The Story That Was Hard to Tell

I need to tell the story that has in many ways defined the past year of my life. My story. It nags at me. The minute my mind slows down, it runs through my head like annoying song lyrics. I’ve avoided telling it because thinking about it too much hurts like a fist in my stomach. But this is a story I need to write if I want to get to the next chapter of my life, and today the time is right. I’m sitting on a wooden swing next to Lake Superior with no distractions or responsibilities. The sound of the water is soothing, and the sun is warm but not hot. I’m ready for a new tune.

It was on April 22, 2011, Good Friday, that I had my last conversation with my mom. She was in the hospital after having emergency surgery on an infection in her foot a week before. It had been a long road for her with more than a month of foot pain and no diagnosis. The doctors said she’d recover, even though whether she’d be able to keep her foot was up in the air, and, of course, she’d needed surgery to correct the malfunctioning heart valve.

That Good Friday she wasn’t herself, and I didn’t like it. There was an emotional disconnect that I can’t explain—like she didn’t know what it meant that I was her daughter, that all the confidences and laughter we’d shared and arguments we’d had were hidden away in a part of her mind she couldn’t access any more. We were acquaintances, she and I. My little nephew asked me to take her a stuffed bunny for him, and she talked to it like a child would. When I told her it was from Kaleb, she didn’t seem to care.

Then she told me she had conspired with my grandma to make sure Kev and I had Easter baskets, and she and my grandma had compiled a grocery list so there would be food in the house for our weekend visit, including pulp free orange juice—the only kind I drink. They’d talked about what we would have for Easter dinner. What a curious thing the human brain is.

I helped her eat her supper; she couldn’t really remember how to hold her spoon. I wanted it to be over, this Good Friday visit. I wanted to go away and come back the next day, when she’d be better. She could only get better. She was dozing off when we left; I don’t think I said “I love you.” I was too selfish. It was all about how I felt, not about how she felt, and this now makes me ashamed. I was naïve to think there would be a tomorrow, but I’m not that naïve anymore. We’re not guaranteed unlimited amounts of time. Love covers over a multitude of wrongs.

After church that night, my dad, grandma, Kev, and I went to the grocery store to get the things on the list my mom and grandma had made. When we saw the hot cross buns, we picked some up to take to my mom the next day, as she looked forward to them every year.  Surely the doctor wouldn’t mind if she had one. The uneasy feeling in my stomach kept me up that night.

The next morning, Kev and I went to the hospital. My dad had talked to my mom on the phone, and she was having a bath. She hadn’t slept well but the bath was helping her feel better.  We got off the elevator and saw my aunt sitting in the lobby. She’d walked it on my mom gasping for breath, unable to find her call button. When the nurses asked my mom her name, she couldn’t say. They’d taken her to the ICU and sedated her so they could insert a breathing tube. They used words like “blood clot,” but nobody really knew. It would be days before “mini strokes” and “kidney failure” became a diagnosis. The nurse who’d cared for her that morning was shocked. “Only minutes before, she was telling me all about her granddaughter,” the nurse said. It doesn’t surprise me that my mom’s last conversation on this earth would involve her grandchildren. I think part of the reason she hung on so long was because of them, but who can really say.

Phone calls were made. My brother got in his car and drove, and my sister and nephew booked a flight for the next day. They ended up staying for a month, going home for my nephew’s kindergarten graduation, and then coming back again for another month. In the weeks ahead, I drove back and forth from Minnesota to Illinois on the weekends, but my sister was there every day through the whole thing. She has her own story to tell.

Easter Sunday I cried through “I Know That My Redeemer Lives.” That afternoon at the hospital we urged my mom to wake up. We watched every movement, looking for signs of recognition, pleading with her to give us some clue that she was in there.  The nurses told us to give it time, but they knew she should have been come out of sedation by then. For the first time in my recent memory, I saw my dad cry. We prayed she would recover—hundreds of people prayed with us. “Family of believers” took on new meaning for us. A lot of people loved my mom.

But she never really woke up. She would open her eyes but couldn’t focus on anything. The breathing tube scared her. The infectious disease doctor monitored the blood cultures; the cardiologist told us she was too weak for surgery remove the infectious growth from her heart valve; the nephrologist said her kidneys were taking a beating; the neurologist said the infection broke off from her heart valve and caused mini strokes all over her brain. When they decided to take out the breathing tube, no one knew if she could breathe on her own. We said good-bye and committed her to Jesus, but God gave us more time. She will die of kidney failure on a few days, the doctors told us.

We started planning a funeral; my dad didn’t want to wait until the last minute. He knew just who he would call—the funeral director he’d worked with many times as a pastor, a kind and compassionate man who’d lost his own 18-year-old son and believed with his whole heart in the resurrection. My sister and I picked out funeral clothes for my mom. “I can’t believe we’re doing this,” I said. “Try not to think about it,” my sister replied. We decided on the dress she would have worn for Easter.

Hanging on to the hope that God is stronger than brain injuries and kidney failure, we continued to pray for a miracle. “If you’re going to take her, Lord,” I begged, “please just let her wake up so I can talk to her one last time.” She would have no moment of clarity on her death bed aside from mouthing three or four words of her favorite song as my dad sang to her, “Surely it is God who saves me. I will trust in him and not be afraid.”

On June 10, after being discharged from the hospital and spending a few weeks in a nursing home, my mom died. By then we were ready. By then her death was a blessing. But I still had things to say to her. I suppose I always will. I thought by now, almost a year after her death, I wouldn’t miss her so much. I’m finding it doesn’t work that way, though. I’ll always miss her—we all will.

Her funeral was beautiful. It really was. Our family grew by hundreds that day. No one is shy about hugging at funerals. We felt loved.

Maybe the hardest part of my story was the fact that I lost the mom I knew before she even died. I think the mini strokes started before she’d even been admitted to the hospital. The doctors blamed her confusion and altered personality on the antibiotics and stress her body was under, but they didn’t know her. Even in that, though, God blessed me with a special moment. There was one day when I called her in the morning, not long after her foot surgery. She was tired. I said, “Hi mom; it’s Keri.” She said, “My Keri.” For the rest of my life I will hang on to the memory of the sound of her voice when she said that. At least at that moment, my mom knew me.

I can’t talk to my mom anymore, but I love hearing my aunt and grandma tell stories about my mom’s childhood. There’s a new appreciation for one another in my family. I love the way my relationship with my dad is deepening. It used to be when I called, it was usually to talk to my mom. Now I call to talk to my dad, and it’s nice. He also has a story to tell, and I hope one day he’ll write it down. I love that my siblings and I have common memories and that there’s no danger of my mom being forgotten. My nephew Kaleb remembers his grandma, as do my stepchildren. But my niece was only three and my nephew only a baby when she died. It will be fun to share stories with them about their grandma as they get older. I love spending time with my mom’s friends when they just call to chat or invite me for tea. Maintaining some sort of connection to my mom is important to me, and God’s blessed me with ways to do that.

Grief used to be a burden. It frustrated me that I was not in control of my emotions—that I would at unexpected times cave under the weight of how much I missed my mom. I realize now that grieving is more than just a process to get through and leave behind; the loss I’ve experienced has shaped who I am in beautiful ways. Grief is necessary, but it doesn’t have to be a constant companion. If I’m sad, I need to let the sadness in for a short visit but not invite it to move in. If I feel the tears coming, I need to cry and then blow my nose and embrace the gift that each day is. It’s time to take off the mourning clothes and focus on using my gifts, cherishing my family and friends, loving others like Jesus does, and following where my Savior leads.

That’s my story. It’s not over, though. The next chapter is only just beginning.