On Grace...

Monday, April 7th, starts the fourth week of Mom’s hospice care. People keep asking me, “How’s Margo doing?” I don’t know what people are hoping to hear. She’s dying. Every day she fades a little more.

She hasn’t eaten anything in the past five days. Yesterday, I got her to drink a little water from a straw, but it was not easy for her. Today, we started filling up a straw to drop a little water in her mouth when she’s awake.

We had a hospital bed delivered for her last Monday. For the past six months, she had been sitting in and sleeping in a very comfy recliner. When the bed arrived, we moved Mom’s chair out to the living room.

The first couple of days we transferred Mom out of bed into her chair. Those few days were so special, but as the week progressed, she lost all strength to help us move her out of bed.

I don’t think my family sees this time with Mom the way I do. It seems like everyone is trying to protect her from being exposed to germs or change or I don’t know what.

Her body is failing, and there’s nothing we can do about it. Her spirit will be moving on in the next few weeks. Between now and then, all we can do is provide her mind and body with comfort.

In this moment, I keep wishing I was strong and able-bodied because I would pick her up and carry her to the places she loved. The truth is, none of us are strong enough to pick her up and move her without harm befalling someone.

I know she would still love to experience all the things that brought her joy and comfort a few short weeks ago. I hate not being strong enough to take control of her care. If I could, I would kidnap her for one last adventure.

Mom’s battle with cancer started in 2007 while I was pursuing my Ph.D. at Duke. Dad called with the bad news on a Thursday. I remember because I would go meditate in the campus gardens before my Pauline Anthropology seminar.

He dropped a double whammy on me: “Mom has cancer. And we had to put Phatts, the family basset hound, to sleep.” Then I had to go sit around a table with six awkward scholars trying not to cry for two and a half hours.

As it turned out, Mom’s first cancer scare wasn’t all that scary. They found a tumor growing in her womb. They described it as a kind of free-floating cyst that was not actually a part of Mom, just inside her.

The surgery was simple, and the subsequent chemo was a quick mop-up job to make sure they got it all. The whole discovery and treatment process was over in less than a year.

For the next 14 years, as far as we knew, Mom was cancer-free.

In 2020, while on vacation in San Diego, she went to the emergency room because of some severe pain in her downstairs. They discovered several tumors that were growing in and around her bladder and colon.

Mom got connected with a world-renowned cancer doc who attacked the cancer in a way we have not seen anywhere else. Good friends provided a beautiful place for them to stay on Coronado Island.

Mom and Dad spent four months having an amazing adventure together while getting Mom the care she needed. I love hearing Dad talk about that time in their lives. He glows recalling the trials and tribulations of battling cancer and L.A. traffic that brought them closer together.

Not being with them was awful, but looking at it now I just see more grace. The treatment and posh digs provided a treasured experience for Mom and Dad. They went to war together against the cancer, and came home as victors.

When they got back, I made it a point to spend as much time as I possibly could with Mom.

I got her connected with my trainer, Uzor, and we started working out together. She quickly became a beloved member of the community. After the gym, we’d go to ChopShop for acai bowls and avocado toast. She always picked up the check—it was the best.

About six months after they returned from California, we discovered the cancer was back. It had reasserted itself in her bladder, colon, and her pelvic bones.

This time they were going to do surgery to remove the tumors. Mom’s red line was colostomy bags. She told her doctors that she would rather die than have to live managing her waste in bags outside of her body.

Going in, the team understood the stakes of this surgery. They worked slowly and meticulously to remove the bad tissue while keeping as much of Mom’s plumbing in place as possible. She came out of the surgery with a lot less cancer, enough colon to poo, and all of her bladder.

Those people loved Mom, and they celebrated with us when she came out of that surgery more intact than they’d thought possible.

It was a little more grace that gave us more time with Mom. They couldn’t get all of the cancer with the surgery. To try to kill the cancer yet again, Mom agreed to every treatment they threw at her.

I hate that Mom is dying. I’m going to miss her so much. But I am so thankful to be able to be here with her while she outgrows her mortal coil.

We lost a dear friend suddenly this past summer. Mom and I attended the service together. It was so hard to sit there with her not knowing how much time we had left together.

Up till then, Mom didn’t want to talk about dying. I think she was afraid that if she acknowledged the possibility of death, it would undermine her hope for healing—like God would only do a miracle for her if she kept her mind set on staying alive.

After the funeral, we had several opportunities to talk about the way it made us feel. She didn’t want to die, and she didn’t want to spend any time thinking about dying.

I told her how I thought dying fast is a kind of gift to the person who died. If you die suddenly, you are spared the mental anguish of looking death square in the eye and embracing the end of your life.

On the flip side of dying fast is everyone who is left behind. They are suddenly saddled with the full weight and shock of losing the most important person in their lives.

As I sat in Anna’s funeral, all I could think about was how sad her family must be. No one wants to lose their mom, but I’m sure they would have traded anything for some extra time with her.

So while I am heartbroken to be losing Mom, I am so glad that we have this time with her to say goodbye.

Every morning this week, I got to hold her hand and cry until there were no more tears. Spending this time sitting with her has changed the way I see and feel about myself.

I’ve always had a voice in my head that was quick to say “I hate myself.” Maybe a hundred times a day, I’d remember something dumb I’d done so I’d have a reason to say it: “I hate myself.”

Then the other morning, while holding her hand, I was shocked to discover the voice was gone. It had been replaced by her voice and the gift of her point of view. The unconditional love she has for me had passed to me. I was shocked to realize I didn’t hate myself anymore.

I have been trying to mind-fuck myself into believing and feeling a sense of self-love for a very long time.

The results have been mixed, but I’ve been committed to the project. Realizing I have actually arrived at a sense of self-acceptance and love, seems miraculous, but I’ll chalk it up to grace.

Even the hardest moments from this past week have been candy-coated in grace. I lost my shit on Wednesday. There was some tension with my sisters, and my knee-jerk response was rage.

Thankfully, I didn’t yell at anyone. I just went home, and my phone started ringing. I got several calls from good friends who just let me vent all this anger I didn’t know was there.

I was able to be in my own space and get it all out to people who would not be impacted by all my rage.

It was a break from the house that I didn’t even know I needed. I finally took some time to call State Farm about my car accident. I’ve had a hard time getting stuff done for the past few weeks.

I talked to the person handling my claim, who told me they were cutting me a check for a little over $40K to cover the cost of my wheelchair and lift.

It was such a relief to get the good news. I didn’t realize how much worry-weight I’d been carrying around.

It was such a blessing to see how relieved Dad was when he heard the good news. But the best part was the reaction I got from Mom. She lit up with joy and, true to form, said, “Oh Ry, praise God!”

This past week I’ve needed people more than ever, and people have shown up at the exact right time. This is one of the hardest, saddest things I’ve ever been through. In the midst of all this sadness and grief, I feel a sense of hope and peace and love.

I feel blessed with this opportunity to be with Mom—holding her hand, talking to her, and providing her failing body with comfort.

Comfort is all anyone wants to provide and receive at a time of great loss. Comfort comes in many forms, but it all boils down to the same need—to feel like things are going to be okay. As I sit here reflecting on all the lucky breaks we’ve had over the past few years, I chalk it up to grace and feel comforted knowing things have been okay so far.