myjourneysinsight

ONE DAY, YOUR PAIN WILL GO AWAY – PART 2

Posted on October 13, 2013 by Judy

“Saturday night”

I decided I should call her and searched through my purse to find the crumpled receipt where she had written down her phone numbers. She was very kind to do that and I was amazed that she was giving me her home number. Most doctors didn’t do that.

I wasn’t sure when would be a good time to call her. I hated to call her at home; I didn’t even know her! But it was important for me to get permission to write about her on my blog. I certainly didn’t want to write anything that might cause a problem for her later on.

Her lilting voice on the phone was warm and I could tell she appreciated that I had called. She even said that she planned to call me, but it was perfect that I had reached her first.

I told her I planned to write a story and she was part of it. She said it was fine. “I cannot imagine anything secretive you might share that I wouldn’t approve of.”

I told her I was concerned about mentioning how much she helped end my mother’s suffering quicker. I loved her response! She said, “What I did wasn’t wrong; it was the humane thing to do.”

As we talked further, she told me how different it was meeting me than she had expected.

She said, “I had a full day in the clinic, and broke away to come see your mother and meet you. You were nothing like the person I imagined I’d see.” She paused and continued, “That moment hearing your song is something I will never forget.”

As we conversed more, she shared with me about her son. She said that as a result of his death, she transformed into a different person. She told me that he was a gifted writer and also wrote songs. Sometimes she wondered how one of his songs might sound if someone else sang it.

–

I said, “I would love to know more about your son. I would love to hear his song. Please let me know when I can bring my guitar over to play for you. I can come to your home and you can invite anyone you want to join us. It would be my pleasure.”

–

After we hung up, I knew that I would be meeting her again someday.

–

I was so glad for the brief moment she entered my life and made a difference.

––

ANGEL IN THE SKY

–

“The doctor was an angel”

It was growing closer. I was told it might be another day until my mother died, but I did not entertain that possibility.

–

I wasn’t going home and planned to stay all night.

–

Throughout her dying, my mother’s hands were soft and warm. Miriam pointed out to me that they were now turning purple.

–

I could see that Miriam looked exhausted. I told her that it was absolutely fine for her to take a break and come back later. She left.

–

I sat across from my sister-in-law, Jo at my mother’s bedside. It was sure nice to have her there, because I was mostly alone with my father before he died.

–

I continued to coach my mother and kept repeating the same things. Over and over, I told her that she was going to a beautiful place. My father, her parents, her brother, her sister and little Jason were there to take her by the hand.

–

Mom's Hand at death 2

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Her roaring death rattle became even louder. She was burning up with a high fever and it felt like steam was rising from her bed. A nurse came in and shot more liquid morphine into my mother’s mouth.

–

This process was reminiscent of childbirth in many ways. The brutality of it was apparent. Her current stage was one that reminded me of a baby starting to enter the birth canal to be born.

–

She was traveling into a tunnel toward death. Occasionally, I heard a pause in her breathing. It caused me to hold my breath and exclaim to Jo, “I think this is it!”

–

Mourning Mom 3

–

There was a knock on the door. It was my mother’s Indian doctor. I was surprised that this doctor had come back to check my mother.

–

“It’s close now, isn’t it?” I said as she was examining my mother.

–

The doctor said, “Possibly, but it could take a few more hours.”

–

I was surprised that she didn’t leave after that. Instead, she pushed her stethoscope into a more comfortable position and sat down.

–

“I can tell you love your mother very much,” she said. Her Indian accent was gentle and soothing.

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My mother & I dressed up cropped

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“You know, my mother was always there for me – especially when my son died. Then I added, “It was horrible losing my child but I’ve healed because of music. I’m a songwriter. When my mother first became ill four years ago, I rediscovered my music. I didn’t play my guitar for 30 years and my healing was a result of my mother’s decline. I owe her so much!”

–

The doctor said, “That is really a beautiful story. Quite amazing and inspiring.”

–

Within an instant I brought out my iPod with a speaker and said, “Can I play you a special song?”

–

“Absolutely,” she said. I was aghast with joy that she would allow me to share a song with her.

–

Taking my mom out to dinner

–

As my song began to play, the doctor said in a hushed voice, “Is that you singing?”

–

I nodded.

–

The beautiful words and melody of my song “You Were There” filled the room. As it played, my eyes were closed and teary.

–

I always sing so that my lyrics are heard. Every word was clear and it was really beautiful to have my song playing knowing it would be the last time my mother was alive to hear it.

