A New Kind of Mother's Day

 

April 28, 2021

A mother's life is full of firsts: the first birthday, the first day of school, the first graduation. The list goes on. We lock eyes the moment we are born, and from then on, our mother becomes our shero - the one we call for help and to share our sorrows, laughter, triumphs, and struggles. But this Mother's Day brings a new first. It is my first one without her. 

My mother passed away in January of Covid-19. You might have read my story in My Family's Covid Story: It's More Than the Numbers where I described how 28 days changed my family's life. During the days following her passing, I found myself vacillating between total acceptance and uncontrollable tears. One day, I was consoling her friends with the verve of a grief counselor, and a day later, I was hunched over on the floor - unable to see through tears and unable to catch my breath. If there was a new way to cry tears, I found it. In the weeks that followed, I almost texted her. One time, I did it anyway. I keep her picture on the bulletin board at my workstation. When I look at it, sometimes I feel comfort and encouragement coming through her eyes. Other times, I cannot even look in its direction. I started to feel jealous when I saw people my age out and about with their mothers. I cried while looking at her favorite sweater and did a double take when I passed a mirror one day. Do I really look that much like her? I thought. I felt so strange, out of sorts, confused, and dazed. And strange things were happening to me. But then the tide turned, and my tears began to slow down. 

I started to think about happy times like the morning I picked her up for church and to my surprise, we were wearing matching blouses. Another time, the same colors. I thought about how she always laughed at her nickname, Ms. Leadfoot, the title I gave her some years ago after she received a speeding ticket the very same day that I had warned her to slow down. As grandmothers are notorious for carrying candy in their purses, my mother did the same. But she also carried paper towels! In every purse and in every pocket was one or two that could always be counted on to collect stale chewing gum or wipe an unexpected runny nose. I choose to think about such things. Remembering the delight she had when talking about her favorite show to binge watch (90 Day Fiancé) and all my mother's quirks, quips, and mannerisms bring me joy and make me smile.

I will never be the same person I was before her passing, but perhaps I am a better person. I am more patient with people because I wonder what is going on in their lives and the challenges they might be facing. I am unable to listen to some songs without reopening the flood gates, but I know that I am getting better day by day. Even though she will not be here for any more firsts, I am grateful to God for the 73 years she had them.

My Family's Covid Story: It's More Than the Numbers

January 7, 2021

My mother is 73 and lives with us in a family building. She is involved in a food share ministry at church, drives to the grocery store, picks up her medicine and runs her own errands. She walks up and down three flights of stairs to take our 80 plus pound dog to the backyard twice a day. Other than high blood pressure and a minor case of arthritis in her hands and knees, she doesn't have any health problems. She rarely gets sick and attributes it to cough drops which she swears keeps her well. Because of this, my husband and three grown daughters had a meeting on how we were going to protect her from Covid. This is our plan: 

1. Disinfect the house and building regularly by spraying or wiping down door knobs and other frequently-touched surfaces.
2. Wear masks religiously when we go out and make sure she does the same. 
3. All of us, including mom, get regularly tested for Covid every two weeks whether or not we have any symptoms. 

So, when she mentioned her shoulders were achy and shortly afterwards developed diarrhea, we took her to the ER. She tested positive for Covid, was admitted, treated, and released within a week. 

Now for the reality. None of this happened. The truth is that my mother started exhibiting these symptoms around December 21st. There was no alarm, no shock, no sense of emergency among us. Maybe because we were all too tied up in our own busy lives. Maybe becomes mom, herself, downplayed her symptoms and kept pushing forward. Then, the Wednesday before Christmas Day on the 23rd, I had achy shoulders, fatigue, and a stuffy nose, so I rested. By Thursday, I felt significantly better, and by Christmas Day, enjoyed a meal I cooked together with my husband like other Christmases in the past. Mom participated in her great-grandson's big day of opening gifts. 

She rested a lot. Still, no Covid alarm despite the saturation of daily Covid statistics in the media. Despite the fact that the pandemic is still very much alive. By December 27th, she was heading to the ER. She tested positive for Covid. Eventually, so did my youngest daughter and me. Two days later, mom was isolated in the ICU, sedated and on a ventilator. Her lungs had Covid pneumonia and were no longer able to function on their own. 

When a loved one is in the hospital, numbers become everything. 100 percent. That's the highest amount of oxygen she was receiving from the ventilator. Eighty, then 70, then 69 percent. Those are the numbers of her fluctuating oxygenation - her blood's oxygen level. Ninety-five percent and higher are considered normal. Eventually, her kidneys stopped functioning. And 70/39. Those were the numbers of her blood pressure which prompted a call from the nurse to tell me that I should "come sit with her." Time had passed, and she was no longer contagious. My daughter and I now tested negative. 

She accompanied me to the hospital, and as I sat at my mom's bedside, I tried to keep my conversation light - telling her that we have a new president; that I was watering all her plants; all the funny shenanigans her great-grandson was involved in. What I didn't say was how shocked I was at her appearance. Bloated, puffy, and tight skin made her look like someone else. I stared at her and asked myself whether this was my mother. A realization overwhelmed me, and my conversation changed. I said, "If I don't see you at home, mom, I'll see you again in Heaven." And finally, 28. It was exactly 28 days that a machine breathed for her, and on Tuesday, January 26, 2021, she was gone. 

Hindsight is 20/20 as they say. Looking back, I wish we'd had that family meeting. I wish we were diligent enough to notice her symptoms and at the first cough, achy muscle, wheeze, sniffle, or complaint, had rushed her to the ER. I'm not going to lie - I feel as though I could have saved her. But regret towards the past does nothing but bring sadness and pain. 

My mom, with her silver hair straightened and curled, wearing gold hoop earrings and burgundy lipstick is wearing a red, plaid-like three-quarter length coat with gold, silver, yellow, and blue speckled feathers in it. I open the front door, and her energy hits me in the face. With a big smile, she yells, "I'm baaaack!" In an instant, she's inside the living room, and I am grabbing her around the neck, literally squeezing her and lavishing kisses on her left cheek and all along the side of her face and head. Then I burst into tears, still squeezing and holding her. Suddenly, I wake up from the dream, and I am crying. Could those precautions have saved her? Perhaps. But I remind myself that regardless of my actions or lack thereof, God has the ultimate say. And that is what gives me comfort.