Listening to the dying process can be painful for those who must endure it. Like many people who have lost a parent to severe illness, I found myself struggling with grief as I listened to the failing respiration of a body fighting to live, but unable to command the necessary movements to breathe, to pump blood and to process stimuli in meaningful ways.
12 years ago tomorrow, surrounded by her husband of 28 years, her children, grandchildren and her own siblings, my mother finally gave in to the disease that ravaged her body, but could not quell her spirit. In the end, she felt no pain as she went, having lapsed into a coma that became the door through which a deserved peace awaited her. She had earned it after a life that didn’t provide her much financial reward and ended with her stalwart endurance of two years of radiation, chemotherapy and staggering medical bills. Peace for her meant going back to the Lord that she loved and in doing so, she also granted peace to the family who suffered along with her, fought with her and eventually said goodbye to her mortal body.
April 4th, 1998 was a Saturday. We did not have much opportunity to celebrate the Risen Christ that year as the various activities with funeral arrangements and understandable grief dominated hundreds of people who knew her. I was asked to give the eulogy at her funeral and it was a difficult task. I was grateful that we decided to provide an extra viewing day to accommodate my parent's rather large families and friends. It was an opportunity to reflect on where we had come from and truly how much she had endured in her short 53 years of life.
Nearly the youngest of ten children, she grew up at the end of WWII. Her father passed away suddenly when she was but three years old. My grandmother had to care for 10 children, but thankfully her oldest was a Marine who provided support for her and his siblings. There was not much money and the family was poor by every definable standard. This poverty was to become a defining characteristic in shaping her response to those in need for the rest of her life.
She married early in her life and had children soon their after. Her marriage lasted legally three years, but her husband left permanently when she was about to give birth to her second son. Three years later the eldest of two daughters would be born to her. To her credit, she decided against a second marriage at that time.
A tough economy in the late 60's forced her to make her way back to Virginia and the home of her mother, who was then in her 50's. It is tough to go back to living under your parent's roof and their rules with three children who, well, are children. She eventually moved her brood to the home of her older sister, who introduced her to the person that would become the love of her life for the next 29 years. She met and eventually fell in love with my step dad, which says a great deal about the quality of character he possessed in wanting to have a family that was both large and premade.
Eventually, they had a child together who would be the last of my siblings. His work in construction kept him away during the week, and my mother was forced to be both dad and mom. We learned quickly to do what was expected, because she would always give him the report during Friday evening dinner. A favorable telling would mean cobbler or some other treat; it wasn't always favorable and the consequences for that need not be mentioned here.
A family of six today can make much more money tha we had as family income and qualify for some kind of assistance. My stepfather never made over 26 thousand dollars as a construction supervisor, yet we never went without food, clothing or shelter. We didn't have Nike shoes or Levi's jeans like the other kids and to some degree we were kind of outcasts in the various schools we attended. Moving around a lot before second grade likewise presented barriers to making friends.
My mother was definitely a person who knew how to make lemonade. No matter what trouble the family faced financially, we always managed to make ends meet. It became easier after my brother and I became old enough to work part-time jobs. We bought our own cars, clothes and still contributed to the family household. That was the way of our clan. We also helped others. It was not unusual for my mom to be cooking for some fundraiser for others or to visit sick people. Even when she got sick with cancer, she made significant efforts to meet with her buddies who underwent treatment for various other cancers. They joked about the creative headscarves they used to cover heads devoid of hair from the harsh chemicals that coursed through their veins. The nausea and inability to eat anything more than broth for days at a time took its toll on her as well. She never lost her smile for very long. She brought her fellow cancer patients a brighter prospect that helped them fight their battle.
Despite her travails, she kept herself cheerful, even when the diagnosis returned evidence the disease had spread to her liver. I knew what that meant for her, because a friend of mine lost her mother to a very aggressive form of cancer similar to hers. The look on my dad, her sisters and my younger sister’s face said everything: Time to prepare for eventualities. Time to make peace with this earth.
She survived the original course of treatment, including surgery, chemo and radiation. Six months later, she was found to have made good progress and she delighted in the return of her hair, though she still wore a wig. Things seemed to be much better. As you might expect, our family became closer and we seemed to appreciate the things that we had always took for granted.
Between Christmas and New Year’s that year a large snowstorm struck the area. Around 10 PM that night, she began to experience pain in her chest and we thought she might be having a heart attack. A trip to the ER and several X-Rays revealed that the cancer she thought she was free of had spread to several of her vertebrae. Inoperable she was told. Inoperable, but not untreatable.
More chemo and radiation were prescribed. She barely tolerated the initial course of treatment. The results for the new course of treatment were disappointing. Her body unfortunately could not tolerate the side effects from the new drugs. A few days after a reduced dose that we all knew would have little positive effect, she became very ill and we had to rush her to the hospital. She would never leave.
The week of Easter, 1998 was comprised of three days lucid conversations with my brother and sisters and I. All of us stopped everything we were doing and came to the hospital and rotated shifts when she was sleeping or talked about the old days back in California. Hard times to be sure, but the lessons were also good. Throughout that time there would never be any shortage of love. That Tuesday, my brother, my mom and I talked about the Trailways bus ride across country that brought us back to her childhood home. Traveling on vacations can be daunting with small children. She took three small children on a cross-country bus trip with numerous bus transfers. We lost luggage and childhood toys, but no siblings. She apologized for not being better to us growing up back then. The tears we shed that day came from both sadness and joy. The challenges we faced, I told her, made us who we were and gave us the drive not to settle for second best, though we might not always win.
Around 4 p.m., she began to appear quieter and asked if she could take a nap. Those were the last words we heard her speak, though late Friday night as her brother had made it to town from five hours away, she may have mentioned his name before slipping into her final unconscious state.
I have witnessed only two deaths during my time on earth. The loss of my grandmother was sad for me, but I had more empathy for my mother. The loss of one's parent should be among the most profound sensations a person should ever feel. It was for me.
In recalling the days that followed her passing, up to the funeral and for sometime beyond, I felt a tragic sense that a page had turned in my life. I became aware of my own mortality and the impact I had made on the lives of the people I had come into contact with. Many, many people attended her funeral. Most of whom I had never met, but each of them had been touched by her not so random acts of kindness. At the burial site, several people talked to me about the impact she had on their lives and thanked me for the eulogy that painted an accurate view of her to their mind’s remembrance.
12 years ago my mother needed the comfort only the Lord could give. In doing so, He gave her the peace that eventually will come to us all. As I reflect on the meaning of this day, it is important to give to Him the thanks for the path we can all take to redemption. I forgive those who have harmed or wished harm upon me and ask for those I have wronged to forgive me my trespasses in their hearts and lives. Those who identify themselves as Christians understand the significance of this day as the most Holy of days. Let us do unto others as Christ has done for us, to love one another and to celebrate all that makes us humane, rather than human.
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