–

The song ended. I opened my eyes and turned to look at the doctor.

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She said, “You amaze me with your lyrics. They are unbelievably touching and you are quite gifted. I have tears and do not cry easily.”

–

I beamed and said, “Would you like to hear another song?”

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She said, “Yes, I would.”

–

With me in every song

–

I played my song “With Me.”

–

My mother truly was with me in every song. Although I had written “With Me” after my father died, it was easily about my mother, too. I could feel that my mother was in so many of my songs. I counted six or seven off the top of my head.

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Every line of lyrics was a balm for my soul.

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With me every day

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After “With Me” ended the doctor reached over and took my hands. She said, “I want to tell you something. I had a child that died, too.”

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I noticed how her eyes were hollow, empty and sad. I asked her to tell me more about it.

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Her 30-year-old son had committed suicide two years earlier. At Compassionate Friends, which was a grief organization for parents and siblings who have lost children – suicide was considered the most difficult form of death to deal with.

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I ached for her and told her that one day her pain would go away. But it had only been two years and that was truly very early in any grief journey.

–

Her soul was amputated and bleeding.

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With me when I cry

Before she left, I asked her if my mother could have more about morphine to hasten her death. This kind doctor said, “Unfortunately, there are clear guidelines for the dosages. More could be given but it’s based upon her breathing and heart rate.”

–

She looked toward my mother and said, “Your mother would be more comfortable without the cannula on. I can take it off. If it’s harder for her to breathe, then she’ll receive more morphine.”

–

Gently the doctor removed the cannula and the soft hissing sound of oxygen ended. I noticed my mother’s roar was softer.

–

Before the doctor left, she wrote her cell and home number on a scrap of paper I pulled out from my purse. She told me that I could call her at any time if I needed to reach her.

–

But the truth was, I didn’t believe I’d ever see her again.

–

My mother would soon die. But this doctor’s sad eyes touched me and I’d never forget how moved she was by my songs.

–

After the doctor left, Jo and I shook our heads savoring her beautiful visit.

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My mother closeup

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“Set you free”

–

Within a minute of the doctor leaving, everything began to change.

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It turned out that the oxygen in the cannula had kept my mother going. The doctor had given us a gift, after all!

–

The roar was getting quieter and my mother was much calmer. She began to travel down to the end of the tunnel.

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Her body scrunched into a more fetal position.

–

I leaned close to her ear and almost brushed against her hearing aid so she could hear my voice. I sang her favorite prayer.

–

There were more frequent pauses now in her rattle. Each time I prayed it was over. Her face was beginning to relax. It was apparent that with each breath she was not getting any air into her lungs now.

–

This picture is from a family vacation; my older brother, Norm is on my left.

Jo leaned closer to where I was; she was on the left and I was on the right.

I closed my eyes and sang one of my favorite songs, “Set You Free.”

My voice floated through the room and hardly felt like my own. My lyrics were softer than a cloud as I sang, “Though you have flown, to somewhere unknown – we’re never apart. You’re here in my heart . . .”

–

Saying goodbye to my parents in the elevator was always a sad moment. I didn’t want to remember them that way.

With teary eyes I sang, “your smile, your touch, your voice, your face; your essence I will never replace.”

Then my voice cracked with, “Though I long for you to hold me, I need to set you free . . .

This song had a life of it’s own. It had already helped to free me in so many ways.

My voice was clear and my lips almost touched my mother’s ear as I lingered on the last line. I held the last word as I sang; “I need to set you free . . .”

–

My mom and I outdoors 6

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The beautiful melody had ended and my mother was looking right at me.

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Her eyes opened wide for the first time in almost a week.

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It was just like my father had done at his moment of death. They were looking at something in the distance. Her face was completely relaxed and it was quiet.

–

A few more breaths came in soft gentle spasms.

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Suddenly, my older brother walked in; he rushed to her bedside. I stepped aside so he could be with our mother at that special moment.

–

My sister-in-law gripped my hand and I glowed.

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I felt so blessed!

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Music was God’s gift to lift me up. Today, God was with my mother and me.

–

The corpse was not my mother. My brother could not bear the open mouth. He tried to close it and the corpse would not cooperate.

–

We were all so relieved that my mother’s suffering was finally over.

I called Miriam to let her know. I told her, “Miriam, she could have died when I was resting earlier today. We didn’t know exactly when it would happen. It happened the way it was supposed to happen. Please do not feel badly that you weren’t here with us at the moment of death.”

