Wednesday, March 7, 2007
[Death] Stories I Tell My Mother - Part 2
Mom's Husband:
"I think it was about a year before his death when Dad's health took a sharp downturn. During that year you nursed him and you and he were sent all over the country on military transport, from veteran's hospital to veteran's hospital, while the doctors tried to treat him. I was living in Sacramento at that time and I remember that you guys even spent some time at the veteran's hospital close to where I lived."
"That's right. I remember," Mom usually says.
"The last veteran's hospital before his death was the one in Phoenix. I think he was taken there about a month before he died. I remember that, as the paramedics were wheeling him out of your home, he insisted on calling me. I was at work in Sacramento. By that time he wasn't able to eat, his body was almost completely broken down, and he was in misery. I still remember the phone call and the sound of his voice. I knew it would be the last time he and I talked. We didn't say much..."
"I don't think you could," Mom usually mentions. "They already had him on the carrier."
"Yeah, I know. I remember he told me what was happening, we told each other we loved each other and said good-bye.
"You kept me updated but there wasn't much to report. They knew he had an abdominal aneurysm but his liver had failed, almost everything in his body had failed as a result of his advanced alcoholism and his blood wouldn't clot. They kept him at the hospital as long as they could, hoping for the best, but when they finally decided there was nothing they could do, they recommended that he be moved to a nursing home, because you were no longer able to care for him. They arranged for him to be transferred to one in Mesa. As it turned out, it was the same one where Grandma lived before she died."
Sometimes, at this point, Mom will say, "Mother's dead?!?" and I'll remind her and assure her that I'll tell her about Grandma's death as soon as I finish with the story of Dad's death.
"Dad didn't want to go to the nursing home, I remember you telling me. He pleaded with you to just take him home, but everyone advised against this because you simply weren't physically able to take care of him and his military benefits, at that time, wouldn't cover in home nursing. I don't know if there was such a thing as hospice care at that time, but, regardless, that was never suggested.
"A date was set for his transfer. He continued to be set (sometimes I'll say "dead set", as, truly, that, as it turned out, is the most accurate description of his refusal) against the move.
"On the day he died, you were with him most of the day. You left sometime in the afternoon or evening. Since I wasn't there, I can't be sure; all of this is pretty much what I picked up from you and MPS. No sooner had you arrived home than the hospital called to say he'd died."
"That's right. I remember, now. They say that [someone dying just before they are slated to be transferred to a nursing home] happens often," Mom says.
"That's what I've heard, too. You called MPS and you and she went back to the hospital for your last visit. I remember MPS telling me that she saw Dad after he died. He had a bewildered expression on his face. I wish I had been there and seen him."
"Oh," she usually says, "it's better that you didn't. You wouldn't have recognized him."
"Well, I know he must have looked pretty wasted..."
"...that's putting it mildly," she usually mentions...
"...but, you know, even though he always used to say, as long as I can remember, 'Dealie [his nickname for me],' he'd say, 'I'll be dead in five years [he started saying this decades before he actually died], just bury me under the peach tree out back,' he was more frightened of death than anyone I've ever known."
"I remember. He was always saying that. I agree with you. He was very frightened of dying," Mom often interjects.
"I don't know why, but, for some reason, seeing his death mask would have put the final period on his life, for me."
"Well," Mom often says, "I suppose so, but it wasn't a pleasant sight. You wouldn't have been able to get it out of your mind. It would have been your last memory of him, and that just doesn't seem right."
"Anyway, I can't remember who called me, but I was the second to the last sister notified, I think, and I called the last one. We all congregated in Mesa. He was cremated, so we had a memorial service for him at that Methodist church behind the Los Arcos mall in Scottsdale. Only immediate family and relatives who lived close attended. I don't remember much about it, although I do remember that you asked me to read that poem I'd written for his birthday several years before."
"Yes. That's right," she usually says. "He liked that poem. He would read it to himself a lot. Do you remember it?"
