Mother Most Often Knows Best

By Steven Mattingly

Our community hosted an event this week titled “Don’t Be Afraid of the H Word; Hospice 101”.  An element that made the event very personal was a touching video tribute put together by Annemarie Lorenzini and her sister in honor of their late grandmother.  Annemarie has for the past couple of weeks asked me to review the tribute because she felt it had a message that was important to the subject of the program that night.  I repeatedly avoided doing so which frustrated my co-worker.  It’s time for me to come clean to Annemarie and myself as to why I put off watching her tribute for so long.

It’s been over twenty years since my father died and over five since my mother died.  My father was diagnosed with lung cancer fifteen years after successfully beating cancer of the larynx.  He and my mother were told that he had between eighteen months to two years to live as the cancer was not treatable.  My father died in less than three months.  At that time I lived more than a 10 hour drive from my family home.  My wise mother kept me informed of my father’s rapid decline but she also knew me much better than I thought.  In the southern community where I grew up there is a long standing custom of the gathering of the family whenever there is an imminent death.  I recall when each of my grandparents died there were between thirty and forty people present at the hospital waiting for death.  My mother remembered how much I struggled as a small child and even as a teenager with this custom.  She did not allow my older sister to call me until she knew that I could not get there in time due to the travel time needed.  Once I got the call, I immediately headed to the airport to get a flight to the airport nearest to my family’s home.  When I arrived, my younger sister and her husband met me and I knew by the look on their faces my father had died while I was in transit.  It was a somber and mostly silent ninety minute drive to what was now my mother’s home.

My mother was unable or perhaps once again was a wise woman as she allowed her four children to make the funeral arrangements.  We were somewhat surprised that knowing the cancer was fatal that my parents had not made any plans.  While we have often been discordant as adults we were able to discuss the things that we felt would be important to honor my father’s wishes as well as provide the quiet dignity that we knew would be comforting to my mother.  Simple little details became extremely important all of a sudden.  The casket had to be a certain kind, the flowers had to look a certain way, and we all knew that my father would be buried with his favorite putter.  All of this was accomplished without a raised voice or even a harsh word between the four of us.  While each of us had a very different relationship with my father we realized that this was a time to put aside all the jealousy and individual anger that usually swirled around my father and put the family first.

As is often said about southern funerals, it was a lovely service.  Perhaps the most painful thing about the entire sequence of events occurred after the funeral service.   My very emotionally strong and dignified mother came back to her home, retired to what had been my parent’s bedroom and for almost an hour we listened to her cry.  We assume she then fell asleep.  After a couple of hours we heard the bedroom door open, my mother appeared and immediately asked if we had eaten and she went about putting a meal together from all the food that had been brought to the house.  She never again slept in what had been my parent’s bedroom just as she never again mentioned my father’s death.

My mother spent the next fifteen years doing all the things that she felt my father would want done such as refurbishing the interior of their home for what she labeled the last time, buying a smaller and dependable car, and after many years of unpleasantness with his family that was directed to her, became friends with most of my father’s surviving siblings.  She sewed, made great dresses for her granddaughters, cross stitched quilt tops for each of her children, and made Raggedy Ann and Andy dolls for an increasing number of great nieces and nephews, and all the while, consistently losing at cards.

In her last summer my mother undertook painting the second story deck on her home.  While painting she fell off the ladder and ended up in the hospital.  She went into sepsis shock from what we later learned was an undiagnosed bleeding ulcer and died three days after her fall. 

This time the harmony my siblings and I found when my father passed away was nowhere to be seen.  This instance it seemed even the smallest things caused tension.  We were indeed grateful to find out that my mother once again in her wisdom had left little to be done insofar as her funeral arrangements were concerned.  The casket, the flowers, the music at church, even the outfit in which she was buried was all outlined and to protect the fragile family unit we followed it without exception.  We even took the daring and controversial step to honor her request for a closed casket, something that was just not done in the small town that we all had called home. 

Over the next few months the estate was settled, the house was sold, and our family unit slowly came unglued.  From my somewhat distance outpost, the telephone calls stopped, the updating on our children’s successes and failures were not shared, and we all mourned our loss.  As the family member that everyone referred to as the cruise director I still don’t know what to do to find a connection with my siblings.  My older sister and I stay in touch sporadically (I do wish it were more often).  I haven’t heard much from my younger sister or brother other than what I see about them or their children on Facebook or what my older sister tells me.

I find some reassurance in knowing that for both of my parents their siblings drifted away when the last parent died but in each family there was a coming together again once the various cousins were out of the house and on their own.  Perhaps it is the normal ebb and flow for any child to have a certain period of adjustment to being the head of their own families.  It’s tough to find the right balance.  I hope that my siblings and I find a point in time where we once again can converge as a family and provide that support we found when my father died.

So Annemarie - I knew that your video would be a reminder of a lot of things, many of which still make me uncomfortable.  I was right.  When I saw your short family tribute I didn’t see your Nona, I instead was picturing my parents who were contemporaries of your Nona.  The grainy pictures, snazzy bathing suit poses, and other funny looking clothing were all too familiar reminders for me of similar things for my own parents.  I think that the message of grace and acknowledging a life well lived for your Nona and her loving family is absolutely the right tone to set before a discussion of hospice. Had I had the benefit of hospice for either of my parent’s death I believe I would not feel as strongly something wasn’t whole following their deaths.

Death is inevitable for everyone, it’s how we and the loved ones who surround us near or far, face it that can make turn it into a positive setting for the one who is dying and their loved ones.  Bravo for a job well done last night and thank you for not noticing or at least pretending not to notice how emotional I became. 

Contributing author Steven Mattingly is the Executive Director for Pacifica Senior Living in San Leandro.