"The camera is an instrument that teaches people how to see without a camera." - Dorothea Lange

Friday, June 22, 2007

anniversary of my mother's death

mom and me, 1999

Two years ago today my mom died.

Few events have etched their way into my brain the way that one has. The birth of my kids, certainly. The first time I laid eyes on Eddie.

Over the course of these past two years, not a day has passed that I haven’t thought back to the period of time when my mother was ill. And then the night she died. And the fact that I recorded much of that time with my camera.

I struggled with it then, and I guess I still do now. Why did I take pictures of my mother’s death? Was it ultimately an invasion of her privacy? Was it a way for me to see more clearly what was going on or was it a mechanism that allowed me to pull back from it? Perhaps it was my way of trying to hold on to her image as long as I could?

Fellow photographers and close friends have reminded me that photographing is simply the way I journal. That this is the way I remember. Here is something I finally wrote about the process a year or so ago:

“As my mother became more ill, I began to photograph her. I had always made pictures of her while I growing up. But these were different. These pictures were about her death. During the last three weeks of her life, I documented the process of dying. As I placed a frame around her tired and drawn face, I removed myself somewhat from the reality that was at hand, but I also brought myself closer to it – to linger on it, to study it, to consider it, to try to make sense of it. Order, commemoration, preservation – the same reasons I’d always made pictures.”

cancer sucks

encouragement from my dad

the night before she died


I wrote about it, too. I have always loved the combination of photography and words, so that part made perfect sense to me. I began by describing the fact that three of the four of us kids live quite a distance from my folks and that for the eleven months that she was sick, we all pitched in.

“My siblings and I traveled back and forth to our hometown to help out however we could. This meant picking her up after she had fallen, helping her get up from the toilet on particularly bad days, putting a heating pad on her shoulders, stocking the refrigerator with sweet potato and split pea soup, doing the laundry, driving her to the doctor, organizing the sheets in the linen closet, trimming the rose bushes, washing her hair, and painting her fingernails.”

I ended the essay with a description of the night she died. I was alone with her. I consider that an honor and a blessing. I also know that it has affected me in ways I have yet begun to figure out.

“No one had ever prepared me for the task of watching someone die. As much as Mom and I had talked about her illness, her funeral, who should have her sapphire pin and her collection of souvenir spoons, we had not quite gotten around to covering what the actual death scenario might look like. I was on my own.

My mother was serene now. Her breathing had moved from her belly up into her chest. It was growing more and more shallow. The sheets were draped around her frail frame; her head was propped on the pillow. Her face looked round and peaceful, like a full moon bobbing just above the clouds on a cold, clear winter night. I began to talk to her.

I thought of death scenes from movies, from books, from plays. Words came tumbling out of my mouth – words that had been uttered by so many others so many times before: “Let go now, Mom… it’s okay, just let go… you’ll see, it will be so much better without the pain… you were a wonderful mother… we all love you so much… we’ll miss you terribly… let go now, Mom… go on, it’s okay… I’m here with you… we love you… we’ll think about you everyday… I’ll see you again, I know it… just relax, let go… it’s okay… I’m right here with you.”

Her breathing started to move up out of her chest into her throat and became very short and thin. Every third inhalation or so, it seemed like minutes passed before she finally exhaled. To my surprise, her eyes opened. They were glazed, but as blue and pure as ever, and they darted about as if she was looking for a place to land. I leaned down and wrapped my arms around my mother, my chest on top of hers. I placed my head on her shoulder and nestled my face into the crook of her neck.

Then she fell silent. And suddenly I was hovering near the ceiling watching the whole scene. I floated high above and saw the two of us, wrapped up together on a small hospital bed in a small, darkened room. I saw myself kiss her neck. I watched with fascination as I told her, when I felt sure the breathing had stopped, goodbye.

I saw myself pick up the phone to call my father.

