Diggin In

Every time I catch my first sight of it, I'm filled with the warmth of nostalgia. For a brief moment, the updated grey siding and bright red door that my mom loves so much fades away, and I see the brown wood and white brick home of my childhood. As I park the car on the sloped side driveway leading to the RV pad, I look over at the lawn. The countless water fights, dance routines, and igloos replay in my mind. The split-level home has always been my safety net and the anchor of memories that sprinkle my childhood like glitter. 

I get out of the car and start walking to the front door. God, my mom loves that door with its large ornate window that occupies most of the door. I remember relentlessly teasing her about how she will no longer hide from the missionaries behind the door, but I could not deter her. 

"I've always wanted a heavy, elegant door with etched glass panes," she argued.

"But the missionaries, Mom. You can't hide behind a huge window."

"It's worth it."

"If you say so," as I shook my head.

She wasn't wrong. It is beautiful.

Even with the haze of memories, I can tell something is 'off' with the house. Despite the warm June weather, there were no flowers in the beds and a small dead spot in the lawn. The loud cul-de-sac of my childhood with kids running everywhere had aged into a quiet suburban street, but this house, my home, was even more silent. It was sleeping, waiting for her to return. 

When I get to the front door and touch the handle, I'm run over by the ghost of my teenage angst slamming the door shut for the hundredth time. The sadness of all the pain I caused my mom steals the warmth of nostalgia. We've healed from those tumultuous years, but the ghosts of regret still haunt me. 

It's only been three weeks since I was here last, but everything feels different this time. I spent a lot of the Spring with my parents, "helping care" for my mom during the end of her chemo and radiation treatments. But those were celebratory times as we laid around watching TV and making fun of my dad, two of my mom's favorite past times. She would look over at me and roll her eyes as my dad gave her medicine or changed her food through her gastric feeding tube, forever forgetting to close the line and spilling a little on the towel he gently laid over her lap. We'd giggle at the inside jokes we shared. I was her Emotional Support Smartass.

She loves to watch those old cowboy shows. She tells me about how they reminded her of watching TV with her dad. However, I think she enjoys my reaction to them more, as I became agitated at the misogynist characters. The more I get annoyed, the more she would laugh. When she wanted me to lay there and let her play with my hair, she'd pick something more neutral, like Magnum PI. She loves Tom Selleck. It worked until I saw the first commercial with Tom Selleck selling reverse mortgages, soon he joined the ranks of the old cowboys on TV, and we had to look for a new 'calming' show.

My mom tolerated chemo and radiation well. So, instead of spending hours holding her hair, we spent the Spring sitting on loungers soaking up the sun and appreciating the fantastic view of the snow-capped mountains from her back deck. For so many years, I had taken that view for granted, but she never did. It was always one of her favorite places. We filled our time with long conversations reminiscing about vacations we'd taken together and dreamed of where we would go when she got better. 

I watched her get stronger and regain her independence. She didn't like being cared for. Well, that's not entirely true. She didn't like needing to be cared for but loved when people fussed over her. Though she would dutifully complain about the attention, the sparkle in her eyes said she loved it. I was gently prodding her to let us hire someone to help clean the houses; she had done enough. She would roll her eyes at me in protest and tell me that she is fine and can clean her own home. 

"Mom, we all CAN clean our own house, but really why would you WANT to?"

"You're just spoiled, Jill."

"Damn right."  

She understood the duality of being homesick for my family but not wanting to leave her, my family. Big things were happening at home, and The Kid was going to need me soon.

"When do you need to go home," she would gently ask. 

"I don't know. When do you want me to leave?"

"I'll keep you as long as you let me."

"The family might have something to say about that." 

But we both knew that being home for The Kid's big move into his first apartment was important. Plus, she was getting better; the worst was behind us. 

That was three weeks ago, and things change quickly. 

As I'm settling into my childhood bedroom, I look at the frilly ceiling fan, the only remnant of the horrible peach and lace decor my mom decorated my room in while I was away at camp. The room has been updated a couple of times since then, but I still see my emotional tween self sitting in the bay window of my bedroom writing poetry. Oh, so many poems.

