What Death is Trying to Teach Me

TW: This post is about dying and death.

My mother, whose body is in the process of letting her go, is in hospice care at home now. I’m her only daughter and primary caregiver, and I’m sleeping in a recliner in our living room, so I can be closer in order to help her with nighttime bathroom trips. Yes, it’s exhausting: Sometimes, I wake at 3 a.m. when my body says it’s been too long since I’ve heard the bell she rings for my help. I sneak in and check her, then I go back to the chair and lie awake, waiting again for the bell. But however hard this is, it will end, sooner than I want. So I thank my lucky stars that (a) I have the privilege of sharing this sacred space and time with her, and (b) that I’m aware enough to KNOW what a sacred time this is.

One thing my mother’s passage is teaching me is that the dying process, like all deep loss and sorrow, strips away pretense. If we are lucky enough and conscious enough to be present with someone in this time, we see their true humanity. We see them naked—physically and emotionally—unadorned. We see their unvarnished, unprotected, almost child-like fears. We see their vulnerability, pain, and love (and we see the ways pain and fear can sometimes twist love into odd shapes).

Another important thing I’m learning (this is trickier) is to let go. My mother and I are alike in many ways, but in other fundamental ways, we’re polar opposites. This has led to a sometimes tense relationship over the years, especially in the last 6-7 years since we chose to live together, knowing that her cancer, a blood cancer called CLL (my mom is the 4th family member to deal with this) would mean increasing levels of care. I was lucky enough to be around as Mom took care of my grandma, at home, at the end of her life. I knew then, and I still know in spite of the difficulties, that if it’s possible for someone to die at home, it’s a gift. But my desire to make this possible for my mother, means I’ve had to let go of resentments, injuries, insults, etc. I was (stubbornly) holding onto—I can’t hold onto these, and hold my mother in compassion at the same time.

Side note: I’m not naïve. I know that for some people who logistically COULD care for a dying person at home, there may be injuries that are too great, too deep, too unforgiveable. I know not everyone can or should go down this road.

I’m learning to let go in another way, too. I’m a person for whom control is comfort. I’m most comfortable if I feel things are organized, categorized, understood. The dying process is constantly slapping my silly illusion of control right out of my hands. It's balled up my useless pride and replaced it with humility, as I let go of my avoidance of germs, bodily fluids, and unpleasantness. I’m learning to accept without judgement or analysis. In learning to face uncertainty, embrace the most basic kind of intimacies, and be fully present for my mother, I’m learning to be present, period.

I’m also daily having to let go of my former mothers—my strong mother, my powerful mother, my entertaining mother, my invincible mother. I’m learning to embrace my mother as she becomes someone new each day, someone weaker, more afraid, more distant, most human.

End note: Another way in which I’m not naïve is that this process of my mother’s leaving progressed very slowly, for a very long time. Years, in fact. Then suddenly, in the space of 3-4 months, it ramped up to hyperspeed. So I understand that I’m operating on a kind of detached autopilot right now—there are things that have to get done, and I have to do them. This means I’ve poured my emotional responses to all this into what Jung called the “basement,” where it will eventually crack the concrete and flood the entire house. But for now, I’m in the “mobilize” lifeboat. I’m able to look at Mom’s dying reasonably. To write about it. To patiently wait for the next bell.