The language of death...

Honestly I found that I have had no time to write in these past two months.  And while that is so very unlike me.  My focus had been not on myself, but on the needs of my mother.  And in this process I have learned a new language... the language of death.

You see a mother and daughter pass thru so many stages as the daughter grows up.  And we were just learning to use the same language.  And then I was forced to walk a path, that I had prayed would take years to come.  And yet God had other plans for us both.  Those plans were a walk on a path that would challenge not just me, but also my mother.

This path started with defining the boundaries of her language of death.  This was done with her life long partner, my father, just when I was about to graduate from college.  Lately we have heard a lot about this process.  You see, there are people who believe the discussion of this process implies that as you age you are expendable.  And yet I learned in this process what my parents considered to be a natural death.  And what choices they were comfortable with in conjunction with their faith.  

Yet, having established these boundaries of the language... it was years before this language would again enter our voices.  It sat for many years locked in a box, collecting dust.  It would sit there thru my wedding and the change of my name.  It would sit there thru the death of my father.  And it would even sit there thru moving and the birth of my daughter.  And yet one day when my munchkin was about 18 months old...  I had to open that box and sort thru memories and find the boundaries of our language of love.  And time does have a way of putting the language out of our minds.

You see, when I sat down and read the boundaries, I felt trapped.  For the first time I realized that what choices I could make in the name of love, for my mother, left me feeling trapped.  The guidelines were so much more confining that I had ever thought.  Basic advances in medical science were not allowed...  I couldn't authorize the use of any instrument that would cut into my mother's skin.  And in many ways I had to be ready to let her go, even when my heart would beg to let her live.  Because life sustaining measures were limited to food and water.  You see, sometimes the language you are left with will tear you into two.  Because you are not allowed to think about what you want to do.  You must in love abide by the wishes of the person who is sharing this special language with you.

When the language was first shared, in God's will, I was able to make choices that kept my mother alive.  It was not her time, but it was a challenge on the relationships in our family.  When one person exerts a level of parenting over a parent, other children can get upset.  And I still don't blame my brother for being upset.  I thought she was going to die.  And yet while she isn't die, we were put on a path where that language was always in the back of my mind.  And one of the reasons was, she was never the same.  Instead of being able to get up and just do what she wanted... she was now walking with a walker.  And over the next four years her mobility would slowly disappear.  And in that disappearance... she would make real the new language we needed to speak.

These past six months, the language of death has seemed to haunt me.  It was spoken by doctors in words of CHF, and kidney failure.  It was sent in the mail, with bills and more appointments that I could keep track of.  And the simple fact that conversations that use to challenge my mother's mind, seemed to be beyond her comprehension.  And yet the language of death was there, while we were still trying to use the language of our many stages in our relationship.  And in many ways it broke my heart the day I had to call an ambulance to send her to the hospital, because she couldn't walk, let alone stand up.  Her need for care went beyond my ability.  And yet that was the start of our final walk with the language of death.

From that day that she was taken out of her house and went to the hospital... she never would set foot back in.  We walked a path as we found a nursing home for her to attempt to get back on her feet.  And each step on this path found my realization that my mother was dying.  And in front of us were discussions that we would never share again.  And in the end I honored her wish of dignity in death.  When it became clear that she wasn't going to improve... I stopped her bouncing back and forth between the home and the hospital.  I did my best to visit her, despite the distance.  And attempted to make sure she was comfortable and felt at home.  

And yet, I was still not ready for the last words of the language of death... Her death.