A few thoughts as the weather turns cold

In this short Life that only lasts an hour
How much - how little - is within our power
Emily Dickinson

One of the many amazing things about being a parent is watching your child grow. The growing itself is imperceptible; you can see your child every day, watch him play for hours, and you will not see him suddenly stand a half inch taller or flex his toes on a now-longer foot. The changes in a growing child happen slowly, almost behind the scenes. They happen over weeks and months, and they happen at night while you sleep. You notice the changes when your child's too-long pants are now too short, or he stops asking you to turn on the faucet because now he can reach it himself. These little changes are the guideposts you see along your child's journey from an infant to an adult. They're miraculous, all of them, and wonderful to see. I consider myself a pragmatic person in most things, but in parenting, I am a wholehearted sentimentalist. I get teary with both pride and sadness at these changes in my growing child.

Now I'm facing the death of a parent, and not just any parent, but my mother. (It's not only my loss, of course; we're all losing her. Still, the intense fear and grief make me feel alone.) Hers was the first voice I ever heard, and I can recall her laugh in an instant despite having heard it so little in well over a year. I moved away in 1999 and laughed when Mom said I would probably never come home. She was right, of course, as she was about most things. Sometimes I missed home. Even before she got sick, I could be moved to homesick tears by the mere memory of how her hug felt, or the scent of home on a Christmas throw she once used as padding in a huge box full of presents shipped to me.

Now I'm "home" frequently to contribute in this constant vigil of caregiving we've been managing for 21 excruciating months.  Each time I arrive home, I see unwelcome changes in Mom. Like growing up, apparently this slow process of dying from cancer has guideposts, too. Three weeks passed since my last visit, and now Mom is suffering from edema in her face, neck and left arm. The nurse isn't sure of the cause; it could be fluid moved down from her brain, or it could be fluid accumulating because she is barely moving. The body has to move to use energy and distribute the fluid taken in from food and drink. Without moving, the body stops processing effectively; fluid pools in the skin. It's painful. Her skin is tight, shiny, and blistered. We raised her arm on several pillows, and it seems to be helping slowly. As usual, there's nothing else we can do.

Mom's cough worsened, too. Some unknown trigger causes her usual cough to get worse, and she has so little strength; she can't do the big belly cough needed to clear it. Instead, she coughs repeatedly and unproductively, and she sighs with exhaustion between the spells. Tonight the coughing spell grew worse again, and we tried cough drops, Mucinex, wet heat - nothing helped. In desperation, I mixed a strong hot toddy and coaxed her to drink it. She grimaced and declared it "nasty", which made me happy because at least her speech was clear. Incredibly, the hot toddy seems to have worked - her coughing stopped.


Unlike in the movies, there is no doctor here predicting how much time we have left with Mom. It's unknowable, and we watch these guideposts closely as though counting them will give us the answer. It doesn't, of course. It only shows the progression of the disease along this terrible road that none of us wants to travel.

---

Now it is fall
By Edith Södergran

when all the golden birds
fly home across the blue deep water;
On shore I sit rapt in its scattering
                                                        glitter;
departure rustles through the trees.
This farewell is vast and separation draws close,
but reunion, that also is certain.

My head on my arm I fall asleep easily.
On my eyes a mother’s breath,
from her mouth to my heart:
sleep, child, and dream now the sun is gone.—