A Journey to the End of Life
The wind howls in agony. It wraps itself in a strong vice as it whirls round and round the house in the early hours of the morning. I mentally shiver and bury my head beneath the eiderdown and blankets on the king-sized bed I used to share with my Peter. It is of no use. The memories will not go away.
I go back in time many years. I lie in bed in the loft of my parents’ home in Los Angeles. The wind was just as tormented that night as it was this morning. No! It was worse, as if it portended what the next twelve years held for our family.
They had found a tumor on my mother’s brain, right on top of her pituitary glands. It was to be removed in the morning. Papa had been anxious, but Mama assured him that all would be well. ‘’Yosef, you know it has to be done,’’ she said, as she put her arms around his neck in comfort. Then we drove her to the hospital to be admitted.
Early the next morning, we all drove to the hospital only to sit waiting, waiting, waiting. As we waited, I got into a conversation with a lady from South Africa. Her husband was having the same procedure done as Mama. Who was the doctor? Same as Mama’s! When? The same time as Mama’s! I thought it quite odd, but what did I know?
Hours later they wheeled Mama out. She was groggy but belligerent. “Berta, we will take you to your room now,” the nurse said.
“You do not call me Berta! I am Mama!” she said indignantly. I laughed nervously. Is that my sweet, gentle mother? Nora, my sister, looks at me in anger. “You find this funny?” No, I am nervous, frightened, and confused, I thought. What is happening? Things went from bad to worst. A few days later as we sat in the hospital room watching a musical on TV with her, she said, “Look how that man is hitting that woman! ’’ we look at her uneasily. No one was hitting anyone. It was a romantic musical. We did not know what it was that our mother was seeing. Our anxiety level rose even higher.
Over a short period of time, Mama very quickly declined. She began mixing words. One day, as she held my hand, she said, ‘’May God curse you.’’ I looked at her with a surprised expression. She was gazing at me with such love. She had meant the opposite. She was losing her power of expressing herself correctly. It was painful watching her decline. It was excruciating. It was a torment. Where was our beautiful, sophisticated, and gracious mother? What did they do to her? We had carefully researched the doctor who operated on her. He was one of the top doctors! The end of that year, he was on the cover of Time magazine named as the Most Brilliant Surgeon of the Year. Where had his brilliance gone when he operated on our mother? Why had he failed her so cruelly and miserably? As I looked at that cover, I smoldered with anger and resentment and perhaps even hatred.
I recall many painful instances, like the time I was helping her and she took my hand in both of hers and kissed it in gratitude. I wanted to weep. ‘’Oh Mama, my beautiful wonderful Mama, don’t do that! Just get well. Go back to who you were.’’
She had a habit of asking Papa for money. She had asked him for money the day before. He gave her $400.00. This day again she asked for money. ’’I just gave you money yesterday, “ he said, somewhat peevishly. He did not comprehend what was happening to her.
“Mama, you want money?” I asked.
“Yes, but not from you,” she replied. She was leaning weakly against the door jamb of her bedroom. There was an indentation where they had separated the front of her skull from the back to get to the tumor. She was dressed in her nightgown. Her hair was disheveled. There was no trace of the well-groomed, exquisitely genteel lady she used to be.
“It’s okay Mama. Papa will give it to you.” I walked across the room to Papa.
“Papa, please give me a dollar,” I said softly. He looked at me quizzically in askance but gave me a dollar bill.
I walked back to Mama. “See? Papa gave you the money,” I said. She took it and shuffled back into her room.
The look on Papa’s face was painful to behold. It was then that he began to realize that all was not well with her. Yet he still continued to believe that she would heal. Soon she was not able to walk. We hired someone to care for her. Twyla stayed with her until the time she passed away, twelve years later. She was dedicated to her. Between Twyla and whichever one of us was there, we would hold her and help her walk. I began to go to Los Angeles once a month. I would stay there a week then come back home for three weeks. Nora’s boys were young then. She couldn’t manage that. The responsibility fell on Gilda and me. My parents and Gilda and her family lived in the same condominium building. That put a strain on her marriage, which eventually led to their divorce.
During one of the holidays Peter and Kelly came as well. I cooked for the holidays and we invited friends to join us. It cheered the atmosphere for Papa. He desperately needed cheering. A perpetual dark black cloud hung over our heads.
