"Last words," the final words spoken before death, carry mysterious import because they appear to bridge this life and the next, and because they leave us with a final portrait of the person. The final words of Leonardo da Vinci (who died in 1519) are reputed to have been: "I have offended God and mankind because my work did not reach the quality it should have." The author Oscar Wilde, who died in 1900, left on a characteristically lighter note: "Either that wallpaper goes, or I do."
I’m going to talk here about my mother’s last words; more specifically, her last words to me. I wasn’t present the day she died, in March 2000, of a horribly aggressive variant of renal cell carcinoma. This ugly cancer had metastasized from her kidneys to her skull base and, finally, her lungs, killing her in a matter of months. We only got the official diagnosis 6 days before she died. She was 55.
I was 1000 miles away, living in Vermont, on the Tuesday morning my mother died. The fact that it took 5 years to forgive myself for not having been there (if indeed I have truly forgiven myself) is a testament both to the closeness of our relationship and the depth of my guilt. But that’s probably a matter for another diary.
In the days before her death, my mom was given stronger drugs (surely morphine) for the omnipresent pain. It became harder to communicate with her in those days, as her speech was very slurred. Two days before her death, I spoke to my mom for the last time. We had a brief phone conversation after I’d gotten an update from my dad. Mom was incredibly weak and hard to understand, and I don’t remember much of what I said, except that I loved her and that I was really sorry that this was happening.
I’ll never forget her response. It was absolutely, unmistakably clear.
"This isn’t happening."
I can’t remember how I responded, and I’ve dwelled on those words countless times in the eight years since. "This isn’t happening." What did my mom mean?
Mom never talked about dying, not with me or my brother. She’d been afraid of death her entire life. So my first reading of "this isn’t happening" is that my mom was simply unable, unwilling (or both) to discuss the idea of her death with me. She spent a lifetime trying to protect me, for better or worse. She knew what her death would mean to all of us: pain. Emotional devastation. She didn’t want to go there.
Another interpretation of her words was that she literally denied the fact that she was dying: "This isn’t happening." But this is an interpretation I simply don’t buy. My mom may have been afraid of death on some level, may have been afraid for us to face her death, but she was a very bright woman. Nothing got by her. She had heard the doctor say, 6 days earlier, that nothing could be done anymore. She understood.
A third interpretation of mom’s words was suggested recently by my partner, who noted that "This isn’t happening" might have been a way of reassuring me (and herself) that what was happening to her – death – wasn’t happening to the REAL her. The "real" mom, including her love and spirit, would be available to us always.
With each of these interpretations, I confront anew the fact that a loved one’s death leaves us with painful questions – and oftentimes, no good answers. Four months after her death, I wrote this poem:
Questions with No Answers
Where are you now?
Why do you keep running away from me in my dreams?
Did you know what was happening?
What is it like to die?
Do you miss me?
Are you lonely?
Can you see us?
Are you at peace?
Did we do the right things?
Why didn’t you want to talk about it?
Do you know that I’m holding up okay?
Do you know how hard it is without you?
How could this have happened to a person like you?
When do we stop feeling like we’re in shock?
Why does Ian have to grow up without his Grandma?
When I was six and asked if God existed
What did you say?
In the past several years, I’ve come to terms with the fact that I will never know for sure what Mom meant when she said "This isn’t happening." I’ve also begun making peace with her decision not to speak to us about her impending death. While it would have been better for me to process these difficult issues with her, I believe that my mother made the decision that was best for her. I wanted her to know that she could rely on me, that she could have told me anything – that I was strong enough to carry her burden. I wanted to be there for her emotionally as well as physically. Ultimately, though, it was my mom’s choice. In the waning days of life, she chose authentically.
Dear readers: on this evening, I want to welcome particularly those who are asking themselves questions with no answers, or who are struggling with the feeling that "this isn’t happening."
A special welcome to anyone who is new to The Grieving Room. We meet every Monday evening. Whether your loss is recent or many years ago, whether you have lost a person or a pet, or even if the person you are "mourning" is still alive ("pre-grief" can be a very lonely and confusing time) you can come to this diary and process your grieving in whatever way works for you. Share whatever you need to share. We can't solve each other's problems, but we can be a sounding board and a place of connection.