Destination: Acceptance

Silly me. I keep thinking I have reached acceptance with my mom’s mortality, like it is a physical place I can arrive to and decide to stay. Build it a picket fence and a flourishing garden with a deep-rooted tree to symbolize its permanence.

In my head, it sounds a little like this royal decree I pronounce to myself:

“Well, you thought you had reached acceptance when she lost interest in her favorite treats, but now that she eats just a few bites per day, you officially come to terms with the truth that she doesn’t have much time left. You accept this because you don’t want her to suffer anymore.”

Isn’t that adorable. Even I don’t believe it. 

I call for a care-team meeting and sit down with three wonderful women who have gathered to discuss how my mom is doing.

“She is so happy much of the time, Shana,” one of them offers.

“I know, I love to see her dance and sort of entertain the troops like she’s on her own little USO tour,” I say. “But I’m concerned about her weight loss. By my records, she has lost nine pounds in the first three weeks of June.”

“Oh yes, I’m not surprised. She really doesn’t eat much lately,” she adds.

“Listen, this is my first rodeo and I have no idea how hospice works, but if you think she’s a candidate, I’d love to get her as much support as possible.”

I say this so stoically that it feels like a would-you-prefer-paper-or-plastic situation at the grocery store. Who am I?

“Well, we do refer to hospice when our residents start to eat a lot less and sleep a lot more, so I think it’s appropriate to have that conversation with her doctor now,” she says, validating my suspicions.

We go to the doctor the next day and Mom is her engaging self. The recent symptoms of aphasia make many of her words unintelligible or nonsensical, but her energy conveys good cheer and positive energy.

This is the blessing I encounter daily during my visits: Her life is stripped of home, her dog, her independence, much of her dignity… and yet she is quick to laugh, eager to dance, and sings along like a little Hallmark caroler figurine lip-synching lyrics just off enough to be believable.

How can Mom be admitted into hospice while still able to entertain and be entertained?

The duality of her condition leaves me routinely sucker-punched.

I get the call from hospice. They will be coming to assess her from 3:00-3:30 the next day. What I assume is that there will be some questions and the taking of vitals and then a call back with their determination. What happens instead is that the nurse arrives and stays for two and a half hours, presenting me with a Welcome to Hospice binder and many forms to fill out.

Do I check the box that says she can be intubated? Get IV fluids? Comfort only? Would she like visits from a chaplain?

Then, there is the question that shatters like a cheap-ass-dollar-store-glass the denial that still remains: Which funeral home would you like to use?

I asked for this assessment, and yet… I am not at all prepared for their decision to be so quick and obvious.

Shortly after, we have our moment. Mom and I are snuggled up on her twin bed, looking into each other’s eyes and expressing how lucky we are to be loved by one another. And then she utters the statement that makes me hold my breath: “I want to see my parents and they want to see me.”

Mom becomes preoccupied with her parents for weeks. She also says vague things that make me feel like we are talking about her death, but I find myself tiptoeing away from acceptance yet again by saying, well, maybe she’s saying she wants to be free of all the helpers who guide her throughout the day, not free in the sense of transitioning to eternal life.

There’s a lot of talk about “going.” One day she says, “The people were trying to help me cross over.” Another time, while joyfully dancing in her chair, she proclaims, “Shana, I’m so excited to move on. To go from here to over there.” But the most jarring is when I tuck her in for a nap one day and she declares, “I think I’ll walk in the forest instead.”

Listen, this is the same girl who trained me to fear nature down to the suburban shrub, and the only place she was ever spotted walking was down the aisles of TJ Maxx. As I process the shock of her choice to make like Little Red Riding Hood, she follows up with a quick, “Do you have weapons?” No, Ma, I most certainly do not. I drive home certain that this little metaphor means she is telling me she is dying soon.

And then, of course, there are two weeks of no mention of anything other worldly. I make another declaration that will likely sound cute by the very next day: “From here forward, I will do the day in front of me and not try to read into what all of this might mean.”

Much of my struggle with trying to anticipate her end of life comes from my deep desire to be by her side telling her, one last time, that she is the best mother, wife, sister, daughter, grandmother and friend a person could ever hope for as she moves into the afterlife. It is a “place” I haven’t exactly believed in until now when I need to, making me one of those dreaded bandwagoner “fans” who hop on the hype when the local team makes the finals.

I hope it is a destination like I want acceptance to be… where we can meet amid the lush gardens in the shade of the deeply-rooted trees.

(This essay was a finalist in the San Francisco Writer’s Conference contest in 2022)