Friday 3 September 2021

Pain is Exhausting

A friend of mine recently asked, “What makes life changing moments stick, what makes them significant. Moments pass by all the time, habits come and go. What makes things real versus just fading.” To be honest I do not have a profound answer as I write this, but I do have moments that stick with me, in this case, moments of pain. I called my father on his birthday, August 13 2019, we spoke, maybe I played him a ditty on my harmonica, who knows. After we spoke, he put my mother on the phone. We talked for sometime, she sounded tired, but was happy to connect. That was the last time I ever heard her voice. Sometimes I wonder if my conversations with people are the last and I try to make it sound super inspiring, most likely because that person has inspired me in some way. There is no way to know which conversation is the last I suppose.

        A week after I spoke to my mom, my sister called. “Moses, you better get out here. It’s not looking good.” 

“What do you mean?”

“Mami is not doing well, she says she is ready to go.”

Ready to go? Why would she say that? I was stunned. How do I process my mother wanting to leave this world. I hung up, couldn’t talk much with a face full of tears. 

Soon after, I flew out there. I live in Chattanooga and my mother was in Spokane, Washington. My father picked me up from the airport and we drove straight to the hospital. It’s a daunting feeling being so helpless, so out of control. This massive and strange institution is in charge of saving my mother? Are they competent? I ran into the room. Where was my mother? I saw my sister, then on the bed was an unrecognizable shadow of my mother. She probably weighed around 80lbs at this point, her skin had completely changed, tubes ran everywhere, she was intubated. I looked at my sister in shock for a moment, then ran to hold my mother. She cried, I cried. She pushed me back and asked for a pen. By this point, she had gone through several note pads, she liked to talk but now she had to write. The plus side is, we will never forget her last words (unless we lose those papers, in which case I will be absolutely devastated). She wrote, go with Michelle, get food, you need strength. No way, there is no way I am leaving what precious moments I may have with her to get food I don’t want from a subpar cafeteria. However, there was no use arguing with my mother. By all accounts, the hospital cafeteria was actually a solid 7.5, not bad at all. Michelle and I sat for a couple minutes trying to eat, forget it. We went back up. The pulmonologist stopped us. “Essentially, this is it. Excluding a miracle, ¾ of her lungs are not functioning at all, the last ¼ is going downhill fast. We will need to extubate her soon if there is to be any chance.” A nice ending would be that a miracle happened and it was a beautiful testimony, etc. That is not how it ended, but perhaps there was still beauty. “Give me a moment, I need to talk to her" I said trying to hold back tears. What do you say when you know this will be the last conversation, the last words. I went in, sat down and held her hand. We were just in the moment, emotion at its rawest form. Eventually I started speaking, the life she had inspired me by, the moments she taught me lessons, the moments of frustration, the moments of joy, I spoke of it all. I looked up at a painting on the wall, it was peaceful. Beautiful mountains, a pleasant creek ran through a valley with lush vegetation all around. It was so devoid of pain. “One day I want to walk in that painting with you” I told her “I want to see flowers, or the flowers you have grown, you love growing flowers and they are beautiful, just like you.” She looked at me, she had peace. She wrote something along the lines of, “I do want to live, Moses, I want to live, but the Lord will guide. What matters is that we live life for Jesus. Live for Jesus, Moses.” I held her for several minutes, it was time to go. Lindsey, (my wife) was flying over to Spokane, she talked on the phone with my mother. That was the last my mother wrote words to someone. She was extubated and for the next 12 hours teetered on the line of death and life. Around 2am I looked across the room, Michelle (my dear sister) was sleeping on a rough hospital chair. My mother struggled for every breath. On my harmonica, I played the songs my mother loved. Pain is exhausting. 

Around 9:30 the next morning she died. My father, Lindsey, Michelle and I all stood around in silence. Tears were flowing, they would for the next several days and weeks and years. My foundation, my source of confidence, joy, life and spiritual security, she was gone. Somehow, someone appeared in the corner of the room playing the harp. I was confused but most things didn’t make sense at the time, it was soothing at least. I kissed my mother’s forehead one last time and walked out. 

It has been two years since my mother died. I reflect on loss and pain, on life and joy it’s all so complex. The story of Job in the Bible talks about pain. The wild thing about Job is he never found any answers for his pain, on the pain scale he had a lot, but he found a way to live again, to thrive. He says, “I once heard of God (his friends talked about God, maybe there were legends and myths, stories of old that he heard), but now I have seen Him.” Job did not physically see God, but he saw peace and in peace he saw the work of God. I see peace to be love infusing the mind with the understanding that we are not alone, that there is an infinite hand that will hold us through this messed up life, because He loves us dearly. I do not write this to give a grand revelation or that I have found the answer to the journey of grief, I am still so confused. I write to express that this journey of life is painful, but we are not alone. This journey taught me a lot about empathy, how to understand pain and how to walk with others in this journey of pain and grief. It taught me more about God and His struggle as He also walks with us in this life of pain. He walks with us and it's as though He whispers, “You are not alone, soon I will take you home, where there is no crying, sadness, sickness or pain.” Pain gives moments I do not easily forget, but what is pain but a reminder that we do not belong.

 

2 comments:

  1. This is so beautiful! I'm so very sorry for this great loss, but am glad that this heartbreak did not take away your faith. You are an inspiration and I'm sure one of the great reasons for this is your mother's guidance throughout your life. God bless you and your family!

    BTW, but sure you remember me, but I'm the mom of Luke and Jasmine who also play violin. You were always one of my favorite violinists at Camp Au Sable and an inspiration to my children! 😊

    Vesna Patterson

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    1. BTW, not sure (not "but sure") AUTO CORRECT

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