Saying Goodbye....

I had a funny little exchange with Mommie Dearest yesterday. I called her to say that I’d be over in a while. I added that I wouldn’t be able to stay for the weekly ‘happy hour,’ and she said, “Oh, you mean the party?” I replied, “Yes, happy hour. I won’t be able to stay for happy hour.” She got a little irritated and snapped, “Why do you keep calling it that?” I was puzzled and said, “Because…that’s what it’s called?” She then said, “That is the name of a man who lives here, you know.” I started to laugh. My mom says lots of crazy things and often I just let her comments go. But this one, I couldn’t. Through my laughter I said, “You do NOT have a man living there named Happy Hour!” She said, “Happy Hour?” I thought you were saying Javier.”

We both started to laugh.

It was nice to share an affable moment with her when she was happy and present and lucid and that we both found funny. It has been a long and arduous few months juggling her health issues. From April through August she was shuttling from the emergency room to the hospital to rehab and back to her apartment on a regular basis. Her returns home lasted a day or two and then, inevitably, something calamitous would happen and she’d end up in the emergency room again. By late August, Mommie Dearest came to the realization that her quality of life was being compromised. She wanted off the medical rollercoaster.

The next step was to begin palliative care.

I met this decision with mixed emotions. The upside was no more trips to the ER. The downside was submitting to the reality that there isn’t much more to be done for her, medically. There was poignancy for me in this step, although I felt it was the right decision. It seemed more challenging for Mommie Dearest. For several weeks after coming to this conclusion, she refused to get out of bed, get dressed, or leave her apartment. I began to prepare myself for the end.

A palliative care nurse came to visit with my mom and I attended the first meeting. My job was to fill in the gaps of history that my mom either forgets or just makes up in some sort of revisionist strategy to make our family’s past fit what she wants it to be rather than the dysfunctional mess it really was. Regardless, the process for care was set in place. My mom’s physician had told me that sometimes when patients go on palliative care they rally for a short time. There seems to be some type of emotional release that goes along with knowing they aren’t going to be hospitalized repeatedly. I have been pleasantly surprised that, following the nurse’s visit, Mommie Dearest does seem enlivened.

She is tiny and frail. She naps frequently and can no longer walk but, every day she musters the energy to get up and dressed and go to the common area of her retirement community to kibbitz with her friends. I know she could continue like this for a while longer. And I know it could all change overnight. So I choose to embrace the time I have with her.

When my father died, I had no warning. I never had the chance to say goodbye. In retrospect I recognize the point at which he said goodbye, but I wasn’t able to understand what was happening and offer my own farewell. My soul was troubled by that until a few years ago when I was given a second chance. The day before my dear friend’s father died I visited his bedside to say goodbye. His name was Bill and his previously large and powerful body had withered, but his massive hands were still strong. He took my hands and held them firmly in his. Because he could barely see, I put my face within an inch of his...and said goodbye. He locked his eyes deeply into mine. Everything and everyone in the room faded away. It was just the two of us and then, his weakened voice said, “Goodbye isn’t forever, you know.” We stayed suspended in that intimate pose for some time before I was ready to let go.

The healing effect that exchange had on me is inexplicable. At that moment when Bill griped my hands and spoke those words, it wasn’t just Bill I was saying goodbye to. It was also my own father. I had been given the opportunity for closure and I felt the soothing balm in my soul immediately.

Actually saying goodbye to my mom in words may or may not happen. She won’t really talk about her own death much. Just a flippant comment here and there. But it doesn’t matter because I’ve learned, there isn’t a formula for how to do these things. Each situation has its own unique process. Every time I see my mom, or serve her, or laugh with her, I experience a part of the process of saying goodbye. Not with sadness, but with peace. This time, I’m being given the opportunity to prepare. This time, I get to say goodbye. Mommie Dearest wouldn’t be comfortable with me coming right out and saying it. And it feels like forcing the issue lacks grace. But doing the best thing for her is my way to say I love you. My way to say goodbye.

Each step of her decline reminds me that our time is short. But the truth is, time is short with everyone. We never know if we’ll be given another day. Another opportunity to laugh or serve. Or forgive. But we’re given the chance today.

The chance to say, “I love you.”