Subscriber Question

It's a universal experience, one that we all go through...

A subscriber wrote in this week and asked the question:

How do I prepare to lose my mother? She’s almost 87 and getting more frail recently. I lost my dad in 2015. I’m recently divorced and don’t have kids. Any advice?

Photo by Kyle Larivee on Unsplash

I had what some may label as an irrational fear of my parents dying since I was a kid. I don't know if it had something to do with being adopted, or being older when I came to them as an infant; or that I lived most of my life inside of my head.

My parents were the only people—I absolutely knew without a doubt—who loved me unconditionally. I leaned on this heavily in the early part of my life.

My father died suddenly back in 2001. He was 76. I was 43.

I was at the height of my career and living life large. It wouldn't have mattered how much I prepared for dad dying, I wasn't ready.

Death of a close family member is rated 5 on the top 10 stressors in Life.

There is a thing called prolonged grief. You may (or may not) experience it. Losing a loved one who may have been your everything is one of the most heart-breaking experiences you will endure as a human being.

An estimated 7%-10% of bereaved adults will experience the persistent symptoms of prolonged grief disorder (Szuhany et al., 2021).

Definition of prolonged grief:

DSM-5 PGD is present when, after the death of someone close at least 12 months earlier (Criterion A), a person experiences intense yearning or preoccupation (Criterion B), plus at least 3 of 8 symptoms of identity disruption, disbelief, avoidance, emotional pain, difficulties moving on, numbness, a sense that life is… June, 2022

I held on to prolonged grief—it had no label back then—for years after my grandparents died; and intuitively knew, it would likely happen when one or both parents died.

Strangely enough, prolonged grief didn't develop after losing my dad. Something occurred inside of me during that ten days Dad spent in the hospital; teetering between partially recovering, or living life as a decrepit infirm. I knew he didn’t want that for his life. It was a before and after marker that forced me to grow up and think about his wishes, and what was best for him, and not for me, or our family.

Despite my mother’s wanting to take a chance that he could get better, I decided to pull the plug and take him off life support.

The decision and loss were so traumatic that I institutionalized myself for a week to detox from pain pills prescribed for a chronic, and very painful female reproductive problem—that my doctor had refused to resolve in a less than barbaric way. Back then, options were limited.

It’s a weird thing when you’re late in your own life and those who knew your parents, spouse, or the elderly, who may have been a rock at one time, are already all long gone. You are alone, left to face the outside and the inside; thoughts and memories whirl. They can’t always be confirmed, examined, or denied.

I started journaling to remind myself of details and proof mom really lived, preparing for later, to eventually be orphaned again.

Photo by Marcos Paulo Prado on Unsplash

I took tons of photos that captured poignant moments. Like the time she read her morning newspaper with a cup of Irish Cream flavored coffee laced with whiskey while she was fighting a cold; or when she modeled a frumpy Alfred Dunner outfit picked out from JC Penny; one that pre-dad’s death she wouldn’t have been caught dead wearing—which then reminded me that she no longer cared about fashion—but comfort, toward the end of her life. Or when she shuffled her bare feet in the sand as she walked down the beach and stopped to gaze out into the horizon, across the green-blue waters of the Gulf of Mexico, in search of a dolphin fin sighting at sunset.

I documented things that annoyed her. Like Hulk Hogan’s daughter’s singing that sounded like a cat screeching on the reality show Hogan Knows Best. And what made her gleeful, like shopping for pretty tea pots and brightly colored stuffed animals to display in her living room; the latter she instead were her friends. And grocery lists that checked off weekly essentials like The National Enquirer, Entenmann’s cake donuts, Gruyere cheese, and Seagram’s gin. And names of her favorite movies and television shows, like An Affair to Remember and The Andy Griffith TV show.

I etched frozen moments in time to reflect on, and record the details, that sometimes brought me tears of sorrow, or doubled over with laughter. There were significant moments that helped imprint the feelings I experienced as her primary caregiver.

I watched helplessly as she deteriorated before my eyes. Her brisk walk became a shuffle. Her bony wrists creaked and flexed unwillingly against my arm when we held hands. And the blue veins stood out of mottled skin that matched her pretty, blue paisley blouse that she often wore out. And the time she almost set her apartment on fire trying to fry bacon in maple syrup.

Capturing snapshots of time sometimes warranted filling entire pages with enriched detail to hold on to otherwise would-be forgotten both glorious and painful instances; the one’s I held on to, even while Mom was still living.

And then she died.

It was more tragic for me than ever imagined.

And 13 years later I still quietly grieve, sometimes. But the cache of memories are frozen in images, written letters, and scribbled notes. And when the grieving sometimes crashes over me like a tsunami wave, threatening to drown me in sorrow, the work I did to prepare (which really wasn’t work), helps get me get through to the other side, my version of the (new) normal.

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Sounds from the past

It also helps to record favorite songs shared. Music can evoke good and bad times. A song has a beginning, a middle, and an end. Sometimes I play a song we shared and give myself the minutes to feel the grief. I never know if the music will make me laugh or cry - but playing music changes the state that holds me captive, so good or bad, the emotion changes for better or worse.

Yes, it still hurts today. I laugh, remember, and share with her immortal being the memories that bring much wanted relief from the sorrow of her being gone... and I know that part of her is living through me. She isn't here in body, but I carry her with me wherever I go.

On the really bad days I listen to the following song we used to dance to while making Thanksgiving dinner:

And all is right again with the world.

I hope this helps you, dear reader, for the future. No matter how much you prepare it won’t matter. The most cherished and simplest things that you can do now to grasp on to, while she’s living, will help you endure and get through the darkest and most heartfelt moments of grief and despair when she's gone.

Thanks for reading. See you next week.