In a year of so much death and devastation, celebrating one more anniversary of my diagnosis feels anti-climactic. Ginger actually had to remind me. It’s not that I didn’t think about it. I do. Every day. With each passing year, my cancer feels less imminent. Oddly though, since I’m writing a memoir it also feels more present.
Thoughts of dying ebb and flow. I don’t want to die now or in the next few years. But, one thing this year has demonstrated is that we don’t have much control over that. Especially when a good chunk of the population thinks masks are bullshit. It would be great if only the anti-maskers contracted Covid and died, but that’s not the way it works. Much as cancer doesn’t discriminate, neither does Covid.
Death is very much on my mind these days. Not my mortality, but my mom’s. I have been accompanying her to her medical appointments for the past couple of years, kind of like a parole officer. If I remind her the night before; show up at her house an hour before to wake her up; and then go to her house to drive her to the appointments, she is more likely to make it to the appointments. I have been tempted to let her sleep through them and, on occasion, I have. But, like a good former Catholic I feel the weight of daughter guilt wash over me and then I help her reschedule appointments and repeat all of the previous steps. In October, we visited her pulmonologist. As he sat at his computer, he plugged some information into his computer, such as how many cigarettes per day she smokes (she said 10, I think more), her pulse oximeter reading (88), years of smoking (way too many), maybe status of her lung CT and age. Then he said, “You have an 18% chance of surviving four years.”
Well. That was just fucking amazing to hear. She looked like the wind had been sucked out of her. Which in a way it has for the past 67 years. I’d like to personally pistol whip the nun who introduced my mom to cigarettes, all of the tobacco industry executives who knew all along how addictive cigarettes were, and all of the movies and advertisements who made smoking so cool and socially acceptable until is wasn’t. But, I don’t have a pistol and they’re all probably dead by now. My mom had two collapsed lungs in 1969. I believe it was the same lung twice. Pneumothorax. She almost died. She has always fallen asleep on the couch. After she came home from the hospital I would get out of bed in the middle of the night and stand beside the couch waiting to see the gentle rise of her lungs.
Now, years later, I let myself into her back door and if her house is silent, I walk quietly through the kitchen. On good days/nights, I scare the shit out of her as she sits in the living room watching a detective show on BBC. On other days/nights, I see her sleeping on the couch (now her daybed thanks to my brother Terry for moving it downstairs) and stand beside the couch/bed and wait to see the rise and fall of her breath. I try to make light of it and tell my coworkers that if I check on her before I go to work and she’s not breathing, I’ll just have to go to work and deal with the death shit after I get off work.
Based on the recommendation of her pulmonologist, her primary care doctor requested hospice. It’s not the scary type of hospice as in days left to live. But, with an 18% chance of surviving four years, 1,460 days is a matter of time. This is more of a feel-good hospice for people with a terminal illness. Palliative care. I made a series of phone calls and scheduled appointments for the hospice nurse, the social worker, the chaplain, and arranged to be there beforehand to make sure Mom was awake and had at least one cup of coffee in her prior to each visit. A nurse will stop by twice a week and the chaplain (one of my friends – the joys of a small town) will visit weekly or as needed. I think my mom actually enjoys the company. Except for the oxygen man who told her she shouldn’t smoke in the house. He said the oxygen tank filter would turn black. I said, “Like your lungs.” Sometimes, my sense of humor is not welcome.
A few years ago when I was painting my bedroom, I listened to podcasts. That particular stretch was filled with Krista Tippet’s On Being. She interviewed BJ Miller https://onbeing.org/programs/b-j-miller-reframing-our-relationship-to-that-we-dont-control/ and I was intrigued by him and his philosophy about death and dying. So, when I read his New York Times Opinion piece this weekend https://www.nytimes.com/2020/12/18/opinion/sunday/coronavirus-death.html I got to thinking more about death. We–I’m not sure if it’s just Americans or more widespread–we don’t really do a good job of preparing for death. We don’t talk about it. We don’t empty our houses of all the extra crap we have been moving from state to state–or if we don’t move–hanging onto and cramming our basements and attics to the gills. The Swedes practice a form of purging called döstädning (Swedish death cleaning) kind of like Marie Kondo’s getting rid of things that don’t spark joy. The Swedish purge is a way of minimizing belongings while you’re alive so that nobody has to deal with a mountain of stuff when you die.
But, the tip of the iceberg is our actual death. How do we talk about that? The hospice nurse gave us a folder filled with information about the hospice program. Mom said that Terry and Pat would probably cry when they read it. I said, “I’ll cry plenty later. Right now, this is paperwork.” Which it is. It’s the business side of dying. The making sure the details are attended to. I’m good at that. Years of being a paralegal and administrative assistant have given me an analytical mind. I can divorce emotions from the reality of foreclosure. I can rationalize and analyze cancer treatments and medical decisions. I can look at the big picture of my mom’s health and help her make decisions to keep her comfortable. I can help her figure out what do when her body gives up and she takes her last breath.
When my grandmother died, my mom and I were with her. Honey’s best friend, Arlene, and her daughter, Linda had made it to the hospital in time. The four of us stood around my grandmother’s hospital bed and the doctor or nurse pulled the plug, which was really not pulling a plug, but turning off all the machines that were doing the living to keep my grandmother from dying. She had gone septic and there was no brain activity. Our big fear was that she would be in pain. The doctor said he could make her comfortable and she would just stop breathing. And she did. No struggle. It was comforting to me and probably my mom to be there for and with my grandmother. She didn’t have to die alone. I know we all basically die alone even if someone is in the room with us, but maybe it’s the presence of someone or more than one being on the life side as we transition to the other side–call it whatever you want.
My mom lives alone. She smokes. I can’t live with her. I don’t want her to die alone. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not trying to be maudlin. Maybe I’m trying to prepare myself for the inevitable, just as I have been since 1969. One of the good things about having palliative care hospice in place is that when my mom’s health deteriorates, there will be people who are trained to recognize the signs of active dying help us.
I had heard a program about turning into a tree after you die. So, literally, we don’t turn into trees, but our ashes are planted with a tree. I mentioned it to Mom and she thought it sounded like a good idea. We talked more about burials last week. She doesn’t want to be buried in a cemetery. When she was a kid, the family would go to the cemetery and tidy the grave sites. That doesn’t happen so much anymore. At least not in my family. We have all moved too often and too far away. Being turned into a tree sounds like a great gift to me. Not with a plaque or anything, just a quiet recognition of one life, one tree.
Today (by the time I finish this – yesterday) is the winter solstice. The longest darkest night. Or the shortest day. It is a time of thinking about death and rebirth. Of decorating a tree or bringing evergreen inside (holly, mistletoe, yew, evergreen boughs). Perhaps I’ll stop at one of the tree lots and get some boughs of holly – fa la la – and decorate my window box with something besides dead geraniums. And, I’ll remember all the years my mom has decorated with glee, childlike wonder, her joy contagious. And, I’ll be grateful for the time we have left.
Bon voyage, boob! 