Rest in peace, Mama

Jean Helen Collopy Gault

1-15-27 to 1-29-11

Depart, O Christian soul, out of this world;

In the Name of God the Father Almighty who created you;

In the Name of Jesus Christ who redeemed you;

In the Name of the Holy Spirit who sanctifies you.

May your rest be this day in peace,

and your dwelling place in the Paradise of God.

 

 

Into your hands, O merciful Savior, we commend your servant Jean.  Acknowledge, we humbly beseech you, a sheep of your own fold, a lamb of your own flock, a sinner of your own redeeming.  Receive her into the arms of your mercy, into the blessed rest of everlasting peace, and into the glorious company of the saints in light.  Amen.

Gifts of grace on a hard day

~ I woke with a start this morning, realizing that Mom had not been awake in the night.  That was unexpected!  Sleep was something I figured I would have to do without for a while.
 
~  The hospice nurse came to get us oriented to all they will do and all we will do.  As the car pulled in the driveway I realized it was the sister of a dear friend, and her kind and calm manner made all of us relax.
 
~  I picked up a message on the phone this afternoon, and it was Mom's friend Rosemary.  She said she was bringing food (note that she did not ask...that works for me.)  She brought not only food but good cheer and words of love for Mom.  She also reminded me that Mom's church will provide meals and support for us.  Wow.  It's good to be in the Body of Christ.
 
 
Gifts of grace on a hard day.
 
Thank You.

Soundtrack for today

I am still learning about my mother. When I asked what she wanted to listen to today, she wanted to hear a Barbra Streisand duet CD.

Okay.

Enter iTunes and we have Barbra and Frank Sinatra and Neil Diamond and more keeping us company at Mom's.




Duets


Music I will always remember.

From Sunday at 11:45 p.m.


My bookmark is once again a napkin from the hospital cafe, and Mom is sleeping in the ICU tonight. The afternoon was spent in the ER, and the news from an ultrasound was not good. Her cancer has spread. Mom's desire is for comfort, not aggressive treatment, and tomorrow we will figure out exactly what that means.

For now I sit in a dark kitchen, no one else awake in the house. All I can do is breathe in and out, believing that courage and strength will come in the morning.

Lord have mercy.



This morning

At that point on Sunday night the phone rang. The hospital wanted me to know that my mom's heart was struggling, and they suggested I come in. It was a long night, but she pulled through. Yesterday she had a procedure that turned out to be "an aggressive measure"...it always has its risks, but with her heart being so weak, they thought it was a 75% chance that she would not survive anesthesia. She survived.

But the cancer has spread and has caused them to not be able to open up the duct fully. Our hope yesterday was to clear enough infection to bring her home with comfort, and for my sister's son to be able to see her.   I will find out soon if that is the case.

When Mom said yes to the procedure that the anesthesiologist thought would result in death, she looked at me (scared and showing it) and said:  Jesus is Lord.  Now, this is not normal Mom verbage.  She has deep faith, and she keeps her deep faith pretty deep most of the time.  But I am certain that my mother was not thinking of her own mortality at that moment, but about ME and how that mortality would effect me.  She wanted me to remember that He is Lord over my life and all that happens to me.  What my mother has taught me about loving was beautifully exhibited at that moment of life and death:  It is not about me.  It is not about circumstances.  It is not about statistics.  It is about loving others.

We're hoping for a few more weeks of loving each other, and we sure would appreciate your prayers.

And then she turned 84

As many of you know, in June of 2009 my mother was diagnosed with bile duct cancer and given four to six months to live.

This last weekend she turned eighty-four.

Can I say that again? This last weekend she turned EIGHTY-FOUR!

Love you, Mama, and give thanks for each day of life we share together.

My beautiful mother

The crisp edges of the pink-and-white-striped oxford shirt reveal a lot about my mother. Rather than pestering her with questions about her health and well being, all I need to do is check on her creases. And yesterday her shirt was a picture of ironed perfection, not a wrinkle in sight. Ironing is her passion. If she can stand, her ironing will get done.

We went grocery shopping, and she was on her own. She pushed the cart, she bent and lifted and crossed items off her well-planned list. She chose carefully the items that will help her with her dietary restrictions, and she splurged on a small mocha at the store cafe. She laughed with the check-out clerk and confidently announced to the bagging guy that we wouldn't need his assistance. She was positively buoyant.

It was June of last year when I learned that such a simple trip could be a miracle. We had no dreams for a November of errands and well-pressed shirts; it was the grim here and now, and treatment plans and tying up loose ends were all we had to look forward to. Those were raw days. We cried and we laughed, we made mistakes, and we got test results that frightened us. But life continued on.

