to Come