I have written a lot about Miriam on my blog. Miriam anticipated my mother’s every need and my mother loved her deeply. The name Miriam means “wished for” and Miriam is everything I could have wished for in a companion for my mom.

–

Miriam came back to spend some time with my mother’s body. When she arrived, she cried and shook her head back and forth.

It was hard to look at my mother’s gray corpse. I knew that.

But I had no tears – only relief and joy. My mother was free!

How lucky I was that I found Miriam. She would always have a friend in me.

When my mother first became ill, I was overwhelmed with her care. My father discouraged a companion for her, but after two years I over-rode his wishes.

He once even told Miriam, “I’m so glad my daughter didn’t listen to me!”

–

“It was time to leave”

It was almost 8 p.m. and we were hungry. My brother and sister-in-law said it would be great for us to have dinner together. Miriam said she wasn’t hungry; she had already eaten and wanted to stay and spend more time with my mom. Soon the mortuary would pick the body up.

I would soon be leaving the nursing home with a sense of finality. This part of my life was over.

I looked forward to having dinner with Norm and Jo. We would all talk about what an amazing woman our mother was. I felt happy and celebrated that I was alive.

–

Just as I was getting ready to leave, the doctor was standing behind me.

I couldn’t believe it – she had come back!

I was emotional as I said, “My mother might have struggled many more hours and it really helped when the cannula was removed. Within ten minutes, it was over. How can I thank you?

She replied with, “You don’t have to.”

I hugged her and said, “You cannot imagine what a difference you have made. You are an angel!”

The doctor replied, “All the words you say to me are the same words I want to say to you. You are amazing.”

I clasped her hands and looked into her sad eyes and whispered, “One day – your pain will go away. I promise! He’s with you – I know he was with us today!”

–

© Judy Unger and http://www.myjourneysinsight.com 2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Judy Unger with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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ONE DAY, YOUR PAIN WILL GO AWAY – PART 1

Posted on October 12, 2013 by Judy

–

“el·e·vate (transitive verb) – raise somebody’s mind or spirit”

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There are so many ways that music has elevated my life.

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Music helped me to let go of my grief over the death of my child.

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Music helped me to let go of my parents as they declined and when they died.

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For me, music is God’s gift to lift me up. It is mystical, magical and inspirational.

––

My parents with me long ago

—

“The sound was the horror”

It simply is not possible to describe such an unbearable noise.

–

Was it a noisy motor? Or the loud purr of a cat? Or the rumble of a sleeping lion? Or a miserable dog growling? The rattling of my mother’s breathing filled the room with a sound that was like a blade sinking into my heart. It was continuous and sickening.

–

My beautiful mother who was an extremely loving, deeply religious and compassionate woman did not deserve to suffer. No human deserved to suffer that way.

––

For any outside observers who told me, “She really isn’t aware of it and isn’t in pain,” I scoff. There was no question about the pain for her family as they watched her body struggle to breathe.

–

And up until the end, I saw many signs that both my father and my mother were quite aware of their death.

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My mother’s death was similar in many ways to my father’s, although she had started fading weeks earlier. Now it was clear there was no turning back.

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It was impossible to know how long it would take for her to die and estimates were that she could die at any moment or live another week.

–

Every day when I would drive to and from the nursing home, I listened carefully to every word of my songs. A blanket of musical comfort elevated my life and kept me inspired and smiling.

–

Except when I heard that sound.

––

Little Girl with my mom

The nurses and staff were respectful and alert to my presence. I was treated as someone important.

–

A few days earlier, I vented my frustration with phone calls to a nursing home administrator. I articulated my concerns with clarity despite emotion that occasionally caused my voice to shake.

–

I received a call from the nursing home medical director and he assured me that my mom had received excellent medical care.

–

I mentioned that I hadn’t been told about many things sooner, information that I wished I had known. He said, “The elevated cancer marker wasn’t that significant. I wouldn’t have called a patient’s family with that.”

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He explained more about the interstitial lung disease and congestive heart failure but I had difficulty comprehending what he was saying. I knew that he wanted to make it clear that there were no mistakes made with her treatment.

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I made the decision that this was a time to let go of being angry. I needed to save my energy for what mattered.

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My goal was to keep my mother out of misery.

––

Landscape with butterflies

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Over and over, I was asked why I hadn’t chosen hospice for my mother. When my mother broke her hip she was given hospice. My father also had hospice.