Back in June 2009 I wrote:

So, what do you do when you know your time on earth is coming to an end? Well, it seems that we are finding out the answer to that. We are doing some special things...But for the most part we find that we continue on with what we have always thought was worth doing. We read as many books as we can fit in a day or week, we love textiles and continue to admire the sunflower yellow fabric we found at IKEA. I spend time watering and dead-heading the rose bush in the morning, and I continue to find myself overwhelmed with the laundry pile. It's all shockingly normal.

This has continued to be true (although the rose bush is horribly neglected right now.) But in some ways nothing has been "normal" ever since. We are wiser, but we are also scarred; we have changed, never to return to more innocent days.

I cannot walk over to Mom's house in the morning without wondering what I will find; will she be on the floor, ill with infection? Each time I open the door and find her reading at her table, or happily resting on the couch, I realize I have been almost holding my breath. It is not until I see her that I can tell myself to breathe normally.



When I walk past sunlight illuminating the edge of an antique white bowl, I stop and appreciate it. I didn't realize until recently that Mom taught me all I need to know about the beauty to be found in the rim of a bowl, the simple splendor of white shaped round. None of this was spoken, but she has always lived it in whatever circumstances she found herself.

So everything is normal and yet nothing will ever be the same again. The sun still rises each morning, the laundry pile still reaches ridiculous heights, grocery shopping still needs to be done. But now fear is a choice away, and beauty is found in the most ordinary of places. Despite the continuing diagnosis of terminal cancer, my mother is alive and ironing. Seventeen months ago I never would have imagined it.

The Mom Update

For those who have been so kind as to care about my mother, it seems that I am way overdue on an update on how she is doing.

She is FINE. Can you believe it? Excuse me while I say it a few more times...She is FINE. She Is FINE.

Oh, do I like how that sounds.

She has taken Dial-A-Ride again. She has been to Brennan's basketball games. She likes to monitor the watering in the front yard. She is hoping to get a few sewing projects done. She is, once again, getting all her ironing done. (If there is one thing I have learned about my mother in the last year it is that her ironing is a priority. Once again I have to ask the question: where did I come from?)

Last June I looked ahead and tried to prepare myself for the dark, only to be met by glorious light; it is hard to catch my breath with all the relief and joy and gratitude that is pouring forth.

There will come a day when we need to learn to be grateful for difficult days; for today, though, we rejoice in FINE.

Thanks for caring and for your prayers. Don't stop!

Reflections amidst borrowed time

It is hard to believe that my mother was diagnosed with cancer almost a year ago.  When she was given four to six months to live last June, we all were shocked, and we tried to imagine the days ahead.  It was impossible, though. This was all unknown territory.

And now we are in the days of borrowed time.  The reality of what we are experiencing has made us remember that each day, each breath, is a gift.  And, yes, that is a cliche, but it is also true.  Breathing is really, really dandy.  Mom is feeling well, she is pink-cheeked and spunky and taking good care of herself.  She does as much as she can for herself and has an attitude of acceptance and humor that inspires me.

For myself, it is hard not to live on the edge of my seat, hard not to anticipate the next crisis, all.the.time.  Living in the moment, it turns out, is not one of my skill sets.  I try and fail and try again, but fortunately I am getting the chance to practice over and over and over again, so maybe I am learning.  I am tired, but I am making the time to rest.  I am learning to run this particular race with endurance.

Just yesterday Mom was having an outpatient procedure in the hospital, and we had yet another bedside chat.  We've done this a lot, talking about you-just-never-know-what as we wait for doctors or nurses or lab techs to work their magic.  In the last year we've discussed our children, recipes, fashion accessories, favorite books, family stories and memories, and the mysteries of living with dying.  We have both fallen asleep on each other, we've laughed until we've cried, we have held hands, we have gently distracted each other from the worry of the moment.  We are a well-oiled machine, and I love that.

Fortunately, my life is also filled with the exciting adventures of raising children.  We have another high school graduation to celebrate in June, and very special guests coming to town for the party.  But before that can happen we will welcome home our oldest from her victorious first year of college, and before that:  a trip.  I don't like leaving for days on end, let alone an entire week, but that is what I am doing next week.  I am headed to the southern part of the state for a debate tournament, and Mom will be here.  Her words of wisdom to me when I worried aloud that something could happen while I am gone:

"Well, honey, then something will happen.  Oh.  Well."

She's right.  I am going, and it will be grand.

And I will keep practicing my "in the moment skills" as I push away from the edge of my seat.