I keep it handy, because her request is typical when I'm telling the story of Dad's death. At this point I find a copy of it and read it to her:
11 x 11 - 9 (64)
The best thing I ever found in the junkyard
in Sunnyvale where you and I would go on
Sunday was an empty Parker ink bottle.
I kept it for years. It cradled small treasures
with large meanings, things I was afraid I'd lose:
Mysterious stones, stray jewelry, a dwarf
jade Buddha. They've all become symbols since then.
The ink bottle was lost in moving. So, now,
my collection is on display in the place
where I store all the moments we've talked and touched
and all the things not yet mentioned between us.
"After Dad died," I continue, "MFS and her husband and MCS and her husband stayed on for awhile, helping you settle his affairs."
"That's right," she usually says, "they were such a big help."
"They were. When we're going through boxes we still, occasionally, run across lists of things that needed to be done, with notes about their progress and the items crossed off. [MFS's husband] was able to arrange to have Dad's ashes scattered at sea from the deck of a ship on which Dad once served and he and Dad had discussed. We have a video of the ceremony, with MFS scattering the ashes. Remember? At the moment MFS emptied the urn, an updraft from the side of the ship blew some of the ashes back at her."
"That's right. I imagine that happens often," Mom sometimes says. This is something we discuss frequently when I tell Dad's death story, speculating that any time someone scatters ashes over a promontorical edge, it's more likely than not that an updraft is going to scatter some of the ashes back at the scatterer. Usually this evolves into a discussion of [another of Mom's nephew's] scattering [Mom's brother's wife's] ashes from Wind Cave in Mesa, during which we wonder if the same thing happened to [Mom's nephew and his son].
"Some time later, you had a plaque installed at the Veteran's Cemetary in Carefree."
This is something that she never remembers, even though, after the plaque was installed, she visited it more than a few times. "Really?" she usually responds.
I confirm this for her and usually ask if she'd like to visit the plaque, again, sometime. She always says, "No, I don't think it's necessary." I've never seen the plaque.
Often, as we wind up the story of Dad's death, Mom will say, "He was so young when he died." From the perspective of her ancestors and siblings, this is certainly true, although within Dad's family, most of his siblings and ancestors died in their 60's.
Mom's Mother:
"After Grandpa's death, you and [Mom's sister's family] took turns staying with Grandma up in Prescott, as it was clear she was confused by Grandpa's death and was becoming more confused as time went on, although no one considered that she was descending into severe dementia. After a while, though, in order to make it easier on everyone and have Grandma close, [Mom's sister's family] sold her house in Prescott and bought her a mobile home in that little park off Miller Road in Scottsdale, just north of McKellips."
"Oh, yes. There was barely enough room in that home for Grandma and all her stuff," Mom usually mentions.
"As time went on, all of you began to notice that Grandma was becoming increasingly agitated, hiding things, refusing to let people in, sometimes not recognizing people. A round-the-clock watch was established. Finally, it was decided that it would be best for Grandma to move in with [My mother's sister's family]. She began to wander, and require more and more care. They built a room for her off their house, sort of like an efficiency apartment, with a kitchenette, a bathroom, and everything. The watch continued, and, as I recall, they also had professionals look after her, because everyone had full time jobs and part of this was during the time when you were taking care of Dad."
"I remember," Mom usually says. "I think you're right about that. That was a nice little apartment they built for Mother."
"Grandma continued to progress further into dementia. I remember her having hallucinations of flowers on everything; wanting to 'go, go, go' all the time; worrying about you 'out there in Mesa with no men,' and asking 'Where are all the men?'"
Mom usually smiles at this and we often talk about how this must have startled [Mom's sister's husband and adult son], as they were, clearly, men, but they weren't the men Grandma recognized, anymore.
