Life Without Mom

The house is blissfully quiet and still. An airplane buzzes overhead. My first thought is to call mom and talk, about anything and everything or perhaps nothing in particular.

That’s not an option anymore.

It’s been a busy week, with my aunt’s funeral in Florida and getting my youngest daughter back to college. A lot of moving around, so being still and quiet has its appeal. I start thinking of how life has already changed in the past 5 weeks:

--I talk to mom in absentia

--My siblings and I have a weekly call

--I check in with my dad daily

--There are acknowledgment notes to write

--I've started to get hot flashes!

The last is an interesting phenomenon, and not welcome especially in the heat of the summer. Something must have been triggered in my body’s chemistry (undoubtedly due to stress). I’ve not had time to focus on possible remedies, but I’m going to get busy and see if I can’t “re-balance” things. It’s obvious something is “off-kilter.” Amazing my body presents a living illustration.

The Jewish holidays are approaching, when mom and I would cook together. She and dad starting coming up to our temple years ago to attend services, and it was a time of being together to start a new year. As much as I have been trying to take one day at a time, I am keenly aware these days are almost upon us, and I know we will all feel the loss, the hole, the empty place that mom would have occupied.

I am told that getting through the first of everything over the next year is a process in itself, and after that, it will get easier. Just allowing time to pass is healing. When I’m busy, and I’ve seen this with my father too, it is easier, with other activities to occupy and distract us. It’s the quiet times when my thoughts drift to mom. And for my dad, the evenings and weekends alone are the hardest.

Being in my body keeps me rooted here on earth, and so yoga, exercise, meditation, spending time with friends and family, and work all help to keep me grounded. I still remind myself it will take time tofeel as if life is normal. Or maybe it will just be a new-normal.

Unmoored

It's finally starting to sink in. Or, rather it's starting to feel real: mom not being here, in my life. I wake up thinking about her. She's in my dreams. I try to remember when I last had a real conversation with her. The weeks in the hospital are all a blur.

It’s been ten days since mom died and eight since the funeral. During the last day of Shiva (having people over to sit with us and remember my mother), I started getting a sore throat which turned into an upper respiratory infection, complete with cough. My favorite naturopath reminded me that grief is the emotion associated with the lungs, so it’s not really a surprise where it hit me.

My life is up-ended, figuratively and literally. It doesn’t help that we moved in early June. I become confused by things I have known for years. Which way to go to the airport? Scheduling two things on the same day. Not sure whether I’ve done tasks. Discombobulated. Unmoored. My mom was an anchor, always there, and she isn’t anymore.

I am driving and start to cry. I never thought she would die. I knew she was going to die some day, but I had no awareness that it could possibly be so soon. Which in many ways is terribly naïve—and ironic. We all know people who are unwell, and who live with illness and disease every day, sometimes so valiantly, or not, but they live and get through their days.

Mom took such good care of herself and dad, made sure they exercised and ate their greens. She was vital up to the day she went into the hospital with the aortic aneurysm. And 11 weeks later she is gone, not from the operations themselves but from the infections and complications. Her body was strong but she would not want to have lived in a weakened and needy state, and we knew it. So, in the end, here was this beautiful, vibrant, healthy woman who loved her life and loved us so well, and whose time had come.

And that is the point, I guess. We never do know. And those trite expressions about appreciating life, having no regrets, and not taking people for granted, well, I know what they're talking about. It does make me wonder if I will live my life differently from now on. It's possible. I just need some time to get my bearings again.

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.

Seeing Through The Haze

There are times in life when our focus gets so narrowed, the rest of the world slips away. We bring all our attention, energy and emotions to bear on the event, and often, it is over fairly quickly. Studying for final exams comes to mind, or getting ready for a big presentation or performance.

When a loved one is critically ill, like my mother is now, the rest of the world falls away. So many of my waking hours are focused on her that I feel detached from the rest of my life. I know it's a beautiful day outside: I see it and have actually walked outside to get from my car to the hospital. And yet, I find myself not experiencing it. To maintain my sense of self and stay grounded, I have to force through that cocoon-like haze and do some things that bring me back to the natural world. Yesterday, I went for a walk for the first time in my new neighborhood. This morning, when I opened the door to get the paper, I opened it wider and stood there listening to the birds singing their hearts out welcoming the day.

