A Letter to My Mom's Friends

A Letter to My Mom's Friends

December 13, 2008.

I’m sitting at Gate 11, waiting to board a flight back to Washington after spending four days at my parents’ home in Austin. They called a week ago to tell me and my brothers that Mom has late-stage lung cancer. For all of Mom’s friends who wish they could sit down with her for one last visit, I want to tell you a little bit of what it’s like to be with her right now.

Mom and Dad called the first Thursday in December, after they heard the results of a PET scan from a lung specialist who said: “I’m so sorry. This is the worst report I’ve ever seen.”

Dad talked first. He said the cancer was very advanced and very aggressive. Then Mom got on the phone. She was very peaceful, very comforting. She explained a bit more of the medical results, and then she said in an upbeat voice: “We’re enrolling in hospice. We have a terrific hospice here in Austin.”

When the hospice nurse came for the first time the following Wednesday morning, I was sitting with Mom at the breakfast table.

“Alana,” Dad said. “The hospice people are coming in five minutes, please finish eating.” Mom answered back in an unhurried voice: “I don’t rush well, and I’m sure they’re used to all manner of eccentricities.”

The nurse asked Mom if the pain medication was making her drowsy. She said “I’m not sure,” at the precise moment that Dad said “Yes!” I stepped in with a third opinion. I told the nurse: “If you put both my mom and my dad in a comfy chair at the same time, my dad will fall asleep first.” Then Dad said: “But you don’t know what I’m taking !“ I was treated to wisecracks all week. Mom told me on Wednesday: “I just tore up my dentist notice. There are positive aspects to everything!”

On Friday, when we were taking Mom to the oncology center for radiation therapy, the elevator door opened and a Sikh in a turban walked past. Dad whispered: “Obviously, a cancer patient who has lost all his hair.” Still another time, Dad said: “Alana, I’ve given you three important medical cards. Where are they?” Mom said: “Good luck.”

Mom’s brother Jack arrived for a visit yesterday, bringing a ton of comfort with him. We had a festive dinner, and when Mom had gone to bed and we still were gathered around the table, Uncle Jack told us that when Mom called him with the news, she told him: “Jack, I’m ready to return my library book.”

Their humor is not a trick to deny the truth. Mom and Dad are both matter-of-fact about death. Ten years ago, when Dad had cancer and was preparing for treatment, he and Mom had an interview with a social worker. Dad later saw that she had written in his file: “In denial.” I guess she assumed if you’re not in tears, you’re in denial.

Friday morning, we took Mom to an eye appointment. She had a corneal transplant some years ago in her right eye, and her contact lens had recently begun cutting into the cornea, so the doctor told her the lens had to come out. She can’t see out of that eye now, so she went back to find out if he could help her get back her vision; she really hates that it’s so hard for her to read. When the doctor studied her eye, he looked startled and asked: “Are there other health issues going on here?” Dad told him. Then the doctor had pictures taken of the right eye, studied them for a minute, and told Mom: “You have four tumor metastases under the retina.” He wanted to get Mom to another eye specialist that afternoon, but Mom said: “I don’t think so. I really don’t want to see another doctor.” He seemed a bit stunned. Perhaps, unlike Mom, he wasn’t used to looking death in the eye.

I’m not as tough as Mom either. At one point early in my visit, Mom asked: “What day is it?” I told her, “Today is Wednesday,” and gave her the schedule for the week. When I said: “I leave Saturday morning,” my voice cracked and I started to cry.

There is a big difference between dignified crying and undignified crying, and I was trying to keep it dignified. But Mom could tell and told me: “It’s okay. You can cry. If you can cry over an old girlfriend you can cry over this.”

“Yeah,” I said. “The ultimate old girlfriend.”

The cancer has entered Mom’s back and shoulders, and it makes it painful to put on certain types of clothes. So on Thursday, I asked if we should rearrange her closet, so she can find the clothes that are easier to put on. We agreed to create three piles: summer clothes, winter clothes that she dislikes or are hard to put on, and winter clothes that she likes and are easy to put on.

She sat on the bed, and I would take one item at a time out of the closet and show it to her. Each outfit brought a different reaction.

I held up one outfit, and she said: “That’s one of my favorites for dress up. But I’m not dressing up any more.” When I showed her a light blue skirt and jacket combination, she said: “You can dress me in that for the casket.” Then I showed her another dressy outfit and she said: “Oh, I love this one,” and she pulled it into her lap, sort of clutching it. Then she paused a moment, said softly to herself, “Move on,” and handed it back to me so I could put it away.

Mom told me that on Tuesday morning, Dad’s 77th birthday, she told him: “Jack, for the first time in 50 years, I don’t have a present for you.” He said: “That’s okay, I don’t need a present. But there is one thing you could do.” She said: “What’s that?”“You know how you’re always telling me I’m doing such a great job taking care of you? Maybe you could tell the boys, too.”

“He’s such a good man,” Mom told me.

Toward the end of my visit, Mom asked me how I was doing, and I said: “It depends on what hour you ask me. Sometimes, I’m peaceful. Sometimes, I choke back a sob. Other times a voice inside me a million years old says: ‘Mom, don’t go,’ and I hyperventilate with grief.”

No matter how old you are, when your mom is dying, you’re nothing but a big baby.

The last day I was there, we sat together in the den. Mom was in her usual place at the end of the couch, next to the oxygen machine she’s just begun using. We talked about her headstone. She asked if I thought it should match Matthew’s, since they’ll be next to each other. I said: “Yes, it marks you as family.” We talked about the funeral — what she would want. She’s kept a funeral file for years. She has music and readings in there, and programs from funerals that moved her. I asked her about each of these things, and she said: “Tom, these aren’t essential. At one point, I had all these intricate plans. They don’t matter now. If Dad or you boys have different feelings, let them override mine.”

I asked her if she still wanted Ode to Joy, and she laughed at an old memory. “Your dad once said to me: ‘If you want Ode to Joy at your funeral, I want a signed statement from you that it was your request.’”

I asked her: “Mom, what do you think will happen when you die?” And she said: “Well, I think we all live on. God doesn’t create something to last a few dozen years. We all go on learning and perfecting. But I hope I get a long rest first. I’m tired.”

I asked if she were afraid. She said: “I really have no fear of death. I’m feeling very tired, and very, very grateful. I’m pleased with my life and comfortable with death. Now I just need to make it through without being a horrible embarrassment to everyone over the pain.”

I asked: “Is there anything you want to do while you still can?” And she said: “I would love to send letters to all my friends thanking them for being my friend — but I just don’t have the energy.”

“Maybe we could do something together, Mom. You talk and I will write.”

“Oh, that would be lovely,” she said.

This is my mom’s letter. She had the final edit, and she has approved.

She sends you these thoughts with her thanks for being her friend — and for giving her a life that has left her so grateful at the end of it.