"Anyway, about six months before she died, Grandma's care was so intense that it was decided to move her into a nursing home, the same one Dad would have gone into if he hadn't died the day before he was to be transferred. It was very close to where you lived in Mesa, so you visited her almost every day. By that time, I was back in the Phoenix metroplex and I'd often go with you. She was completely lost in her dementia, by that time, often spending hours at a time in a fetal position. When the staff was able to get her out of bed and into a wheelchair, we'd take her to that screened in courtyard and wheel her around, in order to give her the impression that she was 'going' someplace. There were birds that lived in the courtyard. I remember one time one of the birds landed on the arm of her wheelchair. It sat there for a long time. Grandma was fascinated with it. She couldn't keep her eyes off it and babbled on for awhile to it, or, maybe, about it. Neither of us was sure."
"That's right," Mom will say. "I remember!"
"When the bird flew away, Grandma followed it with her eyes until she could no longer see it. You and I talked about how maybe Grandma wasn't completely lost to reality.
"I'm not exactly sure what the final word was on how she died. By that time, she was in her bed constantly. Everything was being done for her. It's funny, too, because I have no memory of her funeral, even though I was there. I don't know whether she was cremated, I know she was buried up in Prescott with Grandpa and [Mom's brother] but I don't remember anything about the burial, except driving to the site."
Mom usually says at this point, "I don't even remember that." Then, after thinking a bit, she'll usually say, "That was a nice nursing home."
As my memory serves, it actually wasn't. Although the courtyard was pretty decent, it was hardly ever used. The setting was very clinical. It was one of those hidden institutions, hard to get to, parking was sparse, it was loaded to the gills with residents, the staff was fairly sparse, extremely officious and rarely to be seen unless someone decided to venture into the halls on their own, which was discouraged. My recollection tells me it was relatively clean but clearly a holding and hiding tank for people who appeared to have been abandoned. I remember meeting and talking with one resident, a woman who was there because she'd fallen and broken her hip. She was not demented, her hip had healed as much as it was going to, she was probably in her 70's or 80's, would often try to venture into the halls to meet people and was almost always being ushered back to her room. I caught her eye, one day, and followed her back to her room. I remember her telling me that she didn't like living there but had no one with whom she could live, shrugging her shoulders and rhetorically asking, "What are you going to do?"
In retrospect, I consider that it's possible that my memories of visiting my maternal grandmother at this institution figured prominently in my decision to be my mother's final companion.
More...
...later.
"I think it was about a year before his death when Dad's health took a sharp downturn. During that year you nursed him and you and he were sent all over the country on military transport, from veteran's hospital to veteran's hospital, while the doctors tried to treat him. I was living in Sacramento at that time and I remember that you guys even spent some time at the veteran's hospital close to where I lived."
"That's right. I remember," Mom usually says.
"The last veteran's hospital before his death was the one in Phoenix. I think he was taken there about a month before he died. I remember that, as the paramedics were wheeling him out of your home, he insisted on calling me. I was at work in Sacramento. By that time he wasn't able to eat, his body was almost completely broken down, and he was in misery. I still remember the phone call and the sound of his voice. I knew it would be the last time he and I talked. We didn't say much..."
"I don't think you could," Mom usually mentions. "They already had him on the carrier."
"Yeah, I know. I remember he told me what was happening, we told each other we loved each other and said good-bye.
"You kept me updated but there wasn't much to report. They knew he had an abdominal aneurysm but his liver had failed, almost everything in his body had failed as a result of his advanced alcoholism and his blood wouldn't clot. They kept him at the hospital as long as they could, hoping for the best, but when they finally decided there was nothing they could do, they recommended that he be moved to a nursing home, because you were no longer able to care for him. They arranged for him to be transferred to one in Mesa. As it turned out, it was the same one where Grandma lived before she died."
Sometimes, at this point, Mom will say, "Mother's dead?!?" and I'll remind her and assure her that I'll tell her about Grandma's death as soon as I finish with the story of Dad's death.
"Dad didn't want to go to the nursing home, I remember you telling me. He pleaded with you to just take him home, but everyone advised against this because you simply weren't physically able to take care of him and his military benefits, at that time, wouldn't cover in home nursing. I don't know if there was such a thing as hospice care at that time, but, regardless, that was never suggested.
"A date was set for his transfer. He continued to be set (sometimes I'll say "dead set", as, truly, that, as it turned out, is the most accurate description of his refusal) against the move.
