There were many things that went wrong between mom and me when she went into hospice care. She did not have a neat diagnosis like cancer, with a defined trajectory of decline.
“Failure to thrive.”
In fact, hospices don’t even like the term. Too vague. Your body says it has had enough and takes charge after years of being pushed around by pills, procedures and a cycle of hospital stays. You can’t eat, you lose weight, weaken and die.
Mom and I were oil and vinegar, and she needed a different kind of child for this part of life’s journey. Her doctors were unable to articulate what was happening and delegated “the talk” to me. So, we began with something improperly resolved and destined to take a long time. She was angry, needy and confused, especially when it became clear that the “death sentence” was not immediate.
Mom was a sensible Catholic. Unchurched, she prayed often as she pleased, no need for an intermediary. When I confessed to be a devout pagan, she asked “Why can’t you just be a Catholic and ignore the parts you don’t like? It’s what we all do.”
Indeed.
She enjoyed praying, meditating and having faith based on being kind and good to others. “I like rituals,” she commented when I showed her the sugar skulls a friend brought from Mexico. “I’ll put them on yours and dad’s graves after you’re gone.” I promised. She smiled. I rarely made her smile. Too intense, too impersonal, not sentimental.
Eventually she did need the more formal aspects of her religion. A few oblique comments were made about talking to “someone.” Then it turned into a contest for her soul.
One of those generic Christian pastors from the Cornerstone Vineyard Raptureland Mall Church in Suburbia dropped by and smelled the chance at a soul. Suddenly her room was full of a “prayer circle” that resembled a group exorcism. (Without levitation or speaking in tongues.) “Too many people in here,” she fretted.
I did my best “Jesus kicking the moneylenders out of the temple” imitation. Did anyone think to ask for a priest? There’s a church across the street… But, mom just moved here last year and was sick so fast she never made it over to Saint Moneybags on the Square. So, its THREE clergy were just too busy. A kind nurse of mom’s tribe called a family friend. He interrupted his date to stop by. “Good,” I thought. “He’s ignoring the parts he doesn’t like, either.” I appreciated the Ohio State sweatshirt, too.
So mom received last rites with compassion and warmth from a young priest she never met before. His touch was soothing, his voice warm and kind. He earned the right to claim her soul.
hypsicratea 