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.