This Valentine's I am remembering Megan and the incredible love she had for her daughter.
When I first met Megan I was extremely skeptical about her ability to care for her newly born daughter Lilly. Megan, 17 and Todd, her boyfriend, also 17 had just brought Lily home from the hospital for the first time. They had no home or apartment of their own, so they were "crashing" with friends. I entered the small apartment just hours after they had been discharged. Four other people were already living in the apartment, which was scantly furnished, yet cluttered and untidy.
My primary interest was in 4 week old Lily, so I squatted down on the floor to meet Lily, as they had no baby furniture/equipment to put her in. She was bundled in blankets on the floor, with an oxygen tube taped to her cheek. Lily had several issues; besides being born with a congenital brain malformation, causing certain parts of her brain not to form, she also was born with a cleft lip and palate. The combination of the brain malformations and the cleft left her with basically a large whole for a mouth and nose and lopsided eyes which she could not see out of. All her nutrition was through a feeding tube. Medically she had severe seizures on a sometimes daily basis, and didn't enjoy being touched and would scream out when being held.
The reason I was seeing Lily was that she had been given a prognosis of only weeks to live, and I distinctly remember thinking that I hoped, for Megan and Todd's sake this was true. They were just too overwhelmed. I left that first night thinking a lot about Megan and Todd, both high school drop outs who had enjoyed playing video games during the day and partying at night. They had unexpectedly become pregnant and decided to do the "right" thing and keep the baby. Now they were being expected to do something super human, and care for a dying child who had a distorted face and didn't like to be cuddled or touched.
Todd didn't handle it long, and left after about a month at home. Lily, surprisingly thrived in Megan's care. At my monthly visits, I watched Megan work like a pro, getting the tube feeds ready, administering seizure medications, etc. Even when she'd been up all night due to Lily's seizures, she spoke to Lily as only a mother could; gently, lovingly, and sweet. The two of them had moved from one friends apartment to another. Although different locations their "home" always looked about the same - always other teenagers at my visits, hanging out playing video games, always evidence of fast food meals, cigarettes and alcohol. But also just as consistent was Megan paying attention to Lily, asking about milestones and telling about little victories in Lily's head strength and cognition. I could tell when Megan looked at Lily she only saw beauty and possibility.
Lily lived just past her 1st birthday.... Her death was tragic, not because she suffered or had pain as she died, but because over the course of the year, Megan had fallen head over heals in love with Lily. The immature teenager I first met had been transformed by love to become a wise responsible woman. Megan embodied the kind of love that "always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres."
Showing posts with label Mothers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mothers. Show all posts
Monday, February 14, 2011
Saturday, May 8, 2010
A story for Mother's Day
The bond between mothers and kids can be strong, but this Mother's Day I'm thinking of a particular bond I witnessed that was excessive.
The patient was nearing 100, and her only son accompanied her to our inpatient facility. I've come to expect tears and displays of emotion in my line of work, so wasn't at first concerned with the overt tears that were constantly adorning the son's face.
But then I began to hear their story. Nearing 70 himself, the son had spent only 2 days apart from his mother in his entire life. They had never vacationed or taken trips, they just stayed, all those years, in the house... together. Well, except for the time in his 30's that he became so depressed with the thought that his mother could die, that he had to spend some time in a hospital on medication.
He'd say things like, "The sound of her breath is what gets me up in the morning, and what lulls me to sleep at night." He was constantly by her bed, holding her hand- even as he and she slept.
I've heard people say before, "I don't know how I'll live when xxx dies". But in this case, I believed it. I'm not sure what else this man had in his life besides his mother? Over the years he'd become enmeshed, and as she lay dying, he seemed to be dying as well.
So this mother's day, be reminded that there may be such a thing as too much....
The patient was nearing 100, and her only son accompanied her to our inpatient facility. I've come to expect tears and displays of emotion in my line of work, so wasn't at first concerned with the overt tears that were constantly adorning the son's face.
But then I began to hear their story. Nearing 70 himself, the son had spent only 2 days apart from his mother in his entire life. They had never vacationed or taken trips, they just stayed, all those years, in the house... together. Well, except for the time in his 30's that he became so depressed with the thought that his mother could die, that he had to spend some time in a hospital on medication.
He'd say things like, "The sound of her breath is what gets me up in the morning, and what lulls me to sleep at night." He was constantly by her bed, holding her hand- even as he and she slept.
I've heard people say before, "I don't know how I'll live when xxx dies". But in this case, I believed it. I'm not sure what else this man had in his life besides his mother? Over the years he'd become enmeshed, and as she lay dying, he seemed to be dying as well.
So this mother's day, be reminded that there may be such a thing as too much....
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Finger Nails
You really can't take the mom out of anyone. I saw an example of this very clearly this week. We have a woman in her 30's here with cervical cancer. It's been one of the tougher things for me to come in each day and visit with her about her cancer and about her girls. Ellie is 7 and Zoey is 2. There are pictures plastered all over the walls here at the "house". Sometimes in the afternoons, I hear the girls running around in the halls, being admonished by grandparents to keep quiet.