The tingle in my brain that things are different begins to get louder. Despite the house full of beautiful decorations and keepsakes of a life lived and family loved, it feels quiet. Empty. Not the lack of noise quiet but the absence of life quiet. It's such a stark contrast to how it felt just six months ago when we surprised my mom with a visit for Christmas. The smile and disbelief in her electric blue eyes as she opened the door to find my family unexpectedly on her doorstep on Christmas Eve still makes me smile. 

The noise and vibration of the garage door opening snaps me back into the present. Taking the flight during a pandemic was stressful, but the call from my brother, Erik, just 24 hours ago made it clear that I didn't have time to drive. I needed to be home, and I needed to be there now. He had called me right after they had rushed my mom to the hospital. 

Living across the country from family is hard sometimes.

Having a loved one in the hospital sucks. Having a loved one in the hospital during COVID-19 is unbearable. Even camped out in a hospital room, it's hard to get the doctor's updates. But when no visitors are allowed, it's next to impossible. For the four days my mom was in the hospital, we had one meeting with her doctor and one video conversation. That is a lot of radio silence and uncertainty.

Much of the conversation with the doctor is a blur. She sounded like the teacher from Peanuts but with a few words coming through:

"Cancer has spread to her lungs and possibly her brain," 

"We're not recommending treatment," 

"She can come home to hospice care."

None of it made sense. My mom was getting stronger. At that moment, the little Kid in me needing her mom was screaming. My brother and I looked at each other, unmeasurable sadness reflecting at each other. Then we looked at my dad, who had been quiet through the doctor's call; we could see his shock and exhaustion mixed with the beginnings of profound grief. Though he never did, and never would, complain about it, this had been a long six months for my dad. Caring for my mom and watching her decline during isolation had taken its toll on him. 

Erik and I nodded at each other and silently put away our sadness for both of our parent's sake. We divide the heavy lifting between us and let my dad help where he could. Erik coordinated with the hospital and hospice care to get the equipment needed, and I took on being the contact for our family and friends. We rearranged the living room, removed furniture to accommodate the hospital bed, moved the TV into the room in hopes of returning to our days of laying around watching cowboys together.  

As we transformed the living room into a space to accommodate our new reality, I could feel my world shifting. The axis would never be the same. 

I made a list of whom I needed to call. First was The Kid. While the doctors had said my mom had 3-9 months, I knew they needed each other. They share a bond that annoyed the hell out of me when he was younger, but now I hoped it would raise her spirits. So, I made the hardest calls of my life. 

"Hi, kiddo," I try to smile despite myself.

"Hi. How is Grandma?"

"Not good. Her cancer has spread, and the doctors said there isn't a treatment that will improve her quality of life. She is coming home to hospice care."

"Oh," he whispers.

"She needs you here."

"When?"

"We are hoping she'll be home on Thursday. So as soon as you can."

"Let me get started then."

"Love you."

"Love you too."

Just a couple of weeks ago, I was soothing him through a rough first night in his first apartment, and now he is taking charge, booking his flights and making all his arrangements. I was filled with a mix of pride and sadness when he called back with his flight arrangements and pick-up time. 

The flurry of getting ready for my mom and lack of sleep keeps those days shrouded in a fog. When I try to touch them, they dissipate. I remember talking with my husband about the logistics of him coming out to visit my mom. I remember the conversations between me, my dad, and my brother were primarily utilitarian, trying to get everything done and not having time to deal with the flood of emotions hovering on the edge of our minds. My dad has never been good at talking about feelings, so I think that worked for him. I remember how good it was to have things to do, a purpose to occupy my thoughts. We were incredibly proud of ourselves for buying a baby monitor to keep an eye on my mom during the night. When she saw it, she assured me that she could still yell across the house at my dad. 