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Hospice had more staff, I was told. They were more attentive.

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But I knew it worked better for me this way. I didn’t have to wait for hospice to show up or return a call. I had no patience for that anymore.

–

The pattern was always the same: I walked into the nursing home and listened to my mother’s death rattle. I kissed her and spoke to her. She would make a louder rattle, and it let me know that she was aware of my presence.

–

Then I went straight to the charge nurse and said, “More morphine for my mother, please.” This scene played over and over again.

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Eventually, the nurses ran to give additional morphine the moment I arrived. I was constantly reassured that she was comfortable and that it was routinely given when I wasn’t there.

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But as long as my mother was still rattling, it wasn’t enough for me. I wanted her to be asleep. I wanted her to die.

–

In addition to morphine, she was given another medication to dry her mucus. She had a cannula in her nose delivering oxygen. The morphine was given with a syringe of liquid into her mouth. Her lips were dry and she was not allowed anything to drink because it would cause her gurgling to worsen. Miriam swabbed her mouth as much as possible, and my mother bit down to suck on it every time.

–

My cell phone rang. The woman on the phone said she was my mother’s doctor. I had never spoken with her before and felt sorry that I hadn’t been more vigilant about doing that. One of the problems was that my mother kept having her doctors switched.

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The doctor on the phone had a sweet and lilting Indian accent. She assured me that my mother would continue to receive adequate morphine. Then she said that soon she’d be coming to meet me and check on my mother.

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When she arrived, we spoke in the hallway and I told her how absurd this all was.

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I noticed she was compassionate. She gently put her hand on my shoulder and said, “My father died recently in India and it was much worse than it is here. I’m a doctor and I still couldn’t really help him. So I do understand and I’m sorry.”

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I had prayed my mother would die in her sleep. This was the same horror show I saw when my father died. Why, why, why? Why does a person have to suffer dying when there are such humane alternatives?

–

I know there are passionate arguments about this topic. But as I watched both my parents die, I wished instead they were a pet receiving a beautiful gift.

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That gift was peace!

–– Lunch with mom 5

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“Thursday night”

The night before, I had brought my 16-year-old son with me, because he was absolutely adamant about wishing to see his grandma before she died.

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As we walked into my mother’s room, I was irritated that my mother’s roommate had her T.V. on very loud. Now my mother wouldn’t be able to hear us.

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I remembered how my mother had her life turned upside down when a former roommate was dying. All night long for several days the family held a vigil and they were so loud that she was unable to sleep.

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But this was different. It was only 8 p.m. and I wasn’t going to be staying all night. Soon my mother would be dead, and in her last moments a T.V. was going to steal some of our time together. The sound of a T.V. was also a “trigger” for me. My husband always kept it on in our bedroom. As a result, I hate televisions and do not own one.

–

I pushed down my seething anger and tried to tune it out in a literal sense. I sang into my mother’s ear.

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My son was upset though. He walked across to where her roommate was and said, “Excuse me, could you please lower your T.V. so my grandma can hear me?”

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My mother’s roommate replied that she had to raise the volume in order to hear it. She said, “I think I hear singing and a lot of people are making noise.”

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My son tried again to explain to her about his grandma. But clearly nothing penetrated and he came back to my mother’s bedside. I debated whether to complain, but preferred not to.

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As we drove home, I could see my son was upset. I knew it was difficult for him to hear his grandmother gurgling and struggling to breathe.

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But my son was upset with me. I wasn’t surprised when he shared that he didn’t like my singing. “I don’t want anyone singing to me when I’m dying,” he said. He was such a typical teenager and I found it very humorous.

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Then he wanted to understand why I was encouraging my mother to die. There was something about that which really bothered him.

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This was a perfect opportunity for me to engage my son about the topic of death.

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But I was tired and emotionally overwrought; it was difficult to calmly explain it to him. The hardest part was his argument that it wasn’t a loving thing to do. His words cut into my vulnerable heart when he said, “Mom, you just want it to be over so you won’t be hurting!”

–

I collapsed into bed that night, wondering what the next day would be like. I had vivid dreams, none of which I could remember.

––

aqua butterfly

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“Friday morning”

I woke up and marveled that I was relaxed. My heart held no pain. The newest arrangement of my song “Hang On” was especially soothing medicine that seeped into every cell of my body.

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I wrote my song to help other grieving people. But now I had a different perspective. Many of my future visions were gifts to me throughout my life. I often spoke to “Judy of the Future.”

