OTHER WRITING

Letting Go

I kept a firm grip on my eight-ounce cup of freshly brewed Starbucks while whispering a barely audible “Thank you” as I paid the cashier presiding over the mélange of doctors, nurses, and visitors in the hospital cafeteria.

I made my way slowly to the elevator, trying to think of some distraction to delay my ascent from the street level to the sixth floor; I made a detour to the ladies’ room. I was terrified. The prospect of helping my sister and brother decide how long we would sustain my mother’s life overwhelmed me. I felt helpless, angry, and confused. I kept wondering if we should do absolutely everything to keep her with us for as long as possible. I worried that she and I had more to say to each other and more to share. Most terrifying was that she would leave too soon, and I would not be ready to manage my own life.

Unfortunately, it took no time at all to reach the lobby, which was adjacent to the intensive care unit where Mom’s labored breathing kept her confined. My brother Charlie had flown to Los Angeles from his home in New Hampshire. My efficient sister, Kathryn, lived close by. She had time to complete her daily routine of yoga stretches, a brisk walk, and steel-cut oatmeal with organic strawberries before arriving at the hospital.

My physical fitness regimen varied daily, and rather than adhering to any particular schedule, I took the next available Pilates class or walked the hills in my neighborhood if I remembered to do so before my son needed my attention, or it was time to get the next meal on the table. I admired my sister’s self-discipline, but as she resembled my mother in this regard, I sometimes bristled at what I perceived as rigidity. This morning I was too anxious to eat breakfast or organize myself for an aerobic workout before driving to the hospital.

Charlie, Kathryn, and I sat on the black leather and chrome chairs that were arranged under the large picture window framing a view of the world outside: young mothers pushing baby strollers, people gathered for lunch at any number of cafés in the surrounding neighborhood, and cars waiting in line to park at the Beverly Center shopping mall across the street.

I could see palm trees and the hills of Trousdale Estates, north of Doheny Drive, where I had grown up. Healthy people moved through their day while the sick and their relatives struggled to make sense of a different reality. Our family doctor, Phil Levine, joined us, and my siblings were both remarkably composed as they asked pertinent questions.

I rambled to myself. My questions were not about Mom’s medical care. “Why was she able to leave her mother in St. Louis and come to Los Angeles with my father? How was she so successful? What was the source of our connection to each other? Was I too dependent on her? Did she help me too much? Did I want to be more like her?”

She might never be the source of answers to these recurring questions, but perhaps I would. Mom’s dementia had left her speechless. It had been over a year since I heard her voice. Back in July she called me at home in San Francisco to ask, “How is Nico? Are you still dating Robert? Where are you teaching? Do you have enough money?”

My brother reiterated that Mom would not want to be kept alive in a vegetative state.

“It would be great if she can come home,” he said, “but only if she has some chance for a normal life.”

His tall, lean frame and deep, steady voice reminded me of my father. Like Dad, Charlie was a physician and he had inherited his ability to be both reassuring and realistic when faced with medical uncertainties.

For me, the problem was that my mother’s life would never again be normal. The dementia would progress and she would eventually die, no matter what kind of care she received.

My sister-in-law Cathy held my hand as I struggled to focus on the medical questions now before us. She knew how much I depended on Mom. Unlike me, she had periodically been estranged from her parents. Perhaps as a result, she adored her in-laws, and as surrogate parents, they helped her transition into the demanding and sometimes lonely role of a doctor’s wife. Cathy preferred to live in a small New England city, but my father was dismayed when she and my brother moved from Los Angeles to Nashua. Mom, however, supported their desire to establish some autonomy from my parents’ professional and personal lives.

Charlie had joined a nephrology practice not far from my father’s office soon after he and Cathy were married. Dad was thrilled: not only had his son become a doctor, but as my father reluctantly anticipated his retirement, he looked forward to feeling useful and stimulated as Charlie sought his advice, thus appreciating the wisdom my father had accumulated from so many years as a highly regarded physician.

Dad did not want to lose my brother’s companionship, and seemed to forget that he had encouraged my mother to leave her parents in St. Louis soon after they got married. My father did not want to compete with his in-laws for Mom’s attention, and he needed my mother to fill the void left by the premature death of his own mother.

Mom encouraged her son and his family to leave California without recalling the guilt she felt as she left her mother, who was depressed and had always relied on her oldest daughter.

Mom was unsentimental. Her reluctance to look back, or to deeply analyze her choices, could appear superficial or simplistic, but it was very appealing to friends and family, who regularly consulted her when facing difficult decisions. Mom was able to prioritize her own needs, which not only enabled her to achieve her goals but also, more importantly, staved off guilt and remorse. It was easier for her to be hopeful and optimistic because she had become adept at focusing on the present and moving forward.

Over the years, she reassured me before my college exams, reminded me not to settle for any man who did not absolutely adore me, and inspired me to be a single mother equally committed to my son and my personal development.

She reminded Cathy, her daughter-in-law, to keep her life balanced as she raised her four children and supported my brother’s growing medical practice.

Mom always felt her mother would have been much happier if she had been able to develop a career. My grandfather, she explained, did not want his wife to work.

“They had two small children, and men in his station of life—particularly in the thirties—didn’t encourage their wives to work.”

When it came time for my mother to start her own family, she knew that she was only temporarily putting aside her dream of becoming a successful writer. She did not want to rely on parenting as her only source of fulfillment, to make sure she would not become agitated and depressed like her mother.

As Cathy and I sat waiting to discuss the options for Mom’s care, we clasped hands tightly, as if our firm grasp would keep my mother close for as long as possible. She was our advocate and lovingly challenged us to take care of ourselves even as our children and partners clamored for our attention. How would we sustain ourselves without her?

Those assembled had to decide what would happen if Mom’s lungs were not strong enough to function without artificial assistance. Would we reintubate her? How many times? If her lungs became stronger and she could breathe on her own, would we consider inserting a feeding tube? My brother clarified the medical terminology as my sister leaned forward in her chair and listened intently. I was engulfed by anxiety and started crying. Cathy squeezed my hand.

Even though I was older than my siblings, I perpetually felt that I was trying to catch up to them. In my mind they were successful, independent, and perfectly married. I was single, with one child, and in many ways Mom was my partner. As we contemplated the medical options, all I thought about was how would I manage my fears and disappointments without her there to comfort me. From a very early age, I had depended on her to handle my anxieties, and I had a hard time imagining how I could proceed without her.

THE END