Your parent is dying- advice for a friend
I’m writing to you because I know you are losing your parent. You may have been told that they are “transitioning”. And now you are waiting for someone to die. And sirens aren’t wailing, emergency codes aren’t being called, doctors aren’t rushing around. It’s calm, and quiet and slow when losing a parent on hospice.
I’m so sorry. It’s a horrible thing. But you have not shied away yet. You have stood by them and watched them “transition” for years. You have walked into the room and the person that is supposed to know your name, your heart and your dreams- that person completely forgot you. There was no flash of recognition. There was no smile that happens when someone gets who you are and how important they are to you. They forgot you. You have been there for the transition when they forgot your children, or your spouse and those people just became annoying noise in the background. Maybe you didn’t have a choice to walk away, but I know you wanted to at different points. It was awful, and scary and that will take you a long time to heal from. You will need that strength you found for this next part.
I was not built to break
I got to know my own strength.- Whitney Houston
This person that was once center in your life is growing smaller and quieter as their light dims. That sounds mad corny. But I kept picturing this- Mom’s light slowly fading away, down to just a flicker, barely noticeable. I had lost so much of Mom before her body stopped. It’s okay not to feel connected as you sit with your parent. They might look at you or they might not. They might talk to you, or maybe not. In these last moments, know that their body is doing what it needs to do. I kept waiting for Mom to have this moment of clarity where she told me everything I had wanted to hear for years. Your time with your parent might just be quiet though. Mine was.
Every day you take a walk. Might just be around the building, around your home. That’s ok. This is from my early morning walk with a friend before the sun came up. Always worth dragging myself out of bed.
You are operating in a different world now- one where you are watching someone die. It is not a place many have been to, or want to return to. So it means you might feel completely different and isolated from those not in this world. You will get a text about something from the outside world- a meme or a funny thing from a grocery store a friend saw- it will make no sense. It will be in a different language. Because you are not of that world right now. You are in a different time zone- one of pulses and oxygen levels, cold feet and hand holding. Reach out to those that have gone before you- those that have lost a parent. It doesn’t matter if you haven’t sent them a Christmas card from Snapfish in five years. They will guide you. Later, you will become someone else’s guide.
This is my text thread with a friend earlier this week.
You aren’t just watching someone on hospice. That implies that you are passively doing something- like this morning, I was “watching” Single Wives on Netflix. I’m not participating in this show. I’m not going on 10 “mini-dates”. I’m often doing a puzzle or washing dishes while the show passively drones on. You aren’t “watching” someone you love die. You are on this river with them- floating on this raft with them as their body slows and eventually stops. And you hold your own breath when their body pauses in between breaths. You move closer on the raft , maybe even sitting right next to them so your shoulders touch. You need to make sure they still have a heartbeat. Now you are physically together, but you are not at all heading in the same direction. You don’t know what’s coming on the next part of this river and a part of you just wants to run screaming from the room because watching someone die is so intense and immediate and FINAL. You leave each night expecting to get a terrible phone call the minute you leave, or as soon as you get home or rest for a minute or leave the room to poop.
For me, leaving Mom after a long day meant being with my kids. At points this was a really hard transition between quiet, focused sadness and excited, loud energy. The woods helped a LOT at this time. As they always do. Thanks hiking. You are the best.
At some point your raft will split. And you will no longer be in the room together. One of you will have left and gone. And then your waiting, your vigil, your time is over with them. It’s final and sad and maybe a relief. And the time will never have been enough. Because if you are brave enough to sit and keep this vigil, I know that you were brave enough to love this person with all of you. It is the ultimate in vulnerability- to continue to love someone more and more as they leave you day by day. Your love is exposed and you are raw and cracked open. Joy is hard to come by at this point. I could only be thankful that I had the time to sit with Mom. That I took a nap in her room. That she felt loved in her final days. You too are loved in these final days friend.