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I decided that “Hang On” was a gift to me from “Judy of the Future.”

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I listened carefully to my lyrics, and each word melted every ounce of pain in my heart.

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The words that echoed most were, “One day, your pain will go away. . .”

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It was so fitting. I would not suffer terribly with grief over my mother’s death because I had already grieved losing her to dementia. And soon, her physical pain would be over.

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I felt certain my mother would die soon, but I had to balance my wishes with reality. There was no way of knowing.

––

Miriam was looking worn. She was spending a lot of time with my mother now. My brothers were not able to spend their days at my mother’s bedside. My sister-in-law, Jo stayed and I felt grateful and especially close to her.

—

My oldest brother, Norm and sister-in-law, Jo are with me. Next week, it will be exactly one year since I moved out. This picture was taken that day.

“The Rabbi’s visit”

I said to Miriam, “Let’s put her hearing aids on.”

Whenever I was with my mother, I insisted upon them. Miriam said a nurse told her that my mother had no need for them now. I completely disagreed.

I knew that the sense of hearing was the last sense to go. My mother’s dignity was at stake here. She deserved to hear everything she could possibly hear!

I was relieved to find out that my mother’s favorite Rabbi was coming to see her after lunch. He was such a wonderful man and helped me greatly when my mother was on a respirator and almost died four years earlier. It had been a long time since I’d been in touch with him.

I wondered if my mother would still be alive for his visit. I was glad my older brother was going to be there, too.

A few hours later, the Rabbi arrived. He was like a knight in shining armor and my mother clearly knew he was there. Her roaring rattle increased to a lion’s grumble with his presence.

He knelt down close to her and began reciting prayers. The first one was a confessional prayer. He gently explained to my mother that this prayer was to ask forgiveness for anything she had ever done wrong in her life.

The last prayer was a one for peace. As the Rabbi began chanting, we all chimed in. It was such a spiritual moment and I prayed my mom would die as soon as our prayer stopped.

But it wasn’t going to be the case.

I hugged the Rabbi goodbye and was grateful when he told me he would try to be available for my mother’s service; it meant so much to me. He had been out of the country when my father died.

–

—

“Death is ugly”

I could see how my mother now resembled my father when he was dying.

Miriam had not seen death before. I told her how a corpse was just a shell.

I said, “It is a horribly ugly thing to see it. It is not the person anymore. As soon as the soul leaves, within seconds the corpse appears. It is so ugly that it can leave an imprint in your brain. I’m not afraid of it because I know it is not them.”

When my father died, I was alone in the room with him.

The entire experience was beyond amazing. I felt as if someone else was in the room with us at the moment of his death. It was uncanny and mysterious.

–

Aqua butterfly 2

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On this day, with my mother on her deathbed, I let go of any expectations of anyone else participating besides myself. It was very freeing.

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For a brief period, my middle brother came. He wept aloud, kissed our mother and then fled. I was so glad my older brother came for the Rabbi’s visit. Afterwards, he went back to his office and planned to come back again later.

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My brothers were never together, but I was especially glad that my middle brother came to say goodbye to our mom because it was so difficult for him.

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It was 2 p.m. and I was tired. I went home to rest and regenerate myself. If my mom died while I was gone, I accepted that.

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Taking care of myself was important.

–

Pool Slide & mom

Three hours later, I drove back to the nursing home and allowed every fiber of my being to absorb the magic of my music. My soul was bursting with energy and love. There was no pain.

My anesthetic was music and God gave it to me for that reason.

I was ready to face hell because of that anesthetic. And it was a horror that I faced.

My mother was still alive and now she was running a high fever. Tylenol suppositories had not brought it down. Her skin was hot and her rattle was a roar.

I was thankful that morphine was coming more frequently. But it was clear that it was getting worse for my mother. I was beside myself.

My mother’s body was at war and this was now the battle zone. She actually had a strong heart. Her struggle to breathe was involuntary and this was not going to end easily.

—

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Tagged "sandwich generation", acceptance of loss, Aging Parents, Caregiving, composing, creativity, death, dementia, grief, grief bereavement "Loss of a Child", GRIEF RELATED, guitar, inspiration, Judy Unger, letting go, losing a mother, loss, loss of a mom, loss of a mother, love for a mother, love never dies, lovesong, lyric development, lyric writing, lyrics, mother, mother and sadness, mother daughter relationship, mother dying, mother with dementia, mother's death, mother's illness, Mother's love, Music, Ordinary Life, original songs, singing, songwriting, tribute to my mother, writing | Leave a comment

YOU WERE THERE – PART 4

Posted on October 12, 2013 by Judy

I took many pictures of my mother and I holding hands two years ago. I wanted them so I could create a song cover for “You Were There.” Sadly, my mother has had a terrible nail fungus for two years and her hands do not look like this any more.