Welcome home

From Leavings, a book of poetry by Wendell Berry:

2008: X

So many times I've gone away
from here, where I'd rather be
than any place I know, to go
off into the air for which
my only gift is breath, for I have
of myself no wings. It is death.
Farewell, my dearest ones.
Farewell, my lovely fields. Farewell,
my grazing flock, my patient horses,
Maggie my ardent dog. Farewell,
tall woods always so full of song.

However long I've stayed away,
coming home is resurrection. The man
who has gone comes back to his place
as he would come naked and cold
into his own clothes. And they
are here, the known beloved: family,
neighbors obliging and dear. The dead,
too, denying their graves, haunt
the places they were known in and knew,
field and barn, riverbank and woods.
The familiar animals all are here.

Coming back is brightening in a grave,
such is the presage of old hymns.
To the place we parted from in sorrow
we return in joy: the beautiful shore,
eternal morning, unclouded day.

Poem posted in celebration of the fact that Mom is HOME! Greeted by Sophie the dog and Sarge the cat and grandchildren and puffy white clouds, she has been resurrected one more time. And one more time we are filled with gratitude.

William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616)

Let me not to the marriage of true minds

Admit impediments. Love is not love

Which alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove:

O no! it is an ever-fixed mark

That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

It is the star to every wandering bark,

Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.

Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickle's compass come:

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

If this be error and upon me proved,

I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

I know this is a love sonnet, usually saved for romantic love, but my heart is filled with love for my dear mother today. She is in the hospital and she will be having a procedure at 7:00 p.m.

My mother has been the model of loyalty and faithful love, and it is an honor to be with her in this season of life. Right to the edge of doom, Mama.

As dear Miz Booshay says, "Love you. Mean It!!!"

The hours after we returned

Our time at the beach, as I have already posted, was heavenly, but life took a rather rapid turn as soon as we got home, as I have also vaguely mentioned. Being the wordy person that I am, I am feeling the need to plunk out in more detail the dark night of February 28th. It helps me understand why I have been so weary, and it fills me with gratitude for life and breath and God at work. Be patient with me, dear friends. This is a season of processing for me.

So, back to February 28th. Within minutes of returning home from our debate triumphs and beach bliss, I realized Mom was not feeling well, and within an hour of pulling in the driveway I was pulling out again to take her to the emergency room. It was a terrifying seven-minute drive, seeing how hard it was for her to breathe. When we got her in to an E.R. room, it became very clear very quickly that this was extremely serious. Eventually one of the nurses quietly asked me if Mom had any other family in the area, and I mentioned my husband and children; he was kind enough to suggest that they should hurry in if they wanted to say goodbye. I called my husband, he called Mom's priest, and we prepared for the worst.

I was glad to have about thirty minutes alone with Mom; the staff had done what they could, and they let us be. She was not conscious, and so I just rested my head on the pillow next to her. I let my tears fall, and I thought of all the things I had yet to ask her; I knew in those moments that I would never be "ready" to have her gone.

Eventually my family got there, and we spent some quiet moments around Mom's bed. She was stable yet unresponsive, so it was extra-sweet to have my family with me. When the priest arrived, the kids and John left to give space and quiet for him. We were all set to pray when Kent said, "Oh, look! Your Mom recognizes me." Yep, at that moment Mom was "back." She smiled tiredly, and began to perk up. Kent prayed with us, telling us that he fully expected to see Mom in church in a few weeks; he reassured me that he would be happy to come any time and pray whenever needed. I was grateful for his priestly presence, and so thrilled that he was there for the moment when we knew she was on the mend.

She spent five days in the hospital getting treatment for pneumonia and for her stressed out heart. She remembers nothing about the first hour of the hospital; she only remembers seeing her priest and wondering what he was doing there. No white lights in tunnels, no dramatic stories to tell us; instead, she is the one asking for me to fill in the gaps and let her know what happened when she was "gone."

I will never forget the drive to the hospital (and I will call 911 next time.) I will always remember resting my head next to Mom's, knowing it could be the last time I saw her alive. What an amazingly intense and marvelous thing it is to journey with someone toward eternity. It splits my heart right open, and that is just where I want to be.

Every day is a gift. Every breath is a gift. Every single one. As tough as this is, I would not trade my days for anything. Losing sleep, making bad decisions, worrying and trying not to worry, arguing with Medicare, missing out on a lot of things because I need to be here; all of that pales in comparison to the honor and joy it is to be living next door to my mother, loving her through these frightening and tiring days. This is right where I belong.

My mothers' laugh....

There's big news around here.

My sons were the 5th placed team at a debate tournament this weekend.

We got to dig our toes into the sands of the beach.