Kelly took one look at the situation and decided that his grandparents needed him. Upon his return to New York he made his arrangements. He rented out his co-op and headed to LA. As he explained, they had done so much for us. This was the least he could do to pay back. In my eyes, he was selfless. He loved and cared for them with all his heart. Unfortunately, members of my family placed ulterior motives to his actions. That was not so. His actions were entirely selfless and altruistic. In later years, he suffered because of that.
Mama continued to decline. Gradually she lost her power of speech, her power of movement. She became trapped inside her body. Only her eyes told me that she was still there. Each month, when I went to LA, Papa, Twyla, and I would take her to the doctor. Each time the doctor would tell me to stop bringing her. He could do nothing for her. I took her because of Papa. He needed to reassure himself that he was doing everything possible to make sure she was going to be alright. By this time Mama was in a wheelchair. Gilda or Kelly would make the appointment prior to my arrival. On the morning of the appointment Papa, Mama, Twyla, and I would set out. I drove to the doctor’s office, and afterwards we would make an outing of it. I would drive somewhere scenic, we would walk alongside the ocean. We would push Mama in her wheelchair. Papa enjoyed it. I am almost sure Mama did as well, for she would have a serene look upon her face. We would then go out to eat. Papa and Mama always liked fish. Mostly we would go for that. Mama developed a liking for fish fingers and French fries. She loved dipping them in Thousand Island dressing. They were soft to chew and there was no danger of her choking on a bone. On that specific day, we headed to the doctor’s office. As we walked in, the doctor happened to be in the waiting room. On seeing me, he became visibly annoyed.
’’How many times must I tell you, there is nothing I can do for her!”
This time Papa heard him. As we left after the examination he said, ‘’What did he say? What did he say?’’ I ignored him as I drove. I ignored him as we strolled by the ocean. I remember as we walked, there were a lot of dead dolphins floating in the water. I felt sad and helpless. Mentally I compared Mama’s hopeless situation, to the situation of the dead fish. And still, Papa asked.
Papa had a way of walking that was erect and proud. He was the head of his family, and he had taken very good care of all of us. I knew I had to answer him, but I was reluctant to do so. Nevertheless, I had to. I finally told him that the doctor did not want us to bring Mama back. In a split second, this proud and strong lion of a man became transformed. He sagged as if he was a suit that had fallen off a hanger.
“That means there is no hope. She is not going to get well,” he said sadly.
My heart bled for him. He had not comprehended the futility of the situation. Two weeks later he suffered a heart attack. Three years later he passed away.
After the heart attack he was in a wheelchair as well. We hired Daphne, Mama’s original nurse, to care for him. Daphne could only stay during the daytime. Twyla lived in. It was a good arrangement.
Papa made us all promise that we would not put Mama in a home, as if we would. He made Twyla promise to take good care of our mother, which she did. Those twelve grey years were years filled with pain and anger at what what our parents had become. It was hard watching these wonderful people decline so badly. It was hard watching them suffer so. These were my parents! They used to be strong, loving, and caring. They were good people! They were kind and generous and loving! They were respected. They did not deserve this kind of cruelty in their old age. They did not deserve the loss of dignity they were handed in their latter years. Each Sabbath as I stood by the Torah at the end of services, I would ask, “Just what are You doing, God? If You want my mother, take her. She was a good and loving person. Why are You punishing her? Why are You making her suffer so?’’
I would rant and scream at Him in my head. Mama became a bag of brittle bones that one feared would snap if not handled gently. She became a dried-up living skeleton. At last, after twelve long years, her soul finally departed her miserable poor body. I mourned deeply when Papa passed away. I would be lying if I said I felt the same when she did. After twelve long years of suffering, her soul was finally free! I imagined her transformed to a beautiful butterfly, flying away joyfully and gracefully. She was free to be the charming, wonderful person that she used to be. I pictured Papa waiting for her as she rose to her destination. Together my parents’ souls floated upwards towards heaven…
It is sundown now, as I conclude the last chapter of their story. Through the bare trees of this winter evening, I notice that the sky is tinted a pinkish-orange hue. The winds are not howling any longer. I whisper to myself, “Papa, Mama, Peter, I miss and love you so very much. I hope you are at peace and with all the rest of the family that departed before you.