Easter's Thin Veil

It’s Easter, Eostre, spring…symbolic point between winter/spring, or death/new life. This seems a fitting time for things to change, and things are definitely changing here at the Row. 

Eggs for the Giant

Mom has turned a corner and seems to be standing (metaphorically) at the veil (also metaphorically). She fell a couple weeks ago. It wasn’t a hard boom-fall; it was more of a no-strength-left crumple to the floor. After that, walking just seemed too hard, and she hasn’t been out of bed since. She sleeps almost all the time now, except when I raise the head of the bed to have her drink something or eat a few bites of pudding (with her meds crushed up in it).

Sharing a Cracker

I’ve had two main reactions to these recent changes: (1) anxiety and (2) panic.

The anxiety came because I felt woefully unprepared for the practical care of someone who can’t get out of bed, respond, or feed herself. Thankfully, our amazing hospice folks were here to teach me the mechanics of bed-bound hygiene. But I have so many more questions: How hard should I try to make Mom drink and eat? How long do I keep sneaking in meds for other conditions, while the cancer is killing her? Is the cancer killing her, or the conditions for which I’m sneaking in meds? How much can she hear? see? feel? Should I be near her always, talking, reassuring, or should I let her rest and have some peace?

The panic came because sheit got real. My mother is dying. She’s not slowly moving toward the veil now; she’s moving back and forth through it, sometimes here with us, sometimes somewhere else. I tried hard not to let my crying-blinking-deer-in-headlights stare show when the hospice nurse said two or three times, euphemistically, “she’s had a change of condition” and said they’d start coming every day.

Daughter's Three-Cherry, Strawberry, Blueberry Pie!

Masha's Blinchikis (Russian Crepes)

For now, I’m keeping the anxiety and panic to a minimum by doing things—my hyper-responsible way of coping. I’ve been sending near-daily updates to family. I finally did the impossible and called a funeral home. I’ve been making a list of people I’ll need to notify. I cleaned out closets. I did medicine inventory. I sorted shoes. I've started getting all my daily chores done before dinner, as if that little bit of tidy organization has the power to keep the veil from closing behind my mother.

GOOD Friday Service at Our Lady of Cabernet

Playing Pat the Baby

Drawing Lessons, Egg Art

Another anxiety reducer is family: My three brothers have been coming and going. We live in four states, but at one point in the last few days, Mom had all four children around her again. My oldest brother and I had an evening out at Our Lady of Cabernet, where my brother sat in with Ray and the band. I got a big, beautiful dose of the best medicine—singing a few songs with friends—and saw other people I’d been missing. Over the course of this last week, Mom smiled occasionally, tried hard to keep her eyes open for a minute or two at a time, and once or twice, moved her hands or feet to Leon Redbone on her CD player. We had a houseful for Easter dinner, so she had a parade of beloveds moving in and out of her room all day.

When my youngest brother and his partner leave this week, Ray and I will settle back into the quiet vigil. We'll take the puppy out, watch movies, Ray will run errands, we'll ready the garden and putter around the house. And every now and then I'll sense, fear, hope for, deny, or  welcome, the billowing of that thin veil.

Babies...Travelers in Both Worlds