Email Message sent on Thursday, Oct. 10^th:

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Over the past four years I have watched my mother decline.

When it first started, I was frantic. I sent out messages expressing extreme anguish and terror over losing her.

Despite being on a respirator, my mother rebounded. A year later she broke her hip and it was a miracle that she was able to walk again – without having surgery. So many times, I thought that my mother’s life was over. Each time, she proved me wrong. But she continued to decline and although she wasn’t the strong mother I was used to anymore, she was my inspiration.

Now she is on her deathbed. Despite dementia, my mother never lost her ability to love and recognize me. I have been speaking to her and she definitely is aware of my presence.

I guess that shortly I won’t be sending out “update” messages about Shirley anymore. It will all be over soon.

I was blessed to have such a wonderful mom and to have so many people who loved and cared about her, too.

–

Email Message sent on Friday, Oct. 11^th:

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Only a few hours ago, my mother died surrounded by love.

I was blessed to be with her and help her to the light. It was so amazing and beautiful that I feel inspired, rather than sad. My mother loved me very much and knew that I was with her until the very end. I was singing a song right into her ear and when I sang the last word – she opened her eyes, sighed and let go.

I am relieved that her pain and suffering on this earth is finally over. She did not want to leave, but her time had come.

My brothers and I are planning for the funeral to be sometime next week and I will share that information when I have it.

Thank you again for all those messages of support and love that I’ve been getting to buoy me through an ocean of tears.

Love, Judy

–

You Were There Acoustic 9-10-18

You Were There Guitar & Piano 9-9-18

Link to other stories and recordings: YOU WERE THERE

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YOU WERE THERE

All my life, every day

you were there, when I’d need you

all the time, I just knew you’d be there

and you’d see me through

I’ve always known, I’m not alone . . .

You were so strong

You’d pick me up when I’d fall down

so I can see all your strength is in me

–

Although I try, it’s hard to say goodbye

to someone who’s loved me all of my life

And when I’m sad, because you’re not there

I’ll still see your love everywhere

Everything that I did you’d applaud

You were right there watching me

as I grew, sharing joy and my heartache, too

I always knew, that I had you . . .

Now I’m so strong

I picked you up when you fell down

I’ve learned to see just how strong I could be

–

Although I try, it’s hard to say goodbye

to someone who’s loved me all of my life

And when I’m sad, because you’re not there

I’ll still see your love everywhere

When you are gone

I’ll say a prayer

And I’ll remember

how you were there

–

My mother was with me when all four of my children were born.

–

SHE WAS THERE

–

I was an adult in my early twenties. Suddenly, I felt like a baby again with the stomach flu. I was home alone and could barely move. “I’d be fine,” I told my mom on the phone.

–

I opened my eyes.

SHE WAS THERE.

It was the kind of fatigue that was beyond being alleviated by sleep. I was full of an intense, restless anxiety while at the same time my eyelids were as heavy as bricks. The night was giving way to dawn.

I had gone another night without a single moment of sleep. Jason wouldn’t stop crying – he was only a few weeks old. I wondered – would I be able to continue this pace of trying to feed this impossibly, sick child without any sleep?

The doorbell rang. Jason was still crying as I opened the front door.

SHE WAS THERE.

There was no reason to get up. I did not want to get up. I was under the covers. I had no tears left and my body was completely spent from crying for days and days. It had been a few months since Jason died and my husband went to work.

No one was home. Even though I heard the doorbell, I ignored it.

I wanted to die.

She had let herself in with a key. My bedroom door opened, and she pulled down my covers. She lay down next to me, and cried.

SHE WAS THERE.

