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This will most likely be the conclusion of the series (More About My Mom; Grief Recovery; Eternal Reward(less?); Death? That’s Heavy; So, Death Hunh? ) connected with grief, loss and overcoming the death of my mother. As you can see, I have prefaced this post with the disclaimer “most likely.” It is my plan to bring the series to a conclusion unless I find some unexplored aspects of the situation which might be of some help to others.

This post will jump around a bit as I attempt to tie things together in a more useful format for you. And, I must offer warning that this post is atypical in that it is much greater in length than most I offer.

Just now it is on my mind to address the title itself, “Grief and Closure.” I don’t want to give the impression that I am attempting to share a panacea that will erase your grief. Instead, I am trying to share my perspective of the stages of grief from the death of my father in 1990 to the death of my mother in 2008. It is my hope that these reflections will be of help to someone else.

To begin with, the grief never really stops. I know that sounds horrific but it really depends on context. The way it works for me is that I still miss my father and sometimes find it would be natural to pick up the phone to talk some things over with him. On the other hand, most of the time my dad is with me the same way the air is. Which is to say, an indispensable presence which I’m not always consciously aware of.

The loss of my mom, however, is still very fresh and often pushes its way to the front of my awareness. As I review my journal I find many connecting threads.

I’d like to share some excerpts from my journal in italics, along with some brief contextual statements.

It begins with my last visit to the assisted living facility where my mother lived out the last of her days.

I am writing this as I sit on the floor in the lighted hallway outside my mother’s room. The door is open as I watch her sleep fit-fully in her bed which has been lowered to floor level to minimize possible injury in case the bed restraints fail to keep her safely and securely in her bed.

I wondered about the necessity of these precautions until I watch several of the wheel chair mobile residents roll themselves to each possible exit and try them over and over as a possible means of egress.

At the time of this writing my mother is 87 years old. She is in the advanced stages of Alzheimer’s and geriatric dementia.

It is a six and a half hour drive from where I live just west of Nashville, Tennessee to the Heartland Care Center where she resides in Ironton, Ohio.

I don’t come her very often. There are several reasons. There is the length of the drive. That is really the smallest reason.

I ask myself, why is it then, that I don’t visit my mother more often?

A more significant deterrent is that my mother doesn’t know me when I’m here. Being the youngest of seven children, going unknown and unnoticed is not an alien concept, but it still has an impact.

I wonder why is it that at age 47 I am concerned about the amount of attention I did or did not receive as a child.

Not only does she not know me but when she is awake she is not coherent in any respect. She speaks of water deprivation while she is drinking water. She pleads to have her non-existent shoes revealed.

She exists in a constant state of confusion, bewilderment and frustrated ire.

It occurs to me that this might have such a powerful impact upon me because my mother has always been of keen intellect.

I sit in the floor and attempt to weigh things. What balances the equation? In her stage of mental deterioration what benefit does she reap from my presence? How does my energy, which is definitely tainted by dysfunction of the experience, impact her condition and my own emotional status?

I wonder is this some self-pitying stage of grief.

I find myself attempting a rational detachment exercise: If I were counseling someone in my position I would help them explore the emotional cost and benefit balance. Does the visit do the patient as much (any) good as it does emotional damage to the visitor?

Even at the writing of this section I recognized it as a manifestation of a self defense mechanism.

However, that detached rationalization is something I have yet been able to attain. I’m not certain any counselor truly masters this skills.

Throughout this section I consciously attempt to explore the stages of grief in an effort to understand my confusion of emotions.

Instead, I continue to experience the self imposed emotional crucification of balancing the guilt of not visiting against the trauma of experiencing the visit. After each of which I must undertake a self applied psychological triage to maintain my sense of self which invariably drains away.

Today that triage takes the form of sitting cross-legged on the floor of the corridor while I attempt to catalog my thoughts. After two hours of this I am able to distract myself with the ache reaching up my back as the cold from the concrete floor climbs up my spine