Wednesday, July 03, 2013

Swimming with Love

It's the 5-year anniversary of my Mom's death today, July 3rd. I can't look at the photo (below) of her in hospice without crying. 

Here's a passage from Patio's blog that I wrote about a week before this, on Mom's last trip to the hospital, as my brother Mike and I were together:

"Around nine o'clock one of the doctors who we like a lot and who'd seen Mom twice before in ER, including on Sunday, came by. She looked at Mom's distended belly, heard about the lack of pain meds, saw the unresponsiveness, and went on to describe the laundry list of the ways that Mom's body seems to be shutting down. She then summed it up by saying we might want to spend the night tonight if we'd be really disappointed to not be here when she passes away. That just hit Mike and I like a ton of bricks. We knew that was a possibility, but hours before we were still planning on a hip replacement on Friday. Now we don't know that she'll be alive Friday.

"This evening Mom woke up and kind of came to, for the first time today. She got a little agitated again, kind of wrestling with us and trying to pull off her covers so she could make a run for it when no one was looking. But after a time she got very still, even looking serene, and though she mostly doesn't know who we are, she looks right into our eyes. Her eyes are bright blue, and even now they're as clear as a bell, and she really looks beautiful. Something startled her and she said, "Oh!" and smiled. She's holding onto both of our hands, and her skin is cool and soft. It's always been nice to sit with her, but I'm sure I've never appreciated it the way I do right now. I am really cherishing this moment, appreciating it more knowing that it won't be available for much longer. It actually makes me gasp to write that.

"Mike and I are crying like babies, and I can't speak for him, but I feel like my suffering has ended, because I've stopped fighting. I'm surrendering to this inevitable moment, and this hospital room, our home away from home, is just swimming with love."

Too much love, (we're swimming in it, and sometimes we know it...)


kimart said...

Hi Dave, thanks much for re-posting this. I felt its truth when you first posted it at the time of your Mom's death. I experienced the truth of it in the hospital room with my sister at the time of her death a year ago April. I don't experience a day since then without some memory of it, but your telling of it is so crystal clear. I always enjoy and am moved by your postings. Sometimes I think they were generated in ways that were more for you than for your readers. Sometimes I think they were intended/ and/or meant to be pondered more by your readers than by you. I think this posting was for all of us. Too many well wishes, Kim

Dave Adair said...

Thank you dear Kim for the nice comments. I'm so sad to hear about your sister. I never met her but remember so well the challenges of her illness in the earlier stages. I've said to people that, strangely, the finality of our Mom's diagnosis kept us from holding out hope for some cure. We knew where it was headed, and it made it easier to accept. Give my love to your parents, and thank you for staying in touch! Love, Dave