Tagged "sandwich generation", acoustic guitar, Aging Parents, Caregiving, composing, creativity, dementia, grief, grief bereavement "Loss of a Child", GRIEF RELATED, guitar, hard to say goodbye, I picked you up, inspiration, Judy Unger, loss, loss of a mom, loss of a mother, love for a mother, lovesong, lyric development, lyric writing, lyrics, mother, mother daughter relationship, mother dying, Mother's Day tribute, mother's death, mother's illness, Mother's love, Music, original songs, singing, songwriting, tribute to my mother, you picked me up when I fell down, You Were There | 2 Comments

THROUGH THE DARKNESS

Posted on October 10, 2013 by Judy

Link to performances, stories, lyrics and recordings: WITH ME

My post title is a line of lyrics from my original song, “With Me.” Above is a sheet where I scrawled out those lyrics. (I preferred through the darkness, rather than in the darkness). Recently, I sang a new vocal for my song and my beautiful words have “lifted me up” when I’ve been discouraged. I’ve noticed that darkness has been a powerful metaphor in my life for sadness and confusion. In one of my earliest songs “Beside Me Always” my lyrics go, I’ll search through shrouded darkness . . .

WITH ME-PART 1

My eyes were hurting me. I kept blinking and although my eyes were watering with tears, they were incredibly dry.

I did not want to see. This caused me to remember a sentence I’d written before:

Our body exhibits what our mind does not allow.

–

I walked around feeling as if I were in a fog. My life was playing out something I had eerily witnessed as a dream many years before. Now it was like watching an old home movie. I knew every scene before it played because I had watched this show in my mind many years ago.

—

This picture was taken after I had cataract surgery, but it was not the eye that was operated on.

Within a week, my mother had deteriorated rapidly.

On Monday, Miriam called me crying because my mother never woke up during the six hours she was there.

I was having difficulty concentrating and tried to take care of myself. But my eyes were bothering me every moment of my day.

On Tuesday night, the jarring sound of the house phone ringing at 11 p.m. gave me chills. I was suffocated by guilt as my brain screamed, “Is she dead?”

It was her nursing home calling. I held my breath as they told me my mother had been running a fever and her oxygen would be increased. I was about to leave to go see her, but they told me they had brought her fever down and she was comfortable. The charge nurse said that a doctor would definitely see my mother the next day.

An ominous cloud surrounded me and dread began to seep through every pore in my body.

–

The next morning, I moved very slowly because I did not want to face what was waiting for me.

–

I walked into the nursing home and ached when I saw my mother. Her face was contorted and her brow was deeply furrowed as she gasped and moaned with every breath. I was heartsick and beside myself.

Miriam (my mother’s companion) mirrored my mother’s face. I gripped Miriam’s hand and told her, “I feel like I am dying with her!”

It was true. A piece of my soul was withering away.

By lunchtime, my head was pounding when the nursing home told me that a doctor had not come to check my mother as they had promised the night before. Instead a nurse practitioner (NP) was waiting to speak with me.

The NP told me that my mother had a serious lung disease. It was called “Interstitial Lung Disease.” It was the first time I was told this. This explained her need for oxygen and would lead to her death.

I couldn’t understand why the nursing home called me every other day to report a skin tear or bruise, but hadn’t told me something as crucial as that.

In addition, the NP said my mother had a blood test four months earlier that was a “marker” for tumors. My mom showed elevated levels indicating a possible cancer. The NP said that because my mother had also lost a significant amount of weight recently, it was likely that she was dying.

As I was given so much information that contradicted things I had been told previously, I found myself overwhelmed by anger and frustration

My mother never had congestive heart failure, after all. She did not have pneumonia and her heart was fine. She had interstitial lung disease.

All the while, I was struggling trying to decide whether to insist upon an IV antibiotic. This would be a last-ditch effort to give her a chance. But now her struggle was not simply an infection anymore according to this NP.

If I chose morphine instead, it would alleviate her suffering and hasten death. The NP made it clear to me that my mother was not going to improve.

I decided to demand morphine for my mother because she was suffering.

This picture is of my mother holding my father’s hand as he was dying.

The ticking in my mind was getting louder. I wanted to go home and crawl into bed. I wanted to close my eyes. I decided I had to take care of myself. I would go home and do just that. Miriam would stay with my mother.

I kissed my mother goodbye. She had an oxygen mask on and was in a fetal position on her bed. She was absolutely skeletal.

My head was spinning as I walked down the hall to leave the nursing home. I was imprisoned in a horror show.

I passed by half a dozen wheelchairs lined up. The frail bodies in them were all slumped over. Elderly men and women with their eyes were closed and mouths were open. They were simply waiting for their turn to die.

I wanted to run.

My head was screaming, “Get the hell out of here!”

I had practiced for this show many years earlier. Even though I had put everything into the dress rehearsal, suddenly I wasn’t prepared for “show time.”

The show was beginning as I stumbled out from the nursing home.

