Yesterday would have be my mother's 85th birthday. It's the first of her birthdays without her around. My mother, Evelyn Marie Meserole Snowdon, died on Saturday, May 4 of this year after lingering 5 days in the hospital, in a coma from a hemorrhagic stroke. I spent those 5 days with Mom, thanks to a confluence of events: she got moved to Fairfax hospital from Fauquier, I had plenty of accumulated leave, my 4th grade teammates were amazing at stepping up and handling all my plans, and I had a great sub who offered to stay as long as I needed her.
Mom had the stroke at home on the Monday. My brother Chris, who has been living with her and taking care of her, called to say Mom was saying the same sentence over and over and he couldn't understand it. Could I? I had just spoken to her a few hours earlier on my way home from school, and she was her normal rambling self of late. As soon as I spoke with her I could tell something was different and I knew it was a stroke. Mom had a history of small TIAs (transient ischemic attacks - or "mini-strokes"), so I figured this was another one. I suggested Chris to call the rescue squad. He did and they came to take her to Fauquier Hospital. He rode separately and met Mom at the hospital. Mom was still awake as Chris sat with her, but the docs there said she needed to go to Fairfax since it had a neurosurgery department.
Then it became a matter of hurry up and wait, while Chris waited for the ambulance that would take Mom the hour and a half to Fairfax. I told him that I would meet Mom there, so he could go home and rest.
By the time mom got to Fairfax, her condition had degraded. One of the nurses said that my mother initially did respond to commands, but by the time I found her room she didn't seem to be interacting at all. Turns out that she would need surgery to reduce the pressure on her brain from the bleed, but she would still have ramifications due to the stroke including right-side losses. My brothers and I spoke on the phone and decided to forgo the surgery. We consoled ourselves with the knowledge that Mom missed my dad so much, and that she would be in a better place.
One can always second-guess those decisions, but it was a jointly made decision, it seemed wisest and what Mom would have wanted.
So we waited.
In those 5 days, each day could have been her last, but Mom lingered. I'm not sure why. Some say the dying are waiting for someone to come, or waiting for someone to leave, or waiting to deal with some unresolved issue. But, for me, I think it was perhaps to allow us the mother-daughter time that we never really had.
In those 5 days, each day could have been her last, but Mom lingered. I'm not sure why. Some say the dying are waiting for someone to come, or waiting for someone to leave, or waiting to deal with some unresolved issue. But, for me, I think it was perhaps to allow us the mother-daughter time that we never really had.
Mom was in a beautiful room, thanks to my ex's pull as a physician. It faced west, overlooking Fairfax in a way that hid the suburban homes under towering tress. It was a glorious view. So I sat by that window with Mom, pulling my chair close so I could hold her hand, stroke her arm and her hair. I talked to her. I shared letters of my father's I had brought from home, so she could hear his voice in his words. I downloaded Andrea Bocelli and Josh Groban onto my phone, and we listened to lovely music. Peter came down midweek to provide moral support and spent the night with us in the hospital, giving me the love I needed to give my mother the love she needed.
Those days were excruciating, but also lovely. My mother was a formidable woman of beauty and strong opinions. I'm not sure why she wasn't effusive with her love, but I've come to believe that her propensity to give stuff - gifts, boxes of things she was ready to give up, freebies she'd gathered at work meetings, stacks of coupons - that giving of "stuff" was her way to give love.
I didn't have stuff to give my mother, but I did have my time. I am incredibly grateful for those hospital days. It's selfish of me to think that Mom's lingering was good. I didn't want her to suffer; I choose to believe that she wasn't. Who knows. Her lingering, though, allowed me the time I needed to tell my mother I loved her. Those days allowed me to care for my mother, to be tender with her, to be a mother to the woman who was my mother. I love you, Mom.
Those days were excruciating, but also lovely. My mother was a formidable woman of beauty and strong opinions. I'm not sure why she wasn't effusive with her love, but I've come to believe that her propensity to give stuff - gifts, boxes of things she was ready to give up, freebies she'd gathered at work meetings, stacks of coupons - that giving of "stuff" was her way to give love.
I didn't have stuff to give my mother, but I did have my time. I am incredibly grateful for those hospital days. It's selfish of me to think that Mom's lingering was good. I didn't want her to suffer; I choose to believe that she wasn't. Who knows. Her lingering, though, allowed me the time I needed to tell my mother I loved her. Those days allowed me to care for my mother, to be tender with her, to be a mother to the woman who was my mother. I love you, Mom.
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