End of the Line
I question
what the phrase deathwatch truly means. I do not want to watch
anything. I want to occupy my mind and hands in order not to focus on the
suffering my mother, Tina, is going through.
This
on-again off-again aspect of the life of a terminal patient is extremely taxing;
obviously on her, but also on those around her. Poor Jaime, Tina’s
granddaughter; she is so confused and constantly questions the when of
her Bonnie’s death. I question it too, but more because I am not so certain it
is as immanent as many think. I wonder who is correct?
My
prominent experiences with death have been after-the-fact, when notified by a
relative, or in Vietnam. There, at least, death was more abrupt, although
certainly not cleaner. Here, in hospital, death is clean and antiseptic and
neat, but it is anything but abrupt, except perhaps in the emergency room.
I find that I am turning very inward and I do
not wish to appear cold or unfeeling to Sally, my wife. However, I truly do not
know what my role is in all this. Sally has taken charge of the myriad details
of apartment, mail, Social Security, Medicare, and all; so often seeming to be
women’s work, as they do it better than us, men. I would probably let most of
these aspects pass without due attention. All this is fine with me on another
level; Tina and I have been estranged for countless years.
This would
definitely not be the environment of choice for the end of my life. Most
people would probably select to be surrounded by their family; but, why? Why
inflict this prolongation on those you love and who, presumably in most cases,
love you? Perhaps it would be more interesting and satisfying to be surrounded
by one’s enemies and antagonists, some of who might be family anyway. Make them
suffer as they wait, or perhaps allow them to gloat. At least in that manner
someone is pleased by death.
I enter
again into that tomb of acrid smells: the slightly pungent whiff of excrement
and urine, mixed with antiseptics; and, the moldy mustiness of age and impending
death. This concept of impending death continues to haunt me.
I recall Annie Dillard’s phrase, “this
terminal bus,” and how well it captures the essence of the Rehabilitation Center
to which Tina was moved. The smells and sounds and general attitude are, indeed,
those of a bus and a bus depot. It would be easy to make the comparison with
Dillard’s metaphor and this end of the line. There are so many stories
buried within this emotional quagmire.
I was
struck by the fact that Tina has spent most of her life cataloging, in one form
or another, her displeasure of people. It has been one long, sustained put-down
after another. Rarely, perhaps even never, have I heard from her a sustained
praise of anyone, except, or course, her eldest brother. My mother has
constantly and consistently played off one son against the other; regaling my
with all of my brother’s faults and failures, and him with mine; comparing my
two wives, unfavorable to Sally, whenever it suits her purpose of the moment.
Even Jaime, her sole granddaughter (of all people!) has not escaped her sarcasm
and vitriolic bitterness with life.
In her
lucid moments, Tina seems to acknowledge that her life is culminating (or
devolving?) to its current state, inevitably driven by the life she has led. And
then, again, she seems to recant that by lashing out at those around her, even
those who are striving hardest to assist or comfort her.
Am I
defensive? I suppose so, and yet I wonder why? At what point is a parent, a
parent? Or, to draw this even closer, at what point is a mother, a
mother? Is it biology alone? Is it emotional attachment? Is it early, or
even late, nurturing? In my case, is it the recollections of childhood, dimmed
and warped by a hundred thousand million synapses over a lifetime, which may or
may not have been accurate? All this, or course, begs the issue of reality. Are
my memories the reality? Is reality lost due to the lack of an impartial
observer? In Tina’s life, has there ever been an impartial observer? The concept
of filial obeisance does not seem to take in me. My soil is not fertile
for its seed, or perhaps the timing has always been wrong.
Two more
rehab facilities and one hospice later, my mother died. Only her spurned
daughter-in-law was by her side, which says much for Sally, nothing for Tina.
Neither of her sons was there, which says much that I leave to others to
translate. I made the obligatory phone calls to those family members who had not
participated in my mother’s deathwatch.
Rick Hartwell
is a retired middle school (remember, the hormonally-challenged?) English
teacher living in Moreno Valley, California. He believes in the succinct, that
the small becomes large; and, like the Transcendentalists and William Blake,
that the instant contains eternity. Given his “druthers,” if he’s not writing,
Rick would rather still be tailing plywood in a mill in Oregon.
