There are moments which mark your life. Moments when you realize nothing will ever be the same, and time is divided into two parts: before this and after this… Sometimes you can feel such a moment coming. That’s the test, or so I tell myself. I tell myself that at times like that, strong people keep moving forward anyway, no matter what they’re going to find.”
– John Hobbes, Fallen
Some of my earliest memories center around Henry Mancini, specifically his theme Moment to Moment for the 1966 film of the same title. I remember watching Mommy put the dictation tape recorder close to the television speaker to record it. I remember the silver label of the black cassette tape, down to my mom’s writing in all capital letters, MOMENT TO MOMENT.
My Facebook memories of 19 December 2018 start with the image of the stairwell at Sentara and end with pictures of me and the next generation at Silver Diner on which I wrote, “Still my fave diner because of the table jukeboxes.” The stairwell pic may be just capturing a moment of taking an artsy picture, or maybe it was a moment of looking up and needing a moment to myself. I dunno. It’s certainly now an image for this blog post.
I deliberately did not write Facebook posts about my mom from the night of 18 December into 19 December. Some of it was because of the uncertainty of my mom’s condition, often changing from moment to moment, but it was mostly because of something my friend, Jack, noted when our mutual friend , Connie, went into Hospice care. His words stuck with me, and I followed his lead in not falling into the social media trap and reverted to “when people were allowed to die quietly and with dignity, surrounded by their families, and not have play by plays generated”.
I reckon it’s understood that our family, which includes closest friends, were all in the know for “real time updates”. I feel like my corporate life as a communicator played into how I shared information, and “tiers of need-to-know”, sometimes based on their roles or knowing who needed a heads up in order to make plans.
I felt grateful for the care and kindness of those who got in touch with me directly, off social media, to let me know they were praying or thinking or were offering to help out with anything in whatever way my family needed. I even felt a little surprised and comforted by unexpected people who contacted me, not that I had any expectations, y’know? Sometimes you don’t know that you matter to someone until they tell you.
I remember feeling that the best I could do was to share only what didn’t leave someone with more questions, especially because I wasn’t going to answer questions. And I feel so grateful for family and friends who got it without saying – I appreciated their concern, and it was nothing personal if I was not staying closely in touch, but Mommy needed my full attention.
On a related note, I more and more appreciate people who can see past their ego. Over the years I’ve dealt with people who arrived at their own conclusions based on their own perspective without ever asking me questions, people who expect the worst out of others and find it even without basis, people who take it personally and feel offended if I didn’t keep them in the loop on my business. My. Business. I also appreciate people who know that if I don’t ask about their business, it doesn’t mean I don’t care; I just know it’s not my place to ask, and when they have something that I need to know, they’ll tell me. And if I do want someone to know I care, then I’ll simply let them know I’m thinking of them without asking questions. I feel grateful for the people from whom I learned how to leave my ego out of situations where it doesn’t belong.
The things I remember about 18 December 2018 are feeling very happy and hopeful for Mommy recovering. Chief Daddy and I had been going back and forth from the hospital everyday since I arrived in The Hoodbridge a few days before, and I feel like we were getting ready to settle in for the night when the landline phone rang.
Maybe you’ve been there…
…in THAT moment…
…when you “just know”…
…you know nothing will be the same.
You don’t know how to explain that the ringing phone sounded just a little different. Or maybe it’s because at that time of the evening, a phone call is likely to be something important.
I answered the call, and sure enough a nurse advised us of Mommy’s latest update – her heart rate had spiked and some other stuff that I can’t remember now. They were monitoring my mom closely and would call again if needed.
Medical professionals can only tell facts about what they know presently, and if they’re able, they may be able to offer more facts about possible changes, what to expect… and leave it to the patient’s family to decide what they need to do.
I forget what the nurse said, but I remember “feeling” what the nurse was not saying. I picked up on how she was saying it, careful not to alarm us, yet having care, compassion, and concern for my mom and my family. At that moment, Mommy was doing okay with medication and whatever else they were doing to help her. Her present condition did not make it necessary for us to be there with her. The medical team couldn’t predict how or when my mom’s condition would change; however, if her condition declined to the point at which she could not breathe on her own, they would not be able to intubate her again because of my mom’s DNR (do not resuscitate).
I remember telling the nurse that I understood.
After I got off the phone and relayed everything to my dad, he and I were both quiet for a while. Chief broke the silence. “Do you want to go to the hospital?”
I felt relieved that we were on the same page without talking about it. Neither of us wanted Mommy to die alone if that were to happen overnight.
I really can’t remember if I sent texts to my brothers and the Keets right away or if I felt I should wait because none of them were in a position to do anything immediately. If I had to decide today, I would have let them know because I feel like it’s their right to have the information and receive it and do with it as they naturally would.
I sent a text to summon my parents’ priest, my eldest brother, Fr. Ed, knowing that the sacraments are really important to them. I’m willing to bet my thought was that I wasn’t sure what was going to happen, but I didn’t want to be a jackass and be the reason my mom was denied of something that mattered to her.
I can still see Fr. Ed arriving at my mom’s hospital room, slightly hurried and mixed questions on his face as if asking how Mommy was doing or if he was too late. He had not read my message until a few hours later and came to the hospital immediately after. I still admire my brother for seeming almost stoic yet professionally compassionate if that makes sense. How does one put personal aside when needing to complete professional tasks?
Fr. Ed’s presence, prayers, and administering of the sacraments defined my mom’s moment – the one in which she knew she was not expected to recover. That was how my mom’s day started on 19 December. I don’t remember if this day was also the first time the hospital’s social worker approached us about hospice/palliative care.
Facebook memories show me that my daughter and my son’s girlfriend arrived, and we went to dinner. My son was at Twenty-nine Palms, California, and at some point, we enlisted help from the American Red Cross to bring him home in the coming days. My brother, Earle, had already visited Mommy earlier in the week while passing through and finishing the final performances of The Sound of Music national tour before their holiday break.
That’s all I remember specific to 19 December, and 19-22 December may as well be all one day… and one post a few days from now.
Luceat lux vestra.
