(Woody Allen)
My mother died at age 97 on May 25th, after four years of a steady decline. She had always declared that she never wanted to go into a nursing home, so I tried to honor that request by keeping her at home and taking care of her. It was not easy. Caregiving, as much as I loved my mom, was very difficult and exhausting for me.Her days were filled with contemplation of dying. She would sometimes say, "I'm not ready to die yet." Then she would say, "Let me die!" I know it was a struggle for her to let go, and several times I told her it was OK -- that I would miss her greatly, but that I would be alright. I think her greatest difficulty was the idea of leaving me and those she loved, behind. And at one point she even said to me, "I thought dying would be easy -- that I would just close my eyes and drift off."
I had done alot of grieving over the past four years as I watched mom lose her vision and attempt to recover from a fall and fractured femur. Eventually I got to a point where I hoped she would have an easy death instead of having to endure total dependence and hours of lying in bed.
Old age is lonely. Visitors stop coming. Friends move on with their lives. There just isn't much room in busy schedules to visit a friend approaching the end of life. Mom didn't only need me; she needed to know others still cared about her too.
Her death was a release for both of us. I had been living in constant fear that she would have a stroke or fall and hit her head and wind up lingering in a vegetative state. I worried if this happened I wouldn't be able to care for her.
So many have sent cards and written emails of condolence for which I am deeply grateful. I have my moments of heartache which I take the time to acknowledge, but then I move forward. Life awaits.