"On the day he died, you were with him most of the day. You left sometime in the afternoon or evening. Since I wasn't there, I can't be sure; all of this is pretty much what I picked up from you and MPS. No sooner had you arrived home than the hospital called to say he'd died."
"That's right. I remember, now. They say that [someone dying just before they are slated to be transferred to a nursing home] happens often," Mom says.
"That's what I've heard, too. You called MPS and you and she went back to the hospital for your last visit. I remember MPS telling me that she saw Dad after he died. He had a bewildered expression on his face. I wish I had been there and seen him."
"Oh," she usually says, "it's better that you didn't. You wouldn't have recognized him."
"Well, I know he must have looked pretty wasted..."
"...that's putting it mildly," she usually mentions...
"...but, you know, even though he always used to say, as long as I can remember, 'Dealie [his nickname for me],' he'd say, 'I'll be dead in five years [he started saying this decades before he actually died], just bury me under the peach tree out back,' he was more frightened of death than anyone I've ever known."
"I remember. He was always saying that. I agree with you. He was very frightened of dying," Mom often interjects.
"I don't know why, but, for some reason, seeing his death mask would have put the final period on his life, for me."
"Well," Mom often says, "I suppose so, but it wasn't a pleasant sight. You wouldn't have been able to get it out of your mind. It would have been your last memory of him, and that just doesn't seem right."
"Anyway, I can't remember who called me, but I was the second to the last sister notified, I think, and I called the last one. We all congregated in Mesa. He was cremated, so we had a memorial service for him at that Methodist church behind the Los Arcos mall in Scottsdale. Only immediate family and relatives who lived close attended. I don't remember much about it, although I do remember that you asked me to read that poem I'd written for his birthday several years before."
"Yes. That's right," she usually says. "He liked that poem. He would read it to himself a lot. Do you remember it?"
I keep it handy, because her request is typical when I'm telling the story of Dad's death. At this point I find a copy of it and read it to her:
11 x 11 - 9 (64)
The best thing I ever found in the junkyard
in Sunnyvale where you and I would go on
Sunday was an empty Parker ink bottle.
I kept it for years. It cradled small treasures
with large meanings, things I was afraid I'd lose:
Mysterious stones, stray jewelry, a dwarf
jade Buddha. They've all become symbols since then.
The ink bottle was lost in moving. So, now,
my collection is on display in the place
where I store all the moments we've talked and touched
and all the things not yet mentioned between us.
"After Dad died," I continue, "MFS and her husband and MCS and her husband stayed on for awhile, helping you settle his affairs."
"That's right," she usually says, "they were such a big help."
"They were. When we're going through boxes we still, occasionally, run across lists of things that needed to be done, with notes about their progress and the items crossed off. [MFS's husband] was able to arrange to have Dad's ashes scattered at sea from the deck of a ship on which Dad once served and he and Dad had discussed. We have a video of the ceremony, with MFS scattering the ashes. Remember? At the moment MFS emptied the urn, an updraft from the side of the ship blew some of the ashes back at her."
"That's right. I imagine that happens often," Mom sometimes says. This is something we discuss frequently when I tell Dad's death story, speculating that any time someone scatters ashes over a promontorical edge, it's more likely than not that an updraft is going to scatter some of the ashes back at the scatterer. Usually this evolves into a discussion of [another of Mom's nephew's] scattering [Mom's brother's wife's] ashes from Wind Cave in Mesa, during which we wonder if the same thing happened to [Mom's nephew and his son].
"Some time later, you had a plaque installed at the Veteran's Cemetary in Carefree."
This is something that she never remembers, even though, after the plaque was installed, she visited it more than a few times. "Really?" she usually responds.
I confirm this for her and usually ask if she'd like to visit the plaque, again, sometime. She always says, "No, I don't think it's necessary." I've never seen the plaque.
Often, as we wind up the story of Dad's death, Mom will say, "He was so young when he died." From the perspective of her ancestors and siblings, this is certainly true, although within Dad's family, most of his siblings and ancestors died in their 60's.