She did come home on that Thursday, July 2, 2020. She laughed at the bed in the living room and wondered if she would be able to sleep with the grandfather clock in the same room. I offered to stop the clock but received a sharp, "Don't you touch my clock." 

"How are you going to stop me, old lady?" But she just scowled and shook her finger at me while I smiled. 

She was physically weaker, and her speech slurred, but her bright blue eyes were sharp. My mom was there. But, as soon as I saw my parents together, I knew what my dad needed. He needed me to take on some of the weight of caring for my mom off of him. This time I wasn't just there for emotional support and to lay around with her. She needed my help. They needed my help. So he showed me how to clean her feeding tube, change the bags of food and water and give her medicine. 

At first, I fumbled through changing the bag on her feeding tube, just like my dad, while she made exasperated faces at me that was quickly returned with the same 'what you gonna do' face of my teens. But, soon, we found a rhythm, including me having the baby monitor at night. 

Similar to when The Kid was little, I took to sleeping when my mom slept. She was increasingly uncomfortable but would sleep for a few hours during the night. So I slept for a few hours during the night. Usually, awaken by hearing her talk through the baby monitor. 

Except for Friday night, I was startled awake at 1 am by my mom saying, clear as day, "Hi momma, how's daddy?" I bolted upright and stared at the baby monitor. If you've ever used those monitors, you know the video quality is grainy and already pretty spooky. But there she was, sitting up in bed, talking to someone. But no one was there. I couldn't understand the rest of the conversation but heard the occasional "momma." It's been 20 years since my grandma passed and more than 50 years since her dad passed, but for her that night, they were both there keeping her company. It was heartbreaking and unsettling, as I sent a little wish to the universe to leave her alone and let me have just a bit more time with her.  

Without remembering any of the previous night's events, she was up at 5 am asking to be wheeled out to the back deck to watch the sunrise and chat. She still liked to talk about travel that she would do, even though we both knew that wasn't going to happen. This morning, she was reticent as we sat in silence listening to the birds. The smell of the early morning dew still permeating everything. After a long silence, she looked at me with worry in her eyes. 

"Are you going to be okay?"

"No, mom, I'm not. I'm never going to be okay again."

"But you'll make it through?"

"Yeah, mom. I'll make it through."

"Help your dad?"

"He's Erik's responsibility, remember?"

"Jill"

"Yeah. I'll help, dad."

"Okay."

She returned to watching the sun come up over the mountains. Soon after that conversation, her speech declined again. It became increasingly difficult to understand what she was saying. Well, for everyone but The Kid. That annoying bond they have translated to him becoming the Grandma Whisperer. 

The Kid had arrived later that day and without a word knew how he could help. He took over meal planning and shopping to make sure we were all feed. He taught my dad the joy of having groceries delivered and shared his recipes. The Kid did most of the cooking those first few days and filled the house with the smell of home-cooked meals again. Plus, he saved us from a parade of mediocre casseroles from the neighborhood. For that, I'll always be grateful.

Despite the apparent rapid decline in my mom's health, I started to dig in for the long haul mentally. I was preparing to care for her for as long as she needed me. As soon as my mom arrived home, the house began to fill with flowers and family. She would point at the roses, her favorite, and close her eyes as she smelled the sweet aroma of her floral shop. She would welcome visitors to her floral shop. I laughed, and she smiled. Though her sky blue eyes had more prolonged periods of cloudy haze, the sharpness of her wit still poked through.

With my mom's birthday coming in a few days, we decided to have a barbecue for her that weekend to surround her with her favorite thing… her grandkids. I've never doubted my mom's love for me or my brother, but her grandkids' love is next level. It was the most present that I'd seen her since she got home. Smiling, joking, laughing. It was beautiful. 

But like someone had flipped a light switch, she was confused, agitated, and restless the next day. I tried desperately to find a way to make her more comfortable but only achieved that in small doses. The more disturbed she became, the quieter my dad became. I didn't recognize it at the time, but while I was fussing about taking care of her, he was quietly holding her hand, reminding her how loved she was and saying his goodbyes.