And like most sequels, it’s way worse than the original. How do you top breaking a limb and almost laying someone off on the same day?
Fast forward a couple of months. My Mother, whose cognitive and physical abilities have been in a slow, steady decline since a horrible fall about a decade ago, has taken a turn for the worse. Even the most basic tasks have gotten extremely difficult, to the point where my Dad had recently made the difficult decision to get her into hospice care.
While that’s been a godsend in terms of finally getting help with Mom’s care, it also signals the end is not far off. People in hospice rarely last more than a few weeks (Jimmy Carter notwithstanding).
On the work front, right around this same time, I get word that the layoffs we’d tried to avoid were, in fact, happening — and all from my department. Including my only assistant, which means my workload was going to explode. Plus, in a couple of weeks, I have some previously scheduled time off, so I need to train someone immediately to cover my desk.
Terrific.
In the days that follow, Mom’s slide picks up speed. She’s eventually confined to bed and can only be fed soft foods like apple sauce and oatmeal.
Finally, the worst is confirmed. Although Parkinson’s had been discussed but never officially diagnosed, she’s reached end-stage. She can no longer communicate and is, for all intents and purposes, immobile. At this point, all preventative medications stop and she’s only administered pain meds to keep her as comfortable as possible.
I head to spend the weekend with the family and see her for maybe the last time.
She’s barely more than a skeleton — eyes half-open, arms continually reaching out to no one in particular. I take her hand and she clamps down, hard. I have no idea if she knows I’m there or she’s even aware of what she’s doing, but I tell myself she’s trying to say goodbye.
When I do leave the next day, I stroke her hair, kiss her forehead, and tell her how much I love her and how great a mom she was. I look for some kind of sign of recognition, but nothing. Far from getting any closure, all I have is emptiness. My chance to say goodbye to the person who was my Mom vanished long ago.
Back at the office, while I’m trying to figure out how to reconfigure job duties amongst my remaining staff, meetings continue about layoff logistics. After much discussion, we set the date and schedule one last meeting at the end of the week to button up the final details — who’s making the calls, who’s announcing to staff, etc.
You were wonderful.
One hour before that meeting, my Dad calls, inconsolable. Mom’s gone.
Instead of dropping everything and leaving immediately, out of some odd sense of responsibility I attend the meeting anyway. I mean, it’s my department, who else is going to handle this? Once those details are settled, I inform HR and head out.
After a few days of mourning and attending to details with family, I return to work so I can announce to my staff that several of their coworkers are also, in a manner of speaking, no longer with us. The following days are kind of a haze of chaos and sorrow, and although I’d like to think I put up a pretty good front, I’m strongly encouraged to take some time off. Apparently I’m not really there, either.
EPILOGUE
I spoke to my Dad recently. It’s been a few weeks since Mom died. I know he misses her terribly, his life partner for the better part of 60 years is suddenly gone. But it’s almost startling to hear in his voice how much a burden has been lifted. He and my sister, who were Mom’s primary caregivers for more than a decade, are taking a weekend trip for my sister’s birthday. And he’s even talking about taking another cruise, something he and Mom loved to do. They’re through the initial shock and are starting to see what their next chapters might look like.
Mom’s finally at peace, and I think the rest of us are getting there, too.
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