It would go on with or without me.

–

Was my mother treated differently because she had a no-hospitalization order?

It seemed to be that way. Certainly she could have been treated more aggressively and I had been left out of the loop. I hadn’t attended any recent care meetings and did not want to feel guilty about it. Those meetings were usually brief and more about the nursing home’s agenda. If there were a concern, I would address it whenever it happened rather than wait for one of those meetings.

When my mother broke her hip three years earlier, I was ready to let her die rather than have surgery. Even then, I never imagined I’d have to make so many decisions surrounding both of my parents’ life and death.

What made this situation so difficult was trying to follow her wishes. My father made it easier for me because he clearly told me what to do.

I knew my mother did not want to die because she always told me that. She was afraid of death.

I came home and wrote an email to my good friend, Dr. Sam telling him what the nurse practitioner had told me. He replied:

Judy, why is your mom struggling to breathe right now? What is the result of the chest x-ray?

I would try to speak with a doctor, if possible. I just don’t think that NPs should be providing care to patients who aren’t doing well. If she has pneumonia then she needs IV antibiotics and oxygen at the nursing home, assuming you don’t think she should be in the hospital.

It sounds as if the nursing home is trying to provide minimal treatment. At times that may be appropriate, but the timing of that decision really should be up to you and your brothers, not them. Sam

Sam, she’s 88 and it’s been such a hard journey to this place. Up until this point my mom has been deteriorating – losing weight and constantly coughing. Most of the time she slept and didn’t eat. She hardly could speak or say anything.

She is in bad shape Sam. If I thought something could turn this around – I would. But I think it would cause her to suffer far more. The NP said that my mom has regularly seen a pulmonologist and that they’ve been aware of this problem with her airway.

She’s receiving 4 liters of oxygen and constant breathing treatments are not helping. It’s so horrible to be this frustrated.

I am lost with this.

–

Perhaps I was lost and making this decision was agonizing.

As I drove home from the nursing home I listened to my songs. Each one had many lines of lyrics that touched my heart.

My song “With Me” was especially helpful. And it was hard to say goodbye. Letting go wasn’t easy, either. This was definitely about hanging on.

I wasn’t the kind of person who regularly prayed. Now I was praying that my mother would not suffer like my father did.

–

The unreality of what was happening was familiar. I heard that loud ticking of a clock in my head. My mother’s last minutes on earth were approaching and everything else began to grind to a halt for me. I couldn’t sing anymore and cancelled most appointments on my calendar.

There were funeral plans to think about.

But as I walked into my coop, I changed gears. My three children knew their grandmother was ill, and I tried to shield them from the horrors of it.

Jason died on October 6^th and today was October 9^th.It was my oldest son’s birthday. I did not want to spoil his day.

For six months, I had hardly seen him when I separated from my husband. I had missed him so much.

But now he was living with me all week and we were close again. His bed was a few feet from my computer.

Before I collapsed to rest I called Rosa, our former housekeeper. She was coming over to visit that evening and I asked her if she could pick up a cake to celebrate his birthday.

When I went to pick up my youngest son from school, we went together to a video game store so he could help me pick out something to give his brother on his 23^rd birthday.

So on a day that held great sadness, I found reasons to smile. I was surrounded by all three of my children for dinner. Rosa cooked and the conversation was light and happy.

Although I had been carefully dieting for a month, my motivation slipped. I looked to find comfort from food again and eagerly ate the birthday cake Rosa had brought.

But then I had a flashback that was so vivid I was transported back in time again. My heart tore open to release a memory from long ago.

–

The last picture of Jason that I have. It was interesting that Jason insisted upon wearing sunglasses – he did not have any eye problems.

It was 1992.

–

Jason was scheduled to have open-heart surgery on October 6th. I wasn’t sure when to celebrate his brother’s birthday, because it would be a few days after Jason’s surgery on October 9^th.

But I had a great idea; we could celebrate the birthday before Jason’s surgery on October 4th.

It was actually a really sad time for me; I had a terrible premonition about Jason’s surgery.

I contained my worry and put on a fake smile.

The pictures I took were the very last ones I would have of Jason.

As both boys clamored around a birthday cake, I was filled with ominous dread.

Now I felt the same way.

I was thrown into another memory. This time I was trying to get through Jason’s funeral. My mother was holding onto my arm and I clutched her tightly. My eyes were closed.

The memory faded into a vision of the future.

I was at a funeral and reaching for her.

But this time she was in the coffin.

–