Dedicated to Marilyn Jean Wooldridge Hagan
When I quit drinking, even though I was told to do this “one day at a time”, I did think ahead to some possible life situations, which may require me to give up my resolve and get drunk.
What are the possible life events, which I know will probably happen in the future, that I can’t handle without drinking?
The only one I could come up with, was the death of my parents. Especially my mom.
So, here it is . . . my mom is dying. Will I drink?
In a mere two days, we went from initial CT scan and diagnosis, to Hosparus (end of life specialists) arriving.
At first, it was shocking. Because even though my mother was eighty-three years old, only a few short months ago, she was driving herself to familiar places, and taking care of her personal needs.
She slept a lot and lacked energy and enthusiasm for life, but those were the only obvious symptoms. She had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, a few years ago, but she was taking medication and that was progressing as expected.
But these newer symptoms, including weight loss, weakness, and excessive lethargy were different.
Not only did my mom have Alzheimer’s, but she also had an aggressive form of “The Emperor of all Maladies” – cancer. (Pulitzer prize-winning title by Siddhartha Mukherjee.) And it was pretty much everywhere – bones, lungs, liver, stomach, and brain.
This, my friends, is very grave news, indeed.
Suddenly, staying with her 24/7 was a must because we found her on the floor twice, once with a scraped and bleeding nose, when left unattended. Physically and mentally, she began slipping away a little more each day, and it was excruciating to witness.
So, am I drunk?
That’s the question that may have been on many minds those days, when they weren’t consumed with the thoughts and emotions surrounding my mother’s situation. (Or at least I thought it was on everyone’s minds, and that’s important to me and drinking, but it’s another blog all together.)
And the answer is no, I’m not.
Have I thought about it? Honestly, a time or two I have, but since I quit drinking, I’ve really been working with my brain and nervous system, so I respond differently to life’s inevitable difficult situations. And so far, it had been working, in my everyday, mundane struggles. But this was a serious test, for sure.
Bad news used to be good reason to drink.
I remember how I used to use bad news as a reason to drink. Well, this was really bad news. And it’s the one thing I said I couldn’t handle without alcohol, yet, here I am – still experiencing it without drinking. A day at a time? You betcha; in more ways than one.
What’s my secret?
Most of my life before now, I had been one to see only the negative aspects of most situations, (another common trait for drinkers like me, and also another blog article). Part of my recent work has been to intentionally make myself consider all possible aspects of all situations. And to understand and realize that every situation has both good, and bad aspects. Nothing can be all one or the other. That’s just the way my brain used to process the world.
We can change our brains; did you know that?
And not only did I used to see only the negative aspects, but I often would amplify them, unconsciously, thus minimizing the good even more. But I’ve learned that not many situations are inherently 100% good or bad.
Usually, they contain fragments of both, depending on your perspective. And if you can find one good thing, you can find two. And if you can find two, you can find three, and so on until, eventually, your perspective changes. Even when your mother is dying.
So here’s my take on this terrible, shocking, sometimes agonizing situation, as I searched for something good.
My mom’s death seemed to have the makings of a – “Ahem” how shall I say this? – a well – this sounds so weird – but to be honest, this sounds like a “perfect death”, if there’s any such thing. Let me explain because that sounds really weird, I know.
But imagine you had the opportunity to actually plan your own death. What would you plan it to look like? Weird question, isn’t it?
But one, that if you allow yourself the luxury of contemplating it now, you might actually realize that you do have preferences. I mean, no one wants to dwell on their own death, but hey, we’re all dying at some point, right? Like no one has ever gotten out alive, you know that, right? May as well think about it from time to time. It might help guide you on your journey through life.
How do you want your death to go?
Quick, painless, and with no warning whatsoever? Fatal car crash? Hit by a bus/train? You know, an accident.
Or would you rather know about it before hand so you could talk to the important ones and get all your ducks in a row? This is worth thinking about.
If I had the opportunity to plan my death, I would plan something very similar to what my mom experienced. I’m calling it a “perfect death”.
My mom’s “perfect death”.
- First and foremost, to have lived a long and mostly happy life.
- I think my mom has done this. She was eighty-three, and has been healthy most all her life, and as happy as she knew how to be with the experiences and thoughts she had.
- Second, and very important to my mother — to be at peace with your life’s decisions and your God.
- My mother told me over a year ago, she was ready to die, and if it happened any time soon, she was okay with it. She was a devout Catholic, and lived according to her understanding of the church’s doctrines. And, as of the week she was diagnosed, she had received all the sacraments a Catholic can. So, in other words, she was good to go (Father, Son, and Holy Spirit), and she was pretty certain as to where that was going to be.
- Another important factor I think, is to physically be in the presence of the “important ones” in your life. Hopefully, you have plenty of them.
- My mom was in the same house she and my dad (her husband for almost 60 years) built to suit. The house that knows the secrets, the denied dysfunction, and the love. It was where she lived almost 60 years of her 83, so it was only natural and comfortable place for her to die. Like that’s the way it’s supposed to be, ya know?