Mom's Mother:
"After Grandpa's death, you and [Mom's sister's family] took turns staying with Grandma up in Prescott, as it was clear she was confused by Grandpa's death and was becoming more confused as time went on, although no one considered that she was descending into severe dementia. After a while, though, in order to make it easier on everyone and have Grandma close, [Mom's sister's family] sold her house in Prescott and bought her a mobile home in that little park off Miller Road in Scottsdale, just north of McKellips."
"Oh, yes. There was barely enough room in that home for Grandma and all her stuff," Mom usually mentions.
"As time went on, all of you began to notice that Grandma was becoming increasingly agitated, hiding things, refusing to let people in, sometimes not recognizing people. A round-the-clock watch was established. Finally, it was decided that it would be best for Grandma to move in with [My mother's sister's family]. She began to wander, and require more and more care. They built a room for her off their house, sort of like an efficiency apartment, with a kitchenette, a bathroom, and everything. The watch continued, and, as I recall, they also had professionals look after her, because everyone had full time jobs and part of this was during the time when you were taking care of Dad."
"I remember," Mom usually says. "I think you're right about that. That was a nice little apartment they built for Mother."
"Grandma continued to progress further into dementia. I remember her having hallucinations of flowers on everything; wanting to 'go, go, go' all the time; worrying about you 'out there in Mesa with no men,' and asking 'Where are all the men?'"
Mom usually smiles at this and we often talk about how this must have startled [Mom's sister's husband and adult son], as they were, clearly, men, but they weren't the men Grandma recognized, anymore.
"Anyway, about six months before she died, Grandma's care was so intense that it was decided to move her into a nursing home, the same one Dad would have gone into if he hadn't died the day before he was to be transferred. It was very close to where you lived in Mesa, so you visited her almost every day. By that time, I was back in the Phoenix metroplex and I'd often go with you. She was completely lost in her dementia, by that time, often spending hours at a time in a fetal position. When the staff was able to get her out of bed and into a wheelchair, we'd take her to that screened in courtyard and wheel her around, in order to give her the impression that she was 'going' someplace. There were birds that lived in the courtyard. I remember one time one of the birds landed on the arm of her wheelchair. It sat there for a long time. Grandma was fascinated with it. She couldn't keep her eyes off it and babbled on for awhile to it, or, maybe, about it. Neither of us was sure."
"That's right," Mom will say. "I remember!"
"When the bird flew away, Grandma followed it with her eyes until she could no longer see it. You and I talked about how maybe Grandma wasn't completely lost to reality.
"I'm not exactly sure what the final word was on how she died. By that time, she was in her bed constantly. Everything was being done for her. It's funny, too, because I have no memory of her funeral, even though I was there. I don't know whether she was cremated, I know she was buried up in Prescott with Grandpa and [Mom's brother] but I don't remember anything about the burial, except driving to the site."
Mom usually says at this point, "I don't even remember that." Then, after thinking a bit, she'll usually say, "That was a nice nursing home."
As my memory serves, it actually wasn't. Although the courtyard was pretty decent, it was hardly ever used. The setting was very clinical. It was one of those hidden institutions, hard to get to, parking was sparse, it was loaded to the gills with residents, the staff was fairly sparse, extremely officious and rarely to be seen unless someone decided to venture into the halls on their own, which was discouraged. My recollection tells me it was relatively clean but clearly a holding and hiding tank for people who appeared to have been abandoned. I remember meeting and talking with one resident, a woman who was there because she'd fallen and broken her hip. She was not demented, her hip had healed as much as it was going to, she was probably in her 70's or 80's, would often try to venture into the halls to meet people and was almost always being ushered back to her room. I caught her eye, one day, and followed her back to her room. I remember her telling me that she didn't like living there but had no one with whom she could live, shrugging her shoulders and rhetorically asking, "What are you going to do?"
In retrospect, I consider that it's possible that my memories of visiting my maternal grandmother at this institution figured prominently in my decision to be my mother's final companion.
More...
...later.