***

During those last twenty-six hours with my mother, I found myself waiting for some important secrets to be revealed. When she was speaking in random fragments, I felt sure I would hear something that would astonish me, enlighten me, surprise me, answer the unanswered, explain the unexplainable. I figured I would come away from the experience wiser about who she was, more informed about our relationship as mother and daughter, and absolutely clear as to what the point of her life, or any life, might be. When her eyes opened at the very end, I guess I had hoped she might call my name, speak suddenly, and tell me what she was seeing and where she was headed. When she drew in that last breath, I suppose I was holding out for a dramatic last word or two, something that would change my life in a profound way and provide me with strength and purpose.

***

The morphine machine kept purring every few minutes after my mother died, still releasing the drug into her arm. I looked out the window and noticed that dusk was settling over the city. The fireflies would be out in full force in my parents’ back yard by now, flickering like stars.

I saw myself embrace my father when he walked into the room. An hour or so later, I watched as I drove him home.”

mom and me, a few minutes before she died

6 comments:

Anonymous said...

I am verry sad to hear my story one's more, she was not my mother but my dear aunt. I was there when she tock her last breath, it hurts just to remember. Thanks for sharing youre thought and sorrow.

Best Wishes
Wendy

Anonymous said...

It will be the first anniversary of my dear mothers death on May 14th. This Easter was especially hard because it was the last holiday that we celebrated together with my mom.
It was all downhill from there. My mom had polio and and the last two years she was confined to a wheelchair and could not move to use
the restroom or dress herself. Before that she was very independent and got around very well with a handicapped cart.
I feel very sad and yet I know that this is normal. Your blog was very
personal and I identified with it
very much. I was with my mom the evening she passed away. She had
such a beautiful glow and beam in her eyes that I didn't think that she was going to die that night. I thought to myself, "go home and get some rest so you can come back the next day and be rested to deal with
all this". I got the call from my
moms rest home several hours later, she died around 4 am. It still bothers me that I wasn't there to be with my mom when she died.One of my moms caregivers told me that it was a blessing.I still don't know.
I miss her everyday. Thanks for your message.

Jill Suzann Geddes said...

I too watched my dear Mother die after a stroke.It was very sudden. As I think about her in life, her death plays over and over still . It has not yet been a year. I especially missed her this morning when I had a recipe question. There are many distractions in my life to keep me going. But every once in a while I am stopped short by the finality of her passing as if it still really is not true.I liked the photographs of your mother in her final hours. There is something profoundly beautiful about it. We all know this is a certain part of life just as birth is . To be there at the end . Thank you. I was touched by your blog.
Sincerely,
Jill Geddes

Anonymous said...

I can relate Imy mother died of cancer too she will be dead 1 year this Aug 8th 2010.
I still cry everyday and miss her so she was my best friend I never left her side through out the whole ordeal.
lately I feel as though she is sill alive I go to call her and then remember she is gone.
I will never fill the hole in my heart. Thanks for your story.

Talking Penny said...

Reading the story of your mother's death made me remember when my own mother passed away. I, like you, wrote a story about it in my book, "Talking Penny." In my story though I left out parts that I could not bear and changed the situation of her dying because I just couldn't deal with it emotionally. Thank you for sharing your story.

Anonymous said...

Tomorrow will be the 1st year since my mum died. She had a sudden heart attack and when I flew to see her she was in coma. After a few days she died. She was 55. I still cannot shake it off. The past two weeks were haunting memories of seeing my mum in hospital and the last day before she died. I have been reliving those sad moments in my head. I cannot help it. The worst part is that I had a panic attack last week where the symptoms were similar to heart attack. I thought I was dying - I felt the pressure on my chest, felt dizzy, couldn't breathe and almost fainted. My husband called the ambulance. They said it was an anxiety attack.

I really hope it will get easier with time.

I just miss my mum so much and I regret many things that I did or didn't do when she was still alive. I won't ever have a chance to go back and I need to accept that she's passed away so suddenly, so ahead of her time, yet I am still here and therefore need to live my life the best I can.