Finding Mom (01-21-08)

Some may have wondered where I, and this column, have been these last few weeks. In my last Principal’s Perspective, while recounting “My Favorite Year,” I announced that my mother had been hospitalized with pneumonia. I predicted a “full recovery.”

It appears that I may have spoken (or written) too soon. My mother’s health continued to worsen and I was called to Kansas City to be with my family while she underwent a possibly dangerous procedure to “see what was going on”.

What was going on was terminal lung cancer. After a brief trip back to Hill City, I was called back to Kansas City as my mother was sent home to her apartment. Hospice was contacted and arrangements were made for mom to die with dignity in the comfort of her own home.

So I missed a couple of deadlines. At times, I considered myself to be “on assignment,” like some great journalist sent to report back from the end of life. In reality, though, I was just a son and a brother going to be with his mother and sisters as we all came to grips with the situation.

Mom died this morning, Sunday, January 20, 2008. She passed away eight days after being diagnosed with cancer and a little over a month from the time she first went to the hospital. She had lapsed into a coma, so she went in her sleep, surrounded by those who loved her and completely at peace.

Death is often equated with a loss. Doctors will say, “I’m sorry, we lost the patient.” Concerned friends will say, “I’m sorry to hear of your loss.” It occurred to me, however, that in this case, I did not lose my mom. To the contrary, I may have just really found her.

During both trips back to Kansas City, at the hospital and in her apartment, I visited with mom more than I had in years. She told stories about her childhood and about her parents and grandparents, going over the family tree. She recalled memorable moments from our family, about my sisters and father and myself. I had heard many of the stories before, but many of her stories were new, or at least a reminder of stories I had forgotten.

She faced her imminent demise with courage and with an incredible sense of humor. I always knew that my mother was one funny lady, but in these last weeks I rediscovered my mother as a natural storyteller and entertainer. To the very end, she kept things light, entertaining us, as well as treating the nurses and hospice workers with comedic stories and anecdotes that made us all forget (or at least distracted us from) the seriousness of her condition.

For example, when my mother learned that she had perhaps only days left to live, she announced that she wanted to get her taxes filed before she left. Of the two certainties in life, death and taxes, my mother wanted taxes to come first.

And then there was the toilet paper story. I have an aunt who is an Amway salesperson, and every Christmas she sends my mother a case of Amway toilet paper. Because she was in the hospital over Christmas, the aunt waited until mom returned home to bring her the toilet paper.

“Who, in their right mind, brings a dying woman a case of toilet paper!” my mom would joke. This bizarre gift really seemed to energize Mom, and she worked the phones, calling everyone she knew to tell them about her “lifetime supply.”

I will never forget the last time she told the story – to the hospice caseworker. This lady, a virtual stranger, was pulled into mom’s epic recounting, and soon they were chatting like old friends. She told mom that she had long considered writing a book about the humorous and uplifting side of hospice. After listening and laughing with mom, she now felt she had all the material she needed to write her book. Mom was thrilled to have been able to help. She even offered some toilet paper to the caseworker, telling her, “I think I can spare a roll or two.”

And that was my mom, cracking wise until the end. I have no doubt that she is up in heaven right now entertaining the angels and that the heavenly hosts are all gathered around enjoying her stories and wonderful sense of humor.

Now I feel that I found (or at least rediscovered) a person I had known my entire life. While Mom may be gone, she is not lost. I know exactly where she is, and I look forward to someday hearing her stories and anecdotes once again.

That is, of course, if I make the list. I’m not worried. Mom promised to put in a good word on my behalf.