My mother, as a young woman.
My mother, age 90, is dying.
This isn't a sudden thing. She was remarkably physically good health up until her mid 80s, when things began to fall apart. It impacted her mind first, and not kindly. She had always been a very physically active person, riding a bike and swimming daily, up until she was about 85 years old, when she suddenly quit. That's when I knew that I couldn't ignore things anymore.
Not that it wasn't obvious before that.
It's a long story I care not to repeat, but her mind had been deteriorating for some time, but she was still able to live on her own and she loved doing so.
Now, on that, perhaps a bit of that is a rationalization on my part. My father and I were very, very close, and I miss my father dearly to this day. He died when he was 62 years old after becoming suddenly ill. The anniversary of that death, in fact, is coming right up. I'm 52 years old now. My father's father died when he was in his late 40s, and they were very close as well. I think that weighted heavily on his mind, particularly as he came up to and then passed that age. I know that as I begin to see 62 on the horizon its on my mind, but then I didn't expect to make it out of here alive anyhow.
And I'm seeing that advanced old age has not been kind to my mother. Nor has it been kind to most of her siblings. It hasn't been the same for all of her siblings, all but one of whom have lived into advanced old age. Some, including one of my uncles, have remained very mentally sharp. But others have endured what my mother has. Seeing it, I hope that I'm spared that, and frankly if Providence should provide it, while I'd like to live long enough to see my children well established as adults and enjoy their adult company, I don't know that I'd like to endure the ravages of extreme old age. I know that its been horrible to watch.
My mother, center, as a little girl.
And given this, I've thought a lot about how I've generally handled it and frankly sometimes considered how things like this were handled in prior times. Frankly, I don't know that they were handled all that much differently, to some degree, in our fluid North American society.
My mother, far left, with her sister and her oldest brother, Terry, in his Canadian Army uniform prior to his going to Europe in World War Two. Of those depicted, Terry and Brenda (second from right), in addition to my mother, are still living.
My mother is originally from St. Lambert, Quebec. She was born there and grew up there with her extended family of siblings. Born in 1925, the family hit very hard times during the Great Depression. Indeed, it's generally not realized that the Great Depression hit harder in Canada than it did in the United States, but it did. The percentage of Canadians out of work exceeded that of Americans. Having said that, that Quebec, which is now a thing of the past, had a huge rural, French speaking, agrarian population. My mother's family was an Irish-French urban family, and therefore not part of the agrarian population, although they shared the common faith that it had. They principally spoke English, although everyone could speak French. Anyhow, she went to work in her mid teens as the family was in such desperate straights, working at first for the Canadian Pacific Railway. In her 20s she moved out to Calgary and worked as an oil and gas secretary, before leaving that job, as the urging of her mother, in order to be bridesmaid for her youngest sister, who married in Denver Colorado. Returning north after that she stopped here as we were having an oil boom and she thought it likely should could find work, which she did. All in all, she was pretty adventuresome when young.
I'd be hard pressed to know who is who is this photograph of my mother's siblings, and I'm not even sure if she is in it.
She met my father at St. Anthony's Church and they were married in 1958. My mother would have been 33 years old at the time. When I was born she was 38, fairly late, particularly in those years, to have a child. I'm my parents only one.
My mother, right, riding. This photograph was likely taken in Alberta when she was in her twenties, but I'm not really certain and now there's nobody I ask.
We were a pretty active family. Indeed, I feel that I compare unfavorably as an adult to my parents. But my mother started sliding into illness when I was in my teens and by the time I was 20 she was very ill. And that illness expressed itself as a severe example of dementia. It was scary, and during the process it strained our relationship severely. My father admirably stayed very loyal to her the entire time, in spite of all the embarrassment that accompanies such an affliction before old age. Ultimately she arrived at death's door.
During that time, I prayed that she'd recover, and she did. There's no explanation for it other than a miracle. No doctor has ever been able to explain it. The recovery wasn't full, but it was large, and when on death's door she began a recovery over a period of months that ultimately allowed her to return home from a brief hospitalization and a brief stay in a nursing home. Her mind cleared up to a large extent, if not fully, and she was amazingly physically fit. She bicycled and swam everyday, and in her 80s was so fit that I was often quite stunned that others were not equally fit.
My mother with a bicycle while in her teens. She rode a bicycle daily up into her mid 80s.
My father died at age 62 after a sudden illness afflicted him. He struggled for a period of months before passing away. It was a horrific experience for both of us. By that time, I'd gone down to the University of Wyoming twice and had graduated from law school. When I returned to town I'd planned on only being at my parents house briefly but first my father grew ill and then he died, so I stayed on there, first to help him and then to try to help my mother. Two years after he died I met my wife and we married, and with my mother doing well I moved out.
She did well after that for a long time. Indeed, twenty or so years. However, slowly, anyone could see things were changing. About six years ago it was too much to ignore, although I tried to. I couldn't bring myself to contemplate her moving from her house to which she was so attached, so I did nothing. The last winter we debated what to do. It was a nightmare as she panicked over snow, or forgot how common things worked. Finally, unbeknownst to me, she quite being careful about the food she was eating, which started making her ill. Ultimately she fell very ill and at that point received the diagnosis of frontotemporal dementia. But a diagnosis wasn't probably really necessary, it was pretty clear what was going on.
That lead to the nursing home, which we had no choice but to arrange for. She couldn't return home, and with a will that was incredibly strong, we could not take care of her. Over time her condition advanced much less slowly than anticipated and we were able to move her, when her wing of the nursing home closed, to a new facility that had a memory care unit that was newer and nicer, with more freedom, seemingly.
Now the end has arrived. She's been in the hospital twice in less than a month and her physical condition has declined. Her memory is now almost completely gone. She can't remember things day to day, and I doubt from morning to afternoon. She once, prior to her first illness, and again after recovering from it, had a very active mind. Now, none of the old interests are there.
I don't know how well I've handled any of this. Not very well, I think. From time to time I've looked and thought that in prior ages this was handled better within families, at home, in times that were slower. But I don't think that's really that true. We've always been so mobile. I know that my father was there for his parents when they died, but then my grandfather was only in his 40s and my father a teenager when he died. I can remember my father's mother dying when I was a small child, and all her children were there, and they all live here. On my mother's side I can barely remember her mother, having met her I think only once when I was old enough too, and I don't know if my mother went out to see her as she was dying. I dimly recall that it came too quickly. And I think that was the same for her father.
When I was young, I recall prayers for a good, or happy, death being common in the Middle Ages. Then are not unknown now, but they are less common. While young, I was always struck by that with a bit of horror. A good death? How could that be?
But I understand it now. All too often that isn't how things happen. Or at least its now how those who observe it perceive it. It makes sense to me now.
O God, great and omnipotent judge of the living and the dead, we are to appear before you after this short life to render an account of our works. Give us the grace
to prepare for our last hour by a devout and holy life, and protect us
against a sudden and unprovided death. Let us remember our frailty and
mortality, that we may always live in the ways of your commandments.
Teach us to "watch and pray" (Lk 21:36), that when your summons comes
for our departure from this world, we may go forth to meet you,
experience a merciful judgment, and rejoice in everlasting happiness. We
ask this through Christ our Lord. Amen.
Anyway you look at it, this is one of those areas where I don't measure up to my father and his siblings. I simply don't.
