A 2nd compression fracture in her back, it seems, was the turning point. At that point, some months back, our weekly outings ended. We shifted the responsibility of getting meds into her system to others. We moved her from independent living to level one of the assisted system. She had been eating less and less until it was only a few bites a day. Reminders from her two daughters did nothing. She was week as a newborn kitten and had dropped to 91 pounds and we began the process of getting her into hospice care.
I happened to see her entire leg as I helped her from bed and it was almost entirely black. Even though she was entering hospice we needed to address the discolored limb. A CAT scan gave us the reason. The prosthetic ball entered her thigh bone and the bone surrounding it was actually crumbling away. The joint was so unstable that she could bare no weight on it and she didn't know why. She asked me, over and over, why she couldn't walk and I explained the situation inside her hip and how another fall would be ugly. She hated that she had to call for help for the simplest things; going to the bathroom or to the deck to smoke.
She finally agreed to wear the call button they had given her upon admittance but because she had no patience and little sense of time passing she would not wait for assistance. While she still had the strength, she would hobble to her walker unassisted. Her decline continued and she decided
if she could not walk, she would simply crawl. I'm sure her thought process was, "Damn it, I'll just do it myself."
They moved a hospital bed into her bedroom and it was nowhere near as attractive as her queen sized bed. We told her it was safer and I understand why she hated that reasoning. People have used it on me since I had my head injury. Most of the time it is helpful but not always. Anyway, a morning towards the end I found mom asleep with her legs hanging off the bed, almost to the floor which shows you just how safe the bed was. I tried to reposition her but as tiny as she was, I wasn't able to do much.
I transferred from bedroom to living area to play solitaire on my phone, waiting for her to wake up. When I listened for the shuffling-of-bedclothes noise coming from her bedroom, I realized her no-more-than-a-minute weight would make no noise. When I walked back to her room, her eyes were open and I saw recognition register on her face. As she spoke, her lower dentures were floating, unattached in her mouth, however and I could not understand a word she said. It took some time but we finally extracted them. Finally, I understood her ask where the boys were.
- Lexie: What boys?
- Shirley: The little boys you brought with you.
- Lexie: No little boys, sorry Mom, just me.
I watched mom go from the vital, fun-loving, extra cool and up-to-date artist she once was, to what I saw then. I love my mother and wished she wasn't dying but, at that point, all anyone could do was to make sure she was not in pain.
Brother Royce, arrived from Alaska and joined sister Wallis and me in the 'make sure mom is cared for properly' presence. We decided she needed one of us with her 24 hours a day and Wallis took the first nights as she was the only one who fit on mom's extra short couch. When work at the Saloon called, Royce took over the night shifts.
After my brother arrived I realized she may have been talking about her own boys. It seemed like this stage lasted a very long time and I was very anxious but Royce was able to put things into perspective for me. He told me he planned on being here as long as the process took and that was a huge relief and what I needed to hear.
I had pictured him leaving at some point and Wallis and I being alone which I knew meant I would be spending days and Wallis would stay nights. Nobody could or would tell me how long she might last. And me, with the head injury, deals in black and whites so not knowing was hard.
She stayed in bed for three days and we thought, "This is it," but when she saw three of her 5 children at her bedside something told her to keep going. She rallied and spent two days in her chair, feet on ottoman lapsing in and out of consciousness and even ate breakfast. While awake she asked to be taken out to smoke. Why not, I thought, and called to have her transferred to the wheelchair. The 1st smoking adventure had me lighting and then holding the cig to her mouth. I even tapped ashes. The 2nd time, things looked better as she was able to hold it herself, smoke and take care of the burnt end.
One day she asked for a beer but settled on wine rather than the juice or water offered. I had told myself, when she moved to the Terrace, I would never open/pour her wine but over time I found myself not only opening it but pouring a glass and delivering it to her in her chair. Well, in her final days I saw myself pouring the diluted wine into her mouth. I delivered, what she called her vices. A couple of days before she passed, she said she wanted a beer. She only drank beer in a pinch, and wine was her first choice. I delivered the beer the next day and she drank it with a straw.
That last evening, in her chair and heavily medicated for pain, she sat with the three of us and talked about earlier times. She smiled and giggled and then said, "Let's talk about Rollins." Rollins is where we spent summers in our cabin on the lake. We laughed, sharing memories of long-ago times, until she got too tired. She was positioned in bed just so, and she never moved again; sleeping peacefully for more than 30 hours.
Royce called Sunday Morning and when the phone rang I knew she was gone. She would have guffawed and said, "I guess my 'journey' is over." When people referred to death as a journey she always laughed. At one point she said, "Well, my journey is almost over but this last part sucks."
She had often said she was lucky to have lived such a grand life. She liked that word 'grand' and it makes me wonder if my kids will remember any specific term I use. She missed travel, she missed having her fashion sense recognized and she missed her car. She missed the Shirley she remembered and felt that person was gone. And she did not want life to be differently than it had been. It was if she had never considered getting old, relying on others, being tired and unable physically to do what she wanted.
We planned a reception to honor my mom at the Hockaday Museum of Art. Because it was not scheduled until the end of the following month I spent several weeks of limbo. Mom didn't like the phrase, "Celebration of Life," so I called it a reception. It went off without a hitch and she would have loved it; friends and family gathered over wine, hors d'oeuvres and art. I saw good friends and the parents of friends who were part of life growing up on 5th avenue and later in Somers. I saw many of the folks whose names always meant "Kalispell." It was closure, of a sort.
My grief surfaces at random times. When I look at the mountains, if sunshine lights them up, under clear blue skies or rolling clouds, I hear her say, "We live in such a beautiful valley, I don't think I've ever seen them this lovely!"
When track at the middle school started and I had more to do than just sit around feeling sad. Track meets with children, however, will always remind me of my mother. She came to the vast majority of my own meets across the state and then the country. When I first started coaching at the high school in Lynden, Washington, my parents even came to watch me coach! A few years ago, Mom came to a Kalispell Middle School track meet. It is the same track I ran on a child competing as a a Timberette, waving to mom in the stands, She sat for hours on her walker in the infield and cheered for all the athletes and loved being there.
The ceremony honoring my mother is over and we are closing in our last meet of the season. I look forward to spending time in Flathead lake and maybe taking a trip or two and I know the memories will continue to invade my space but I'm OK with that. Overall, I am coping with her death fine and my sister Wally reminded me that for us it may be easier. We saw her entire journey and am happy she is no longer in pain.