Kindra, my patient, has really been in and out of it, asleep most of the time. Part of this is to escape the hard reality of dying so young. She talked to me earlier this week in one of her more awake times about the girls. "Zoey isn't going to miss me, I mean she'll miss me in the way people miss the idea of things, the idea of a mother, but not really me. It's Ellie I really worry about. I know she'll miss me so much. I worry their dad will take his grief out on them, won't be patient with them." I thought, as I was scrunched on the corner of her bed listening, how unthinkably hard this must be. What must be harder... knowing your child won't remember you or knowing your child will?
After that talk she spent the next several days in a deep sleep, enough to make everyone concerned that she was getting close to dying. That is until today. Suddenly out of a deep coma she arose, sat up and wanted to spend time with her girls. She got up to a wheelchair and was pushed around for a few minutes. And then, like only a mother could do, she wanted to clip her girls fingernails.
There in her wheel chair, pale with dark circles around her eyes she sat, almost skin and bones. Each girl one at a time climbed into her lap so mom could clip those nails and get them clean. Such a little thing, but spoke volumes.
She went back to sleep later, maybe not to awake again. But for a time, she mustered up her strength to take care of unfinished business. Isn't it those little things moms do each day that make them moms? There's not a more symbolic gesture as that...
Kindra, my patient, has really been in and out of it, asleep most of the time. Part of this is to escape the hard reality of dying so young. She talked to me earlier this week in one of her more awake times about the girls. "Zoey isn't going to miss me, I mean she'll miss me in the way people miss the idea of things, the idea of a mother, but not really me. It's Ellie I really worry about. I know she'll miss me so much. I worry their dad will take his grief out on them, won't be patient with them." I thought, as I was scrunched on the corner of her bed listening, how unthinkably hard this must be. What must be harder... knowing your child won't remember you or knowing your child will?
After that talk she spent the next several days in a deep sleep, enough to make everyone concerned that she was getting close to dying. That is until today. Suddenly out of a deep coma she arose, sat up and wanted to spend time with her girls. She got up to a wheelchair and was pushed around for a few minutes. And then, like only a mother could do, she wanted to clip her girls fingernails.
There in her wheel chair, pale with dark circles around her eyes she sat, almost skin and bones. Each girl one at a time climbed into her lap so mom could clip those nails and get them clean. Such a little thing, but spoke volumes.
She went back to sleep later, maybe not to awake again. But for a time, she mustered up her strength to take care of unfinished business. Isn't it those little things moms do each day that make them moms? There's not a more symbolic gesture as that...
Friday, August 15, 2008
Bathing
I'm constantly in awe of the little things hospice does to help families cope.
Madame Olga was a true diva. A life long voice teacher, her two daughters' sole purpose in life was to cater to their mother's ego. Madame Olga was well known and spent her life dedicated to her craft. She was still giving voice lessons at 97, a week before her stroke. It was obvious to the family that any physical impairment, let alone loosing the ability to sing, would be impossible to live with. She came to the "house" to spend her final days. Although mostly unresponsive, completely unable to communicate, every time the daughters would play their mother's music, her eyes would open and a tear would fall.
After she passed away, the nurse did what she always does; offered the daughters a chance to help the nurse bathe the body. Hesitatingly, both daughters consented.
The experience was life changing. They both later told how that symbolic act of cleaning their mother's body, helped both of them let go. The eldest, Gertrude, though in her late 60's had spent her whole life taking care of her mother, to the neglect of her own life. As she bathed the lifeless body before her, she wept and verbally forgave her mother. The bathing ritual was a way to cleanse her own soul of the harbored resentment at the larger-than-life mother who was never good at being "mom". As both daughters cleaned her wrinkled strong hands, and washed her crooked feet, they were also able to reminisce and say a final good bye.
Cleaning, bathing and preparing a body after death has been a part of cultures for ages. It is only in our modern death denying culture that we've delegated the task to others. It's refreshing for me to hear that hospice at least offers the option. For some, like the daughters I met, it was one of the most meaningful experiences of their lives.
Madame Olga was a true diva. A life long voice teacher, her two daughters' sole purpose in life was to cater to their mother's ego. Madame Olga was well known and spent her life dedicated to her craft. She was still giving voice lessons at 97, a week before her stroke. It was obvious to the family that any physical impairment, let alone loosing the ability to sing, would be impossible to live with. She came to the "house" to spend her final days. Although mostly unresponsive, completely unable to communicate, every time the daughters would play their mother's music, her eyes would open and a tear would fall.
After she passed away, the nurse did what she always does; offered the daughters a chance to help the nurse bathe the body. Hesitatingly, both daughters consented.
The experience was life changing. They both later told how that symbolic act of cleaning their mother's body, helped both of them let go. The eldest, Gertrude, though in her late 60's had spent her whole life taking care of her mother, to the neglect of her own life. As she bathed the lifeless body before her, she wept and verbally forgave her mother. The bathing ritual was a way to cleanse her own soul of the harbored resentment at the larger-than-life mother who was never good at being "mom". As both daughters cleaned her wrinkled strong hands, and washed her crooked feet, they were also able to reminisce and say a final good bye.
Cleaning, bathing and preparing a body after death has been a part of cultures for ages. It is only in our modern death denying culture that we've delegated the task to others. It's refreshing for me to hear that hospice at least offers the option. For some, like the daughters I met, it was one of the most meaningful experiences of their lives.
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