"Mary Sees" & "I Want My Momma..."

"Mary Sees" & "I Want My Momma..." (c) 2009 Stu Jenks

    Mary sees things that are not there. Dad. Other men. Her mother. Her grandfather, Daddy Saum.
    Mostly it doesn’t scare her, these visions. Mostly she just looks at them with wonder. Frankly, I don’t know all she sees because I only ask her when I’m there and when I think the time is right to ask. I’m sure she sees a lot more people and things than any of us will ever know.
    Mary’s condition has worsened. For a few days, she had a very hard time eating anything. Now, she can eat a little. For a few days, she slept all the time. Now, she sleeps about 20 hours a day. Just a couple weeks ago, she could follow a conservation, and respond with kindness and attention. Now, at best, she just goes away as I talk, to some place where I can not follow.     This morning was especially sad.
    I walk into her room. Mary’s asleep. Jessica told me earlier, she has eaten some pudding. I said, “Good,” but I didn’t really mean it. (If she completely stops eating, she will be dead within a month.) I grab the old wood chair from the kitchen in Virginia, move the thick blue pad by her bed, that’s there to break her falls if she rolls out, and place the old chair right beside her bed. I raise her bed with the electric controls, so I can talk with her easier. She doesn’t really wake up. Her eyes open, but she doesn’t really see. I say, “Hello, Mom,” but she doesn’t really hear. Then she begins to say one phrase over and over, very softly, in her strong Virginia accent. Most people wouldn’t understand her. I know exactly what she’s saying.
    “I want my Momma. I want my Momma, I want my Momma....”
    I touch her hand. I start to cry. I cry hard. Her bedroom door’s closed to the rest of the house, so I let fly. I cry for her, for me, for everything. Everything. I don’t know where some things end and where others begin anymore. My deep grief at realizing (finally) that I’ll never share a life, a home, a love, with that fine woman in California is all wrapped up in my sadness at watching my mother die, a very slow and scary death. My own fears of being self-employed, spending thousands of dollars on my art and writing careers, with not enough money coming back in right now, to even come close to breaking even, combines with managing Mary’s money and making sure there is plenty there, just in case she lives another couple, three years or more. My own loneliness with having no one to share my bed mixes with my sadness at losing this sweet kind mother I’ve had for the past few months, who I’ve shared so much with, but who is here no more. My anger at the withholding of important truths by other people in other parts of my life joins with my rage at the mystery of ‘Just when will Mom finally die?’ But at the same time as all of this fury of emotions fills me, day in and day out, I feel this incredibly gratitude: that I have money to draw from, for Mom, for me and for some other good folk in my life; that I have real friends that care about me and I for them, and who are really there for me, as I go through all of this; and that I have this strong faith that this will eventually end, be it my Mom’s long suffering or my grief regarding this huge hole in my own broken heart. That even though it’s not OK, not even close to OK, I’ll be OK.
    “...I want my Momma. I want my Momma. I want my Momma....”
    “I want my Momma too,” I say to Mary. I chuckle. That’s not going to happen. I’m Mary’s parent now, not she mine. But maybe, just maybe, her Momma, Nannie, will cross from the other side and lend a hand too.

Comments

[Catherine]

Very sweet, Stu.

[Heidi]

I appreciate your sharing all of this. I would add "vulnerable" to your keywords, and "strength." Very beautiful writing and images. I hope you both find resolution soon.

[Sarah]

Thank you for sharing your experiences Stu. It is a universal, transcendant experience.

Have the hospice staff discussed the stages with you? If not, they should discuss it with you or share reading material. I believe you're mother is experiencing these stages.

[Teri]

Hey Stu - thank you for sharing Mary's leave taking and your grief and loss. Your writing is a gift to those of us have lost our parents and others that we have loved and love.
Snot flowing sobbing and rage are all grace filled.

[Michael Hyatt]

Stu...No matter how or when Mary crosses over, you have immortalized the life of your mother with your great photograph of her at Cadillac Ranch. Your compassion for her at this time is heartwarming. She raised you well and the way you show your love is her reward.

[Dirk]

This is beautiful Stu. Thanks for the beauty of your honesty.

[Mark C.]

Thanks Stu, the feelings are flowing and even though it seems tough its wonderful to feel them.

[Jeffrey Lopez]

My Heart breaks along with you. I found myself crying as well. Stuie, My Brother this has touched the depths of my soul.
I Love You Man!