In the embrace of her family/Losing mom: Sharing a life at the time of death

In the embrace of her family
By Carlos T. Mock
Copyright © 2009, Chicago Tribune
August 9, 2009
http://www.chicagotribune.com/entertainment/art/chi-perspec0809deathaug09,0,6165269.storyv


My Aunt Elisa was dying. Even though it was 43 years ago, I remember like it was yesterday. I was in the 2nd grade and my sisters and I were pulled out of school. Titi Elisa was Mamita's sister. Mamita was my grandmother on my mother's side. Titi Elisa and Mamita lived in a house in Ponce, Puerto Rico, on the other side of the island. Everyone in the family, no matter how old, was included in the trip: Mami, Papi, my sisters and I. Mami was visibly upset.

More than one time, we were told not to talk. And that day, we did not sing, we did not play games. It was a very long 3 ½ hour trip. All I was thinking of was that my great aunt was going to die. It was a curious term for me. I thought that she was going to go somewhere where we would not see her again. I was unable to understand why. Why would she leave Mamita all alone?

Suddenly, a curious calm came into my soul; a kind of dreamy indifference to my situation. I was here to witness death, I was there to become a living instrument, a flesh-and-blood camera recording this event.

Mamita's house finally came into our visual field. The house was a small Spanish-style house in the subdivision of Santa Maria in Ponce: The stucco was washed out pink; the roof was red tile. The front door looked as though it was meant to keep all-evil from the house. How death had found its way in was beyond my comprehension?

We were rushed inside to Titi Elisa's bed. The rest of the family was already there. I saw cousins that I had no name for, people that would only come together when someone got married, or, like in this case, when someone died (or was about to die). As we were being prepared to say our final goodbye, I saw people there that I had no idea who they were. They were crying; crying aloud. They were holding rosaries, and hitting their chests. (Funny how they were always the same at all the funerals I had been to. I always wondered if they were servants, or just paid to add flair to the event.)

The family doctor came out and gave Mami an update. Titi Elisa's kidneys had completely shut down. Her blood was unable to filter the impurities her body was making. I overheard the word "uremia." Apparently, back in those times, we had not perfected dialysis, so all there was to do was wait for Titi Elisa to fall in a ureic coma, followed by death.

My turn to go inside. Mami asked me to be on my best behavior and kiss Titi Elisa. As I walked inside the room I saw Mamita. I ran over to her and kissed her. She was crying. There were more of those ladies inside. Mamita guided me to Elisa. She told me to be a good boy and say goodbye.

Titi Elisa looked very gray. That was the only way I could describe her. She was dressed in a beautiful blue lace nightgown and had the biggest crucifix I had ever seen on her bosom. Her hair was carefully combed and held together by a lace diadem that matched her bedclothes. Her face had been beautifully made, as if she were going somewhere special. I was told to kiss her quickly, because they were going to give her the holy sacrament of extremauncion (the last rites).

We then began the process of waiting. There were many servants around. The people that were crying had stopped their mourning duties to go help in the kitchen. A big pot of asopao de pollo (chicken rice soup) was being prepared. Dinnertime came and one by one, the large multitude of people ate until they were satisfied.

Just before dessert, there was a foul cry from the room: Titi Elisa was dead.

One by one, we went into the bedroom where she lay. She looked happy. I would be unable to describe my recollection in any other way. She looked at peace. I had trouble understanding why everyone was crying. It felt to me like this was a game. Nothing seemed real. Everyone in the room was playing a part, and Titi Elisa's part was to lie still. It all felt like it was an illusion. Now I know why my parents made us go see my great aunt die. They wanted us to understand that death was part of life and a natural thing -- not something to fear. It was also a family thing and the correct way to die is in your own bed surrounded by your loved ones.

When my father died in 1989, he died at home surrounded by my mother and his loved ones. I missed the death because I was working in Chicago and could not get a flight. But when my mother phoned to ask what to do with my father as he lay in intensive care, tearing out his IV fluids and begging to go home -- it was very easy for me. I told her she had my blessing and consent to sign him out of the hospital against medical advice and take him home where he belonged. I was told he died peacefully at home.

In my 20 years as a physician in the Chicago area, I never understood the fear of relatives to have their loved ones die at home. Instead, I saw mutilated corpses with more tubes and trinkets than a carnival attraction dying alone and in misery. With the advent of hospice for terminal diseases, there is no need to have your loved one in a hospital setting for his/her death. Not only it is extremely expensive: it is also extremely "sterile."

