Saying Goodbye to Elderly Parents

I silently observe my 93 year old father-in-law and his 69 year old son—my husband. They interact in a way they never have before. Roles have been reversed, as my husband tenderly and patiently helps his dad with things he can no longer do for himself. They exchange memories—my husband’s normally loud voice at an even greater volume to ensure that Dad Weaver can hear and understand. Dad seems to need reassurance that he has not failed as a father.

His hearing is gone and he trembles a great deal, but he still has a good appetite when someone else will fix his food; he has a great memory, still paints (he is an artist), and can walk up the hill to our house as well or better than I can. I look at him and wonder “how will he leave this mortal existence?—will it be slow and easy, fast and sudden, or long and painful?”

You see, death and dying are very much on my mind right now. Just a year ago this month my beloved mother-in-law passed away at age 92. She had been slipping away from us for two or three years as dementia took its toll. She gradually stopped eating and to me her death seemed slow and easy. She was in Orem so I didn’t see her as often as I would have liked to, but I’ll always remember my last visit with her. I had coaxed her to eat a little bit of food and sat by her bed. She spent most of the time sleeping, but occasionally she would open her eyes, and I would talk to her a little bit. When I got ready to leave, I kissed her gently on the forehead and told her I loved her. She smiled. As I reached the door, I turned back to look at her and found her eyes sparkling as they met mine. I threw her a kiss, and she threw one back to me. That was our goodbye.

Mom Weaver was lucky in many ways. She never felt pain, and she didn’t really worry too much. She just faded away. I guess I thought all death was that way. It isn’t. My mother had been suffering with degenerative arthritis for several years, but she seldom complained, and somehow managed to take care of herself until about a year ago. When she began letting us vacuum and do other household chores such as sweeping and moping the kitchen floor, we knew she was in a lot of pain. By this time a year ago, she was no longer able to get in my car and go for a ride or to get a sandwich for lunch. It was difficult for her to walk or get out of a chair. A walker and a recliner with a motor to lift her up were helpful, but she grimaced with pain with every movement. By Christmas time she could no longer hide the pain.

Two days after Christmas Mom developed some infection that put her in the hospital, and by the time that was healed, she could no longer move on her own at all. Being the smart woman she was and never wanting to put her children out, she suggested going to the long term care center (“Just until I get my strength back”). She knew and we knew she would never go home again.

From that time on, we watched helplessly as the pain worsened. Pain medicines no longer helped. She, who never complained and never cried, sometimes cried out in pain and the tears trickled down her face. The medicine for pain made her sleep more and understand less. However, she was always concerned about others and thanked everyone for anything they did for her.

By the first part of May, I was praying vigorously and often that she could go, but then I’d put my arms around her and say “I love you.” Her words, “I love you too” made me wonder. Was I ready to let her go? Was I ready to never hear those words again? About the middle of May Mom’s pain became unbearable and she struggled terribly not only with the pain, but with demons that accompany strong pain medicine. The doctor suggested that it was probably time to consider hospice and a morphine drip. My siblings and I were of one accord—she couldn’t endure the pain any longer.

She was moved into a private room and we began our vigil. I slept in the extra bed in her room and was with her most of the time. My siblings visited and relieved me periodically. (I am the only one who doesn’t have a job). We were instructed by the hospice nurse to watch and if it looked like the pain was getting worse, we were to push the button and give her a little more morphine. We couldn’t let the pain get its hold on her again.

I toiled with conflict as I prayed that Mother could go and yet was so reluctant to lose her. You are never too old to need your mother. On May 18th I spent the day talking to my 89 year old mother who never wanted to live to be 90—not always knowing whether she heard me—and doing little personal things for her. Later in the afternoon, I had to leave and come back to Cedar. As usual, I kissed her and said, “I love you.”

Her eyes flew open, and she mumbled, “I love you too. Everyone loves everyone?”

“Yes, Mom everyone loves everyone.” I reassured her and left the room.

At 3 a.m. the next morning (May 19th), the phone call came. “She’s going fast. I don’t think you can make it to Beaver in time.”I didn’t. I got there 15 minutes after she had passed away. It was alright. I had said my goodbyes. I just didn’t know that it was so hard to die.

Eleven years ago when my father died, I was too busy to grieve, but I found that as the months passed, I missed my father more and more, and bit by bit over a period of time I found myself going through the various stages of grief. I am reminded of that as I now find myself breaking down and crying for no reason at all or over very silly things. There’s a big hole in my heart as I find myself to be an orphan at 69 years of age—silly isn’t it?

Finding Support

My husband is a hospice social worker, so I was aware somewhat of what hospice does, but it was only when I personally needed it that I learned to appreciate and understand. It was such a relief to have the support of a hospice nurse to reassure us that we were doing the right thing. She and the social worker were there to answer questions for us and help us in any way that they could. The funny thing is that I remember once telling my husband, “I’m not sure I would want strangers around when I was losing someone I loved or if I were dying.” I’ve changed my mind. Hospice strangers quickly become hospice friends.

What is hospice?

Hospice is a special program to help the patient and the family deal with death and dying. This program provides benefits at home or in a health care setting. Hospice involves the entire family and enables the patient and family more control over end of life decisions. Hospice provides special attention to physical needs, social needs, emotional needs, and spiritual needs. When the time comes that you or a loved one faces death and dying issues, remember hospice is there to help you. Don’t be afraid to use it.

Helpful Reads

Anyone facing a terminal illness either as the patient or a loved one will find quite a bit of literature available to help them understand what is going on and the different stages of grief. I would recommend “On Death and Dying” by Elisabeth Kubler-Ross, M.D. This book deals with: Fear of Death, Attitudes toward Death and Dying, and the five stages: denial and isolation, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. It also focuses on hope and healing.