And when we got home it all came to a halt when I had to rush my mother to the hospital. She was short of breath, and it got very serious very quickly. They told me there was a chance she would not make it long enough to even get to a regular hospital room. They urged me to have my family come in, and they did. I called her priest, as I had promised I would. But slowly she rallied. She was more aware. She was back.

And this morning she called laughing, asking if I had her teeth. My mother's laugh is the best sound in the world, and last night at 9:00 I thought I would not have the privilege of hearing it again. What an amazing gift.

I am off to deliver the goods and to hear more from the doctors about what is going on with my dear, wonderful mother.

More later on The Mom Update and all that debate/sand news.

My mother

said, when a concerned friend didn't want to leave her behind at a scout event, "I don't mind being alone; I am GREAT company."

asked, when we were discussing my Netflix queue, "Could you rent The Harlam Globetrotters for me?" Never in a million years would I have guessed she would like to see the Harlam Globetrotters. Never. In a million years. But now it is here and we will be watching it together. Can't wait.

is hoping to get a hearing aide, finally, in a few weeks. Hallelujah!

is feeling pretty well for a woman who was given four to six months to live almost eight months ago. Her daughter still pesters her to see how she is feeling, but she doesn't let the paparazzi-like attention get her down.

My mother...you've gotta love her!

Health care cost rant...you may want to skip this

Back in November we received the bill for my mom's fifteen days she spent in the hospital in September/October.

Total cost: $216,666.43.

It also stated that it had been submitted to Medicare and refused. Oooooookkkkkaaaaayyyyy.

Our medical bill routine is something like this:

Mom gets the bill.
Mom reads the bill.
Mom panics.
Mom brings the bill to me.
I smile and say, "I'll take care of this."

This time the smile was fake. No way around it, being confronted with a $216,666.43 is a little staggering.

So I called and asked a) why was it rejected? and b) can we please have a detailed bill to understand what the costs were?

That phone call revealed that it had been rejected inappropriately, so that was good news. There was hope that we would avoid debtor's prison, or whatever place they throw people who can't pay their medical bills.

And then the itemized bill came.

I don't know how much the going rate is for a single Tylenol, but my mother was charged six dollars PER TABLET.

I am not sure when and why they gave my mother speech therapy, but it cost $750.

Something is rotten in Denmark, my friends.

I had about a week of obsessing unhealthily on the bill, and then we had more jolly things like Thanksgiving and my daughter's return from college and Christmas and New Years and a debate tournament to think about. It was good to ignore it for awhile.

And now the new bill has come back.

Medicare is paying $22,445.63.
My mother is paying $1,068.00.
Medicare has told the hospital they have overcharged by $193,152.80.

Don't get me wrong...I am thrilled to pay MUCH less. But this still makes me sick.

How did we get here? How did we go from charging what things cost to this crazy, six dollar Tylenol life? And what is an "I don't want my health care to be managed by the federal government" person supposed to do when their mother is in the hospital? Do I sit by her bed and question every test, every therapist who walks in the room?

"Yes, she needs that antibiotic."
"No, she is speaking just fine, thank you very much."

Of course not. And so we end up with a $216,666.43 dollar bill that gets chopped down to $23,513.63.

Again, something is rotten in Denmark. And nothing I have read in the news headlines is going to solve it.

Rant over.

Back to our regular programming.

Gratitude

How can I put a number on the gratitude I feel for my mother's current health and for the return of our college girl for Christmas break?

Madelaine arrived safe and sound, although she was exhausted from a night on the train with a pack of wild and newly-released college students. I took her straight away to a day of debate tournament excitement, and she held up like a champ. As we talked I noticed that she speaks of her classmates, her tutors, even her studies with such affection. It really seems like the perfect place for her!

And if that was not enough joy for one person, here is my mother in all her glory. She's feeling well, her strength is back, her hearing isn't perfect, but it is improved, and ... well ... she's ALIVE!! I never expected to have another Christmas with her, and I am overwhelmed with gratitude for her vibrant and inspiring life. I've taken her Christmas shopping, she's checked out a huge bag of books from the library, she is working through her ironing pile and she is back to church after too long an absence. She came over to do laundry this morning just as I was about to serve a late breakfast of popovers. She stayed, she chatted, she showed great interest in Madelaine's fall quarter at Gutenberg. And the whole time I was tempted to pinch myself...."Yes, Diane, this is real. This truly is a gloriously happy day!"

Conversation at the doctor's office

Dear, wonderful, beloved Dr. K:

Jean, I really do think you are going to be around for a while longer than we expected, so I don't want you back in here for three months. Call me if you need me sooner, but I don't want you in the waiting room catching an illness. I'll see you in three months. And, Jean....behave yourself.

