As you can probably tell, from the time of this entry compared to the last, my mom has sadly passed away. And it's taken me this long to finally come back to the blog and be OK talking (typing) about it. I want to now. I didn't at first, not for 2 and a half months. But I'm OK with talking (typing about it now). So here goes...
That last entry that you read about, prior to this? That was timestamped 45 minutes before my mom passed away. I remember exactly how it went. At 2 PM, after I logged off of Blogger, I went to check on my mom. She had seemed to turn the corner somehow. I'm not even sure how exactly, but she seemed to be at more peace than before. I waited for maybe 10 more minutes before I decided dose her with her morphine, followed by her haloperidol dose. On my mind was only one thing: comfort. I remember 2:12PM very clearly because that was the last thing I wrote down in my dad's logbook: 2:12PM Haldol dose. I remember looking up from the purple log book and noticing that my dad was snoozing on the couch next to us. We had a Chinese Christian music playlist on loop, and the whole environment started to feel a bit more serene. She stopped her distressful moaning, so I figured now would be a good time to slip away to do some chores. I tiptoed into the kitchen and finished the remaining dishes. I'm not sure why, but the pharmacist in me was looking for something productive to do. I knew that the caretaker (Michelle?) was going to start her first shift tonight, so I figured it'd be a good time to empty out her medication drawers so we wouldn't have to worry about reconciling all that with her. By 2:30pm, I'd cleaned out an entire drawer of old meds, cough suppressants, and inhalers. I walked out to check on her. Still sleeping peacefully, her chest rising and falling slowly. I felt content. I went to the bathroom to cut my bangs. Cause apparently, I was bored and my bangs needed to be trimmed.
I checked back around 2:40 PM. I touched her hands, and they seemed to be getting cool. I took out the pink stethoscope that I bought for her, and listened to her heart. It was there, but distant, and irregular. I distinctly remembering that I didn't panic. I knew what was happening, but I didn't know that in the moment, I would feel so weak and powerless. About a minute later, the care coordinator from the caregiver agency rang the doorbell and came in. He sat down to review the med list with my dad, on the adjacent couch. He looked at me with knowing eyes, asked if he should leave. I didn't have an answer for him, because honestly...I didn't really know what to do. My medical training told me that I needed to keep checking her vitals, assessing for signs of life. My inner child desired nothing else but to cling on to her mommy's wrist, dwelling in every last breath of hers, even if it was laced with the very foreign smell of death. And then, within just a moment, her heartbeat slipped away. I remember the care coordinator saying, "I'm so sorry. I'll give you both some space" as he let himself out of the house (I feel terrible for that poor guy). I remember my dad coming over, as we both knelt by her bedside, sobbing uncontrollably. What he kept saying will forever be etched into my memory, "I'm so sorry, Mama."
The tears were hard to stop. There was a good 15 minutes where I knelt there, laying my head next to her bedside, releasing 33 months of sadness, pain, and fear that dominated my every waking moment while she was sick. At some point, both of us ran dry of the immediate tears, and there was silence.
That is the distinct moment in time that I can pinpoint where I was forever changed. I remember realizing how distraught my dad was, and decided to find a way for us to get through the remainder of the day, so we sat there, for a whole after, cross legged, on the carpet next to her, telling stories, the two of us. Stories that included mom. Stories that included other family members. I knew I needed to do something to help my dad grieve. I knew this was going to be my job, forever now that my mom is gone, to look after my dad. So I did what I knew how to do at the moment. Tell stories.
At 3:45, my auntie showed up at our house. She was supposed to come help look after my mom while I went home to care for my boys. I told her at the door that my mom passed away. The words felt foreign, rolling off my tongue, but it felt necessary coming out of my mouth, instead of my dad's. She went upstairs to see her, and stayed with us the rest of the night. The rest of the day was a blur - it consisted of me making a dozen calls informing all the relatives of the news. Some took it without any fanfare. Others required my consoling - which felt especially irritating to me, 2 hours freshly after my mom passed away. We were able to arrange for all her sisters and nieces to come see her one last time before the funeral home came to pick her up. The two girls respectfully picked up her, and transported her to the home in her favorite blanket. I cried another river as they closed the van and drove off from our cul-de-sac. But only momentarily, because I knew that my dad would need to be comforted, so I forced myself to stop.
One disadvantage of being an only child is that when your parents become ill or pass away, much of the burden to take care of business relies on you. Without much help from my dad, I singlehandedly planned her funeral and took care of her final arrangements. On the day of her funeral, I couldn't find anything left in me to cry. I looked at her one last time, peacefully laying in her casket, wearing the outfit that I picked for her, for my wedding day, wearing her beautiful butterfly pin and her signature watch. I should cry. But I didn't. Part of me (now) cannot forgive myself for not crying at my mother's funeral, but I suppose we all react to grief differently.
I didn't cry again until August 21. I remember this day very distinctly because it was the day of the eclipse, and my 7 year anniversary. It should have been a happy day, but something was dragging me down. It wasn't til the end of the day that I realized that I was sad that my mom wasn't around anymore, wishing us a happy 7th, giving us marriage advice and well wishes.
I also remember September 5th. Another distinct day. We met with the cemetery manager to work on the design of her headstone. I had to run back to work, so quickly dropped by for a quick visit. This was the first time I visited her grave alone, and I broke down, somehow just realizing that she really is buried there now, and not alive, no denying it.
Things had started to slowly heal during this time. My family routine was returning back to normal, my boys were happy to see me home more often, but then a dark, dark thing happened. On our way home from a trip up to Canada, we learned that my uncle had taken his own life. When I learned of this, I was driving. I remember immediately springing back into action mode - almost exactly how I did with my mom's passing, aiming to protect my loved ones, somehow do everything and anything to shield the pain and suffering this would cause them.
Why am I writing all this now? I'm not sure - perhaps a part of me knows that writing has always been a way to relieve stress for me. Perhaps I know that someday, I'll forget the sequence of events of what happened this summer that forever changed me. Perhaps I just need something/someone to listen because I've already tired out all the willing listening ears. I don't know. I wish I had the answers. But for now, I'm still a bit lost.
xo
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