Time with Mom

I haven’t posted for awhile because I’ve been spending a lot of time in the ICU at Columbia Presbyterian Hospital in New York, and writing updates about my mom’s condition to family and friends every few days. However, I’d like to share some reflections I’ve had in light of the past nine weeks, and her now quite serious condition.

There is no doubt that my experience during these past few months would have been much different had I not had this sabbatical year. The biggest lesson I’ve learned is to be in the present moment. We’ve been on a roller-coaster ride: one day mom’s looking better and we’re feeling positive, and the next day, her condition worsens. We learned not to get too optimistic—or too pessimistic. It is most important to be with mom no matter what the numbers say, to be there FOR her, and interact as best we can.

A few weeks ago, we were told mom was terminal, only to see within two days she had miraculously rallied. There is no script, only working closely with experienced and compassionate doctors and nurses who are doing their best to monitor mom’s condition and guide us as best they can. But in the end, mom’s fate is unknown. Instead of feeling powerless, I feel grateful for the small victories, like the day we didn’t know if she was lucid and she blew me a kiss and touched my cheek. My hope is that I can reassure her and coax her to be brave; that her body can recover—perhaps not fully—but enough to enjoy life with her loved ones for some period of time.

In some ways, I can see how many of my life experiences have prepared me for dealing with the practical aspects of what I’ve been through. I’m comfortable in a hospital because of the summer I volunteered at Memorial Sloan Kettering as a 19-year-old, taking a library cart around the pediatric ward. I have some sense of the healthcare system from working at a benefits consulting firm. And I have an appreciation for caring for sick elders in my role as a volunteer and board member of a rehabilitation and long-term nursing facility. These experiences have helped me in understanding mom’s care and in developing relationships with a wide range of medical personnel.

And as good as this preparation has been, I’ve come to realize that there is no way to prepare for seeing a loved one have two life-threatening surgeries, three bouts of pneumonia, the zoster virus, as well as two collapsed lungs and a tracheostomy. With the support of my brother, sister and father, I have been strong enough to be there with her through these horrific events, in the trenches, day in and day out. At the same time, on a different plane, I know this is her path and mine as well. There is a reason we are doing this dance through life together, and there is much to learn.

Much of the time, I feel calm and centered as I go through each day, firmly believing in a higher power. Once a day, I allow the tears to flow, if they are there. My mother is beloved by so many people, and I agree it’s not fair what has happened to her. But it’s not about fair. I cannot know why, now or perhaps ever. It simply is what it is, and all I can do is be in the moment, take in my mother’s essence, and truly absorb it so that it is with me forever.

Moving Reflection

I am sitting in my small den off the kitchen listening to the birds on a sunny morning, two days before we move. Suddenly, I am overcome with missing this home, this room, this place.

My days have been spent packing and planning, coordinating and making sure the process will go as smoothly as possible. It took a long time to sell our house, and it is time to go. Yet, as I sit in the stillness, with the sun streaming in familiar ribbons across the room, I stop to feel the solemnity of the moment. Almost 14 years, the house my girls remember most as their home, a chapter in our lives.

In this room, there is a beautiful fireplace with two different moldings. It reminds me why my husband and I have always liked old homes. However, we are now moving into a newly built house, albeit a "colonial" with high ceilings, wide moldings and other attractive features.

I will also miss the familiarity of the house; it is known and comfortable like a favorite pair of shoes. The neighborhood has beautiful old trees and rock outcroppings, lots of streets of various grades which are perfect for walking. Within a couple of blocks, three good friends of mine are just a spontaneous phone call away. I know I'll continue to see them, but it will not be like it is now.

Except for our three years in London, we have lived in the same general area for 28 years. Whatever I need, I know where to go. I now understand why people return to their old neighborhoods and stores for shoe repairs or fresh fish; these are vendors we've been doing business with for years and it's familiar, like a family that has relied on each other for a long time.

In many respects I am lucky to be moving only eight minutes away, so that I can come back if I choose to do so. However, I have a feeling that once we're in the new house, it will be fun to explore and find new haunts: restaurants, services, walking routes and ways to get from here to there.

So I allow myself the momentary melancholy and know that the missing is what makes the parting so much sweeter and more poignant. It reminds me of what and whom is most important to me, and I feel blessed to have so much.

A Good Reminder

As I was getting ready to go to the city to visit my mother in the hospital, and so hoping she would be released today, a small volume of Pema Chodron teachings caught my eye. I opened it randomly, as I always do. Yet again, I was reminded that all moments unfold from this present moment. To live in the future or the past is a futile exercise.