It has been four and a half months since my mother died. It feels like yesterday and it feels like years.
She died in early November. Many family members were with her when she died, and it was peaceful and seemed pain-free for her.
I was so relieved when she died. I was relieved for her, but mostly, I was relieved for me. Her death released me from all of the unanswerable questions, from the terrible anxiety and dread, from not knowing what to say and do. It set me free from benignly ignorant 'knowing' looks and comments, and from the lies I told constantly about how lucky I was to have this time with my mother. Her death gave me something concrete to think about, to plan my time around. It allowed me to assure people (and myself) of something.
Her funeral was a project--something to plan, execute and survive. It was the final project (so I thought) of two long months of uncertain schooling. It was on a bright, fall day (her favourite season) and lots of us took part. Her grandsons were her pallbearers, her great niece sang "Hallelujah." Her granddaughters carried flowers. I spoke, as did her sister. The minister knew her well, as did the funeral director. She looked mostly like herself in the casket. In fact she looked much healthier than she had in the previous weeks. That was odd, and oddly comforting.
I thought that after the funeral, things would get easier.
Hmm.
Not so much.
Things are better. I am at home now. I no longer have the next visit to the hospice hanging over my head. I no longer fight, in quite the same way, to gather my resources each day. I no longer have to face my prejudices and assumptions on a daily basis. These things are a relief. I've learned that it's just a different brand of hard. I feel things that I did not anticipate. That I didn't know existed. I'm not sure there are words for all of the feelings that are bubbling up out of me. I have wept more than at any other time in my life. I have had deeper self-doubts than I thought possible. I have never questioned so much that I had previously thought were rock-hard certainties.
The main feeling I have these days is of disappointment. The palliative process did not live up to its Hollywood hype. The medical and spiritual parts of it were bang on--my mother had extremely good care and was safe and comfortable. But for me, as a family member, I found little of the expected 'shining nobility' of the process. The reality of palliative care is one of grit and stabbing pain, of not knowing and needing and subjugating and endless tears. I felt a little cheated: Where was all the navel-gazing and new insights? Where was the deathbed conversion? Where were the final words of wisdom and truth that would sustain me throughout my life?
Ahem.
Why do I have to keep learning this lesson over and over again? The relationship does not change--not in that short period of time, especially when the main players are busy dying and agonizing, respectively. My mother and I were never good at talking to each other, at sharing truths and wisdom. Our truths were so far apart that they sounded like lies to each other. I bought the hospice hype--every bit of it. Invested in the shiny, happy image that 'everything will be okay.' Effortless. Weightless. Or maybe I was hoping so deeply for connection, for redemption that I let myself believe that a change of venue would furnish it. Simplified this complicated, convoluted relationship because, damn it, didn't something need to be simple? Easy?
Apparently not. Easy...doesn't matter. Convoluted doesn't matter. These words suggest comparison--as in, my relationship is more complicated than your relationship. Pity me, support me, pay attention to me...whatever the cry is. We get what we get. We can change parts of it, but not all of it; certainly not most of it. We have to face whatever our situation is. And this is easiest if we can accept what our situation is.
So, my mother and I remained who we've always been: my mother and I. We may have been our gentlest selves, and on our best behaviour most of the time, but we were still strange to each other. Just as we were always strange to each other. I've been looking at the before and after of this process hoping to find that 'the hard part' is over. What I'm finding is that it's all 'the hard part.'
And weirdly, that is comforting, too. I'm not winning, but I'm not failing at this, either. I'm surviving. I did what I could do. I wish it could have been more, but what I did was enough. I stretched myself further than I thought I could have--and did my best, walking that dark tightrope with my eyes closed.
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