I read the following poem at a reading recently. It was written as I sat with my mother in the last year of her life.
We sit in silence holding hands, one ancient, one old. She asks about me. I talk about work. "I love pickled liver." "What made you think of pickled liver?" "I thought that's what you said." I stop talking. Linear conversation is hard. I am old. She is my mother, residing between reality and a world within her, hearing things that are not said, believing things that are not meant. She is dying, slowly, struggling to breathe. She is afraid. Afraid of the unknown of the suffering to come of dying of dying alone. "I will be ok," she says. "Will you be ok?" She worries about me. "Yes." "Are you ready?" I ask. "Yes. Are you?" "Yes." Back and forth between fear and acceptance. Fear ultimately wins. We sit in silence holding hands, one ancient, one old, remembering.
This reminds me of the time I spent taking care of my Mother when she was no longer able to live alone. I would do it all again to spend the time with her.
It’s amazing what the end of life care giving does for both. There are so many mixed emotions…