My mother died over 3 years ago, at 73. Doctors had diagnosed lung cancer the day before she and dad hosted their 70th birthday bash that September. She was a trooper throughout - but then again she had always been a trooper - HAD to be one. Her husband (my father) was (is) a demanding perfectionist, always using "what others would think" as his barometer. That meant that nothing was ever satisfactory, ever good enough. And in that environment of conditional love, my mother learned not to make waves when dad was around - not to challenge his bombastic ways. I suppose that's why she became an alcoholic...

Chemo began immediately and by February (5 months later), the cancer had cleared up completely - until the discovery of brain tumours a few months later. This development was harder on us than the lung cancer because of her frequent falls and incoherent speech. My elegant mother was no more.

I remember that last Florida holiday, the one when my father agreed that it was time for a wheelchair. It really bothered him to have people "seeing her like this". In fact, he'd encourage her to try to fight it and stay on her feet long after she felt tired.

Mom's final 3 months were spent in hospital. Here my father's prejudices influenced her medical care. Instead of arranging for a private room with added staff, my dad insisted that mom would get more attention in a 4 - person room. Her "mates" included a 90 - year old lady with the same first name as mom's (which drove everyone nuts), a woman who died in her sleep, and a man with lung cancer who wheeled his entire apparatus to the lobby of the hospital so he could smoke.

Rather than bother the hospital staff when my mother became incontinent, dad insisted on changing her diapers and linens on his own. When I was in town, I helped. But I couldn't stop remembering how prudish both parents were (taking pride in never having been in the bathroom together) and how each event must have killed her just a little bit - if she was aware of what was going on (and we'll never know that one).

I live out of town and commuted every weekend, when I held mom's hand until Sunday's train ride back. I kept trying to think of ways to let her know I was there. I made a tape of classical music she loved - including Claire de Lune by Debussy. Dad said "Why are you bothering with that stuff?" Yet when I placed the headphones on her and started the music, her expression changed and I knew that I had gotten through to her. I'm sure that after I left, nobody else played that music for her.

That last Sunday, mom went on morphine. When I called the hospital, dad sounded excited because she was feeling so well. He put the phone beside her and she told me "I feel marvelous". And those were the last words I heard from her - ever.

Mom died that week - on Wednesday morning. She had choked on some food and was about to have her tubes cleared. I could hear mom's breathing through the phone, even though it was far from her. After the 20-minute procedure, my sister told mom that it was ok for her to go - and she passed away with that permission.

For our dysfunctional yet close family, the aftermath was very interesting. For each of the four children, mom was a different person. And for dad, she became someone larger-than-life who could do no wrong. For me, the sensitive one, my ache was not just for my loss, but for my mother's loss. For her life, for her compromises, for her lonliness.

As the story goes, dad met a wonderful lady with whom he's been travelling, socializing and enjoying what he would have wanted with mom (but never would have let himself enjoy with her). This is a really good thing. The man's 76 - if not now, WHEN?

My mother's death was long and agonizingly slow, but it gave me a chance to be close to her during those final elusive days. But physical closeness was not a substitute for the emotional closeness that I felt she needed, and that I wanted her to share with me. More than anything else, it hurts me that mom never talked about her fears, her feelings, her illness or about dying - to anyone. I can only imagine how lonely she must have been.

Did I say she was a trooper? Perhaps she was actually resigned to accept without challenging, after years of training herself to hide her real feelings. It hurts me because I believe it hurt her.

One thing I know for certain: my mother knew I loved her - without conditions and without expectations. Oh, I was far from the perfect child - just as she was far from the perfect mother. But she and I had a special relationship and even her death can't take that away from me.

Thank you for the opportunity to share. I cried as I wrote, and could have continued writing so much more. I don't know if my story will help anyone else...I do know it helped me.

Barbara
601182@ican.net

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