Maternal Musings

Today would have been my mom's 54th birthday.  She's been gone almost a year now, so I didn't think it would hit me this hard.  We had to miss her actual birthday last year, as the Prince's band concert fell on that day.  Instead we visited her a few days before and the day after in the specialized nursing facility (for ventilator patients) that had been her home for three years.  Even though it involved a two-hour drive on a weeknight, I hated that she had to spend her birthday alone.  She didn't get many visitors.   Most of her friends lived two far away to make the trip, and our family is small. 

We brought her cupcakes from a local bakery, and a Duke basketball poster (her favorite team). We showed her photos and videos of the Prince's concert.  She smiled and talked with us (she had to use a special speaking valve to do so), but it was bittersweet.  We all knew her kidneys were beginning to fail, and that this would likely be her last birthday.  We just didn't know that it would be the last time we saw her awake.      

I confess that my mom and I were never very close.  I was a Daddy's Girl until my sister was born (when  I was 5), to whom she related better.  And I was always independent, as was necessary for a girl who lived out in the sticks, had few friends, and a sister who was terminally ill.  My sister, by the way, is despite all odds, 34 now. She's taking graduate school courses, and living in the Southwest. 

At any rate, because my sister lived too far away, caring for our mom fell to me, including the making of life or death decisions.  This was not only difficult emotionally, it was a challenge in general, because my mother stubbornly refused to accept her own mortality.  Ironically, this stubbornness kept her alive for her last three years.  But at some point, her spirit gave way to her failing body. 

She died less than a week after her birthday.  I sat in the ICU for 14 hours, holding her hand and talking to her.  She was heavily sedated, and I don't know whether she heard anything I said.  I am inclined to think she heard some of it, because it seemed she breathed a sigh of relief when we gave consent to turn off the ventilator and told her it was okay to let go.  I will always miss her, though the relief of her being pain free and no longer confined to a bed comforts me.   Happy Birthday, Mom.