Knowing my mother’s Alzheimer’s was advancing and her health declining I made two trips to see her and help my sister care for her in the last four months. I made a third trip to attend her funeral and bury her. In March the doctors gave her no more than six months but I knew it would be much less time we had to spend with her. My journey brought me on my last visit knowing it would most likely be the last so I treasured those moments I spent with mom.
This visit everything was different. Her bed was now a hospital bed positioned in the family room. My sister had taken my advice and moved some of mom’s bedroom furniture in there to make it more familiar for mom. Gone were her clothes in the dresser, replaced with Chux pads for the bed, sheets, wipes, and linens. Each of her pull-over tops had been slit up the back to make it easier to put on. To the right of the bed were tissues, wipes, cream, and a handwritten schedule of reminders for and from the hospice nurse. There was always an insulated cup with a straw with ice tea or orange juice to keep her hydrated. She didn’t have much of an appetite and sipped from the cup more because we made her than she wanted to. There was a TV placed on her dresser and nearly constantly a DVD of old family photos looped displaying pictures of the family over the last 65 years. My sister Carol shared with me that while watching it one time she said “Look mom, it’s you and the twins.” Mom responded with, “Hmmp, I had twins?” It was reminder of how much memory mom had lost yet became a moment of humor. Mom had six daughters and two sons, eight in all. She knew we were all her children but couldn’t really distinguish the girls from each other most of the time, except for Ellie who had moved home to care for her.
I felt privileged to come home and care for mom and let Ellie get some rest. Mom had to be turned every two hours to prevent bed sores so sleep was elusive. I was able to assume that job while there to let Ellie get a few good nights of rest. It was heart wrenching to wake mom up in the middle of the night to turn her. She was disoriented, wanted to be left alone, and due to her health condition painful. To top it off she didn’t recognize me. “What are you doin’?” She would cry as I gently soothed her and wedged the pillows behind her back to support her on her side. She would fall back asleep and I would stoke her hair or hold her hand. Her skin was so soft. I was fully aware we were losing her but knew it was on God’s time table. I was just happy to be there and feel the love and peace she had always exuded. It was though there was an aura of it in the room.
Ellie was her primary caregiver. She had moved in and watched mom’s decline over the last eighteen months. Mom always wanted to stay in her home and didn’t want to live in a nursing home. Ellie made that possible. She gave up a lot but will tell you she gained more than she lost and felt privileged to be there. My brother Joe, who is developmentally challenged also lived at home but was in no position to care for mom. While cleaning out one of the closets in mom’s bedroom we found some of my dad’s things. He’s been gone for 28 years. Ellie asked my brother if he wanted to use the closet for some of his things. She tried to explain that mom had no more than six months left and I knew she was in denial herself … hoping my mother would last the entire six months. She had grown so close to mom, it would be hardest on her to lose her now.
The morning I left I knew it would be the last time I saw her alive. Saying good-bye was perhaps the hardest thing I have ever had to do in my life. She was sleepy that morning, as I stroked her face and my tears dropped on her brow I felt that swelling in my chest, that heartache that only comes when someone you love so deeply is hurt or lost. We are never prepared to lose a parent or child no matter how long we have to adjust to the rational side of it. I will keep those last moments etched in my mind forever. As I left for the airport I felt that surreal feeling of going through the motions but not really being there or feeling anything … anything but heartache.
I called every night to check in and let Ellie talk. I needed to know mom’s condition and Ellie needed a shoulder. I was home in Baton Rouge for six days and was grateful to go to my Small Faith Group to share and pray for mom, myself and the family. Ellie texted me while I was there with a message that the hospice had told her it was time to stop feeding mom. I knew this would be so hard for her to do. Being with the members of my small faith group gave me the strength I knew I would need these next few days. I pulled into the driveway and called Ellie. She was fighting the tears. My brother Art was there. He’d been there all evening stroking mom, holding her hand. While on the phone Fr. John arrived to administer Last Rites. Ellie was choking back her tears and emotions and now so was I. I heard Fr. Start to say the prayers. In my mind I saw him with her crucifix she bought years ago just for this moment. I remember standing there thinking this is one of those moments in life you will always know where you were and I prayed for God to be merciful and welcome my mother home. I let Ellie go and she called back moments later and through her tears said “She’s gone.” She had just waited for God’s permission. She received Last Rites and took her last breath. As much as I felt at peace for her I felt such a void in my heart, an ache that I hope I always feel; a reminder of my greatest loss. I cried my tears in the shower where they steamed down my face with the running water flooded with memories of my mother, accepting the loss that truly had begun three years ago as Alzheimer’s robbed her mind. Even when she didn’t know our names she knew we were her daughters, we belonged there. She knew there was a strong bond she just couldn’t name it.
We celebrated her life and hundreds of people attended her wake and funeral. It was truly a tribute to this woman who had raised eight children, been active in both the church and community, and been loved by so many. She was my greatest role model and will always be my greatest loss.
-Barbara Auten, Executive Director
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