THE GOOD-BYE CEREMONY
by
Janet Flora
The Willow Review, 2004
My mother wanted to live, but when living became more like dying, she began to plan her death. She didn't plan the moment or the day of the week. But she was prepared, like storing water and batteries for a hurricane sure to hit. And while it may not have been part of her plan, the preparation became like a somber ceremony—not for one who has passed away—but for someone in the process of passing. There were no familiar rituals like eulogies or gatherings; but each arrangement somehow substituted for words of consolation and signs of sympathy, moving us closer toward each other and to the conclusion.
In the drawer of her nightstand was a copy of Final Exit: The Practicalities of Self-Deliverance and Assisted Suicide for the Dying. There were notes she made in the margins: Compazine first for nausea. Grind up morphine—mix with applesauce. The telephone number of the Hemlock Society scribbled on an index card served as a place holder inside the book.
On top of her nightstand were vials of medication arranged strategically like amber-colored pawns. At regular intervals she rotated the vials, removing pills that she took for pain. For each pill she swallowed, she saved two. Those she kept in a separate hiding place.
She hid them from the hospice workers who made daily visits. When she was in more pain, they prescribed more medicine. She hid them from my father, my sister, and me—she did not want our lives to be soiled with the wish to end her own. "This is Florida," she'd say, "people get arrested for things like this." Then she'd refer to some case where someone went to jail for helping a spouse to die who had become crippled with multiple sclerosis or deranged from Alzheimer's.
My mother was 60 when she got lung cancer. The surgeon removed one lobe from her left lung. Before the operation, she and my father lived in New York and went ballroom dancing three times a week. After her recovery, they retired to Fort Lauderdale and went dancing three times a month. Instead of a lindy they did a fox-trot. She did manage her other favorite activity—swimming or at least wading in the ocean.
Eight years later there was a growth in the other lung. Another lobectomy. This recovery took longer. The scars on her back made semicircles around her shoulder blades, like two pieces of matching rope. Dancing became reserved for special occasions—only a few revolutions around the floor—and wading in the ocean became just a dip.
The cancer went from her lungs to her bones just after she turned 73. When the strap from her pint-sized shoulder bag containing only her lipstick and a small wallet began to hurt her collarbone, diagnostic tests confirmed a cancerous lesion. A month later another grew on her femur. With extensive chemo she might get another year. She refused all treatment. For two months a combination of the narcotic, analgesic Vicodin and steroids enabled her to at least stand with her feet in the ocean—until standing became too painful—then morphine was added to the mix.
Once housebound, she began to separate clothes, jewelry, and other personal belongings—deciding who should have what—sometimes including my sister and me in the process. I hated this at first. Sitting on the edge of her bed, she would ask us to choose. Did I want her engagement ring while my sister kept her pearls? Looking away, I shrugged. My sister said to me, "You decide." My mother said, "I need your help, girls." Then I understood. If we couldn't empty any capsules or grind any tablets, we could at least help her say good-bye.
My sister and I flew down from New York most weekends. I never knew what the defining moment would be. She never used a bedpan or walked with a cane or "appliance," as she referred to any assistive devices.
On one of my last visits when my mother was resting comfortably, Dad left to do some errands, and I went walking by the ocean. When I returned, I watched as she lay on her bed in a pink nightgown. She was so still—I couldn't be sure she was breathing. With her skin still tanned from trips to the ocean and face round from steroids, she looked too beautiful to be dying. But when I touched her forehead, she turned her head with a quick jerk—and winced with pain from that small move.
It was a balmy Sunday in June. As my father left for church, my mother asked him for a glass of milk and a cup of applesauce. My sister and I had just returned from Florida the night before. When I answered the phone at my Manhattan apartment, my mother asked if I could get my sister on the phone with that three-way calling I paid too much for. I almost laughed—but then remembered and did as she asked.
"I told dad to take his time at church this morning," she said.
For a moment neither my sister nor I spoke. I kept thinking we should be saying something very important.
Finally I said, "Mommy, I'm going to miss you." At 40 years old I could not remember the last time I called her mommy.
She kept talking. "I'm wearing the negligee you girls gave me for Christmas, the blue one with the ruffle."
My sister said, "You always looked beautiful in that."
"I'll say good-bye now, it feels peaceful. Don't worry. I love you both."
As the receiver made its way into the cradle, my sister and I kept saying, "I love you too." It was hard to know which of us was speaking. Our words echoed back and forth.
I wish I could have been there to hold her hand. But she was in charge of this ceremony—we were only guests-invited to participate at select moments.