One of the most difficult things for me was to watch how my mother lost weight—in spite of the fact that we finally resolved her diet, and she was getting plenty to eat. When I look back on photos, the weight loss is definitely obvious. But as it was happening, she first gained a little weight before it fell off again. I noticed her getting thinner again, but since I was with her several times a week it wasn’t as pronounced as it is in the photos. That is, I wasn’t seeing exactly what I was seeing.
Now why is that? Because I was with her so often, yes. And because, I’m sure, a large part of me didn’t want any of this to be happening to my mother. It is a grief like none I have experienced before, because of its duration, its many peaks and valleys, good days and bad; and then terrible. My mother was dying for a long time. All my joy with her never stopped holding hands with my grief over the situation.
The truth that my mother was slowly dying is what I had to remind myself of at several different turning points. I knew, with this weight loss, and knowing how much she was eating because I was feeding her, that a new level of demise was at hand. I called her two closest friends encouraging them to visit Mom. “I’m hoping to get her through the summer,” I told them, “but I don’t know if she’ll go much past that. You’d better come.”
One friend came in March, another in May. And oh, my! How my mother lit up to see her cherished friends. She couldn’t talk anymore, not clearly, but her face said it all. She smiled and smiled and tried her hand at a language that no longer made sense, but it didn’t matter. She was communicating as best she could, and she talked to her friends over two different visits that both lasted about two hours. That alone was incredible. Mom was energized by engaging with her beloved friends.
Near the end, there was no more coffee, as I’d shared with Mom over two years. No more butter cookies—she couldn’t chew or swallow them. But there were still plenty of smiles, of Mom waving at me, of her kissing me goodbye and speaking in a language reduced to yes and no and okay. I would offer her water or juice, but if she didn’t want any I let it go. I didn’t know when my mother would die, but I trusted my instinct and didn’t fuss over anything that long ago would have been normal. Normal was well past, and we’d been in SNAFU for quite some time. I only wanted one more summer for Mom. She loved summer, all of it, from the green of the grass to the colorful flowers, to the sounds of crickets and frogs and birds. I hoped for her to get what was always her best season, to have one last time the gift of its beauty before she left us. We got one more summer. Mom died the third week in August, one month before her 86th birthday.
So, if your loved one doesn’t want to drink, or doesn’t want to eat, try to think about what is really best for them, not for you. Try to consider how you can best serve them in their present moment. Our desire and willingness to help and to provide at some point must change, and usually it’s our loved one who signals that change in big or small ways. Listen to that signaling with an open heart and mind.
Hear with love.