- And she was with her children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren – the “important ones”. We were coming and going 24/7 around her. We took turns lighting for several hours on a schedule. I, personally, was delighted in my time with her alone, for the most part. Every second, I tried to stay present with my mother, knowing it could be the last lucid conversation I would ever have with her. And I felt privileged to fetch her a blanket or freshen her water.
If only I could have lived this way every day with her!
Why didn’t I? No drama. No ego. No history. No “stories” we tell ourselves. Just sweet precious time; because now there is no more of it. But that’s my regret, and this is her perfect death. So, let’s continue.
- To know it, and have time to say goodbye, but not be given too much time to fear, ruminate, and worry.
- We learned about the cancer only weeks before she passed, and while it’s true my mom was older, this was completely unexpected. So we all needed a little time to get used to it. And that’s all we had – a little time.
- Too much time would have been difficult, I think. It would be dreadful indeed, for her death to have been dragged out over months.
It was the perfect amount of time for me, personally.
More perfection! How did I get this lucky?! Early on, when I was sure she was lucid and fully aware of who I was, I had the important conversations with her that she and I needed. Not only making eye contact, but connecting with the familiar individual within, I said to her,
“Do you know how much I’ve loved you? Do you know how much I’ve needed you all my life, mom? I came to you helpless, and you kept me alive and as comfortable as you knew how until I could make it on my own. And then some. Do you realize you gave me life, and then you gave me a really good start to life, and I realize that and thank you for it now? And do you also know that I am independent, strong, courageous, and sure I will make it without you. I may be frightened, at times, but I am capable. Thanks to you.
I will miss you so much I can’t even fathom, and you know that, don’t you? Because I know how much you’ve missed your mother all these years. But it’s okay, isn’t it? We can make it with those memories, can’t we? It’s why we have them., and they bring us comfort. You’ve done really good work, mom. With your one life, you’ve done really good work here. Bravo to you, mom, this is how I hope to feel at the end of my life. ”
It doesn’t get any better than this to me. And it’s why I say that my mother, in my opinion, had “the perfect death.”
What more could you add that matters? Think about it.
Then add it, take out, and modify this plan any way you want to create what you really want your death to look like.
Think about who you’re leaving behind, not what. The what doesn’t matter, it’s just stuff we collect along the way, but how much do we really need it?
What good did any of the stuff matter to my mom at the end? Not one bit. In those last months — the bank account, no matter how great or small; the house(s) – no matter where they’re located; and the multitude of souvenirs from years of living we all collect – they all mean absolutely nothing towards the end.
So what does matter if all that doesn’t? What is important when all that we’ve given our entire life’s ambition to acquiring, ceases to be important in the least? If you don’t realize it now; you will eventually, even if it is at your very last breath. It’s the who, not the what, that’s important.
It’s the people you touched and how you made them feel who will continue to live on, and they will pass on what you gave to them. So give this some serious thought, my friend. It may be a good way to live the rest of your life.
Like a sound that gets fainter as it travels further away
My mom passed away on January 11 around 3:30 a.m. My dad, one sister, and I were with her at the time. It wasn’t a struggle, although her heart rate had increased significantly that day, and her breathing had become alarmingly rapid; like she was working hard to die. Eventually, her breaths became more and more shallow though, and softer, until they just stopped.
She had been surrounded, for weeks, with so much love it was apparently palpable. At her last breath, my father says she was “glowing” (and he is a practical man not prone to drama or fancy), so we feel pretty good about where she is now.
The day of her funeral was beautiful! One sister – poised and courageous — told a poignant eulogy that described my mom perfectly – (sometimes brutally) honest, predictable, and always supportive of her four daughters. One of her granddaughters sang her favorite version of “Ave Maria”, with melodious perfection. And her casket was the center of her last mass.
Mom was ushered into the next life on a bed of roses.
She was buried in her P.J.’s with her favorite Rosary. During the last few days of her life, we had said almost 3,000 Hail Marys on that Rosary – each representing a rose. I say once more, it doesn’t get better than that.
When I was drinking, I had a few serious brushes with death; a couple self-inflicted, and that’s hard for me to grasp now. Did I really ever not want to live?
No. I just wanted to be free of the burden of my mal-adjusted self and the consequences of alcoholism. I’m glad I was not successful. I hate to think that my mother would have had to bury me. And that I would have missed out on this beautiful experience with her. And all of it, completely sober; this is indeed a good way to live.
We aren’t meant to live this life in the lonely throes of drunken oblivion.
If you’re drinking to the tune of a miserable existence, please don’t give up trying to quit. Life is so worth living with a clear head. Think about who you’ll leave behind and what they would feel if you died drunk. And stay with me, here; this is your life, not your death, my friend.
Beautifully written. I met your Mom a few times down at Well wood. She was so pretty and gracious. Take care Lisa…..would love to get together with you!! Cathy Ridge
Thank you, Cathy. Yes, let’s connect soon. I think about you often too.
That’s a really beautiful tribute to your mum Lisa. I agree “A perfect death”.
Thank you, Christine. Yep, the only bad thing I could find at the end is that my mother was dead. But I’m sure she’ll visit me from time to time when I need her most. I think that’s the way love works.