Carlos T. Mock is a Chicago physician and the author of "Borrowing Time: A Latino Sexual Odyssey."



Losing mom: Sharing a life at the time of death
By Don Sorsa
Copyright © 2009, Chicago Tribune
August 9, 2009
http://www.chicagotribune.com/news/opinion/chi-perspec0809momaug09,0,5047635.story


Editor's note: The author wrote this piece Aug. 4, the day his mother died.

When your mother dies, do you post an update on Facebook?

My mother will die this afternoon, probably around 4 p.m. In her hospital room will be her husband, a daughter and stepdaughter, a doctor or two and a nurse. I am a thousand miles away, but I'll be there too.

Should I post an announcement on Facebook so my 60 friends know? I haven't seen anyone else do that, but maybe their families are intact. Maybe they're more tasteful than I am. If I post my mom's death, my friends will post their sympathies, write a couple of lines about their own parents, tell me they're thinking of me. My friends won't say they're praying for me, thank God. Maybe I can turn off the comments, but what's the point of that? People post because they want feedback from friends, right?

I am writing an obituary for the local newspaper. And I am writing a newspaper column, so is Facebook any different? I seem compelled to tell people about my mom, even people who don't know me or her, so why not tell the people I know? It's not like I have 400 or 4,000 Facebook friends. I really know my friends, so why does a Facebook obit feel so yucky?

My siblings and sons have been e-mailing and texting updates for a month, but none of them have posted a Facebook update yet. Should I be the first? Should I e-mail my friends instead? Your mother dies only once, so there aren't opportunities for practicing an appropriate response. Or correcting stupid mistakes.

Most of the Facebook postings I read are trite and trivial: Had a great meal yesterday and am ready for a nap. Got stuck in traffic. Kids are home with the flu. Enjoying the beach and would like to stay another week.

How does my mom's death fit with updates like that?

However, the trite and trivial are not confined to social networking. Look at the daily newspapers. Old woman caught shoplifting. Celebrities doing something, anything, nothing. Updates on TV shows and sports scores. Restaurant reviews. Advice on taking a cruise. The newspaper has a special page for death notices, but it's still surrounded by ads and trivia. Not that much different from social networking sites.

So maybe it isn't the trivial updates on Facebook that turn me off, but something doesn't feel right. Writing a newspaper or Facebook obit doesn't make my mom's life trivial. I just don't know whom to tell or how. But I do know why. It's my mom. That's why and it's tearing me up.

There's big news and trivial news and then there's my mom. My mom. I'm probably writing so I can do something besides cry. I'll cry now and cry later. Shirley is my mom and I already miss her.

Her 78 years were similar to those of other working-class women her age: two brothers, one who disappeared decades ago, and five sisters with old-fashioned names like Verna, Alice, Bertha. They all left this world before she did.

My mom graduated from high school but never came close to a college. She had seven children, one who survived a serious fire and another who died as a preschooler. She took care of her kids and her brick one-bathroom home while her husband worked in a factory and did odd jobs at night. We took vacations as a family but never saw an ocean or mountains.

Divorced at 53 and remarried a decade later, she took RV trips to 49 states plus Australia with her second husband. Her final 15 years were spent in a small cottage on a canal at the southern tip of Texas. She went to Catholic mass every Sunday and had breakfast afterward. They crossed the border for prescription drugs. She had a laptop and used it regularly for e-mail and buying things from Amazon.com.

Her husband told me last week that the local priest performed some special ceremony that allowed divorced men and women to receive Communion. He also told me her feet and toes were always cold. She preferred taking a bath to a shower. She liked going to malls but never bought anything. She had dry skin and always carried lotion with her. Things I didn't know about my mom.

She drank a vodka and Sprite every afternoon. She liked watching sports on TV, especially the Chicago teams. She was happy when Tiger Woods won golf tournaments.

Over the last seven years she had operations on her knees, hips, back, and a year ago she went through colorectal cancer, which she survived. Being sick or unhealthy annoyed my mother because her mother never spent a day in the hospital until the day she died.

We say she fought the good fight, but I don't really know what that means. Her body has been mechanically supported for a month. That ends today.

It doesn't matter what I write or where I write it. I don't plan on telling people at work. Won't post anything on Facebook. Might never finish the obit. Just trying to keep busy. Just remembering and being sad. Oh, Mom. Thanks. I love you. Goodbye.

Don Sorsa lives in Oak Park.