It's true I am taking part in almost no outside activities these days, and I'm not sure how the near future will unfold. As in all things, there is a balance and I will work on finding it. Meditation, yoga, journaling, spending time with friends and connection with nature are some ways I'm holding on to myself and my world.

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.

Doing Hospital Time

During the past month, I learned more than I thought I ever wanted to know about hospital health care, and have thought about some small changes that could make a difference in helping people heal. Even with the purported best accomodations and intentions, it is still the case that our Western medical system sees the patient as a "care-receiver" and does not think more broadly about how to help each individual heal in the fastest way possible.

I recently spent 2 nights in Greenwich Hospital, which is a modern, beautiful, upscale facility. Many call it the "country club" of hospitals. Two days later, my mother was admitted to Lenox Hill Hospital in Manhattan, where I had the opportunity, over a 15-day period, to see another system at work. Perhaps due to my own recent experience, and my involvement as a Board member at Sarah Neuman in Mamaroneck (the Westchester campus of Jewish Home Lifecare which provides long-term, rehabilitation and home care), I felt slightly detached, and was able to watch and observe what was happening around me.

Here is some of what I learned, and I hope it may be of help if you ever find yourself in a position where either you or a loved one is in the hospital.

1. For the most part, doctors care very much about their patients, and want to understand patients' symptoms and have them get better as quickly as possible.

2. Many nurses are in their profession because they are caring individuals, and they tend to their patients efficiently and with compassion. However, there are those who see their work solely as a "job," and their patients know it almost immediately. These nurses leave call bells unanswered, do not get to know their patients, and either do tasks too quickly (and often painfully) or leave procedures for the next nurse to attend to. While these discrepancies are true of most professions, in a hospital, these differences can have a profound effect on the physical, emotional and mental well-being of the patient.

3. Some hospitals rotate doctors so that the patient rarely sees the same doctors unless the patient is there for an extended period of time. This was my experience, but my mother had a team of doctors she saw regularly. There were some other interns, residents and doctors on occasion, but she got to know her doctors and THEY GOT TO KNOW HER. I cannot stress the importance of this.

How many times did I need to repeat my "story?" In the two days I was in the hospital, I must have repeated it 5 or 6 times, once being awakened in the wee hours of the morning by an intern who probably had to get "just one more history" before her shift ended.

4. Which leads to the fact that it is virtually impossible to get a good night's sleep in the hospital. We have all heard this. From a healing perspective, it is essential for the body to rest in order to mend. My mother was awakened countless times from a deep sleep. Many times it was to monitor blood pressure or temperature, but there were other times the nurse could have used discretion and allowed her to get the rest she needed.

5. There is little to no understanding or connection between nutrition and health in a hospital. My roommate was a diabetic, and when she could finally have a meal of clear liquids, everything on her tray was loaded with sugar (jello, ices, fruit juice, etc.) Especially for people trying to recover from infection, sugar is something to be avoided. While hospital food, in general, can be very unappetizing, if you get to know the person taking the orders for meals, you can often request certain dishes more to your liking which are not on that day's menu.

6. Communication between medical personnel and patients is extremely poor. I'm not sure whether this has to do with the differences among patients (education levels, language barriers, cultural differences) and how sick they may be, a patronizing attitude, or if it's simply not a priority, but as a patient, you have to actively pursue getting your own test results. The doctor may mention it or not. Yet, there is no hesitation to draw blood, request urine samples, and prod and poke patients to no end, day or night, to get what they need.

7. Like most other things, there is a learning curve in the health care system, both as a patient and a family member. It is possible to overcome most of a hospital's shortcomings by having family and friends serve as advocates, and provide preferred foods and other essentials.

One aspect of the hospital I did appreciate was what I refer to as "hospital time." It might also be considered a time warp. In either case, everything slows down, and it is as if the outside world does not exist. The focus is on the present. No sense in talking about what may happen, other than in the context of care. In that sense, I didn't mind the hospital at all.

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.