Dear, wonderful, beloved Mom:

But last time you told me I didn't have to behave myself anymore.

Dr. K:

Well, you're living long enough that I have to rescind that.

And laughter was heard all the way down the hall.

Mom update

Mom's hearing test revealed that there is fluid in her left ear, and it is causing a large portion of her hearing loss. We are heading back to the doctor on Monday to see what solutions there are to remove the fluid, but we left yesterday with HOPE. Mom has a little more skip to her step, a little bit of a smile on her face. It was a good day.

Please pray for next Monday's appointment. I would love to see Mom's hopes realized and not dashed.

Wit

If you love language, admire Emma Thompson's incredible acting skills, and don't shy away from the intensity that comes from living and dying, I highly recommend this movie. There are moments of loneliness that are palpable; there are other moments when the poetry weaves its way into the sterile hospital environment that are beautiful. I cannot watch this movie without tears pouring down my face; if I am alone, in fact, I sob. Hard. It is good crying, though. I love this movie.

You can read brilliant friend Carol's thoughts in her review.

I come away from this movie changed. It makes me all the more committed to not being isolated in my own life. When it comes to dying, it is good to have someone who can rub lotion into your hands or can be your advocate when you cannot speak, a friend who knows when it is time for John Donne and when it is time for a children's allegory read aloud. It is good to have that friend, it is good to be that friend. Or that daughter.

Gerontology practicum

I will not soon forget that Saturday morning, September 26th. I got a phone call from a friend of my mom's saying she had not been able to reach her. I went over to check up on her, and there she was...on the floor. She had not fallen, but her legs had simply given out on her and she had crumpled to the floor. She had no strength to get to the phone, and so she had slept there all night. Her fever was high, her strength was low, and we immediately got her to the hospital. I cannot imagine how frightened she must have been, wondering when we might stop by. We only live twenty steps apart, but Mom has made it very clear that hovering is not an option. She did, however, have some time to think as she was on the floor, and we have changed a few things at her house.

Step one was:

Response Link

Response Link is an emergency response system that is either worn as a pendant around the neck or like a watch on the wrist. If the client falls or is unable to get the help that he/she needs, all they need to do is push the red button and the Response Link operator will answer and talk with the client. They can get information from the client and respond accordingly. If Mom had had a button to push when she collapsed in September, she could have asked them to call us and we would have come running. It is not an automatic call to 911. If so, I think my mom would hesitate to ever push the button. Instead, Response Link knows to call us, at home and on our cell phones, before calling 911.

I will never again chuckle at the "Help, I've fallen and I can't get up!" commercials (although the "Help, I'm talking and I can't shut up!" t-shirts still make me (and Mom) laugh.) I am thrilled to know that if Mom falls, if Mom is all alone and can't get the help she needs, she will push a button and someone will get her help. What a relief.


Step two was:

Vial of Life

Part of the package we received from Response Link was a Vial of Life sticker and form. The sticker is on her door, alerting any 911 responders to the location of her medical information. Her form (blank shown below) is in a plastic bag on her refrigerator door. I am so glad to know that the information will be available whether I am there or not.

Is there anyone in your life who could benefit from Response Link? Don't wait. Go ahead and get it now. It would be nice to know someone could learn from our experience rather than having to experience it first hand. It is not something I would recommend to anyone, ever!

Seventeen days, a rainbow, and waiting for a song to sing

For seventeen long days my mother was away from us in the hospital. She is home now, she is weak, and she is experiencing severe hearing loss; truth be told, we are having a hard time. Each day brings new challenges, each day we are tired and worried and lifting up our burdens to the Lord. These are difficult times.

But yesterday afternoon my ten-year-old ran into the house loudly announcing, "Mommy, there's a HUGE rainbow outside. You HAVE to COME SEE!" It was the most beautiful thing I have seen in a long time. The clouds were steel gray, the sun was breaking through just enough to make the oak leaves glow and the rainbow shine brilliantly against the dark canvas. It spanned the whole sky and it was breathtaking. We let the raindrops fall on us as we stood and watched the show. And we laughed for a little bit. It was a short break of joy, and it was most welcome.

Years ago I heard a message about suffering and how at times we have to wait before we will have a song to sing. That message was by Jill Briscoe who happens to be friends with my dear friend Steph (whom I haven't met yet, but I hold her dear to my heart nonetheless.) She heard the same wisdom from her friend in this way: Oh, Steph. This is just the Selah before your next Psalm. Don't miss this or you won't know the next song. The Selah. That is where I am living right now. In that space between the praises.

But in the midst of the Selah there was a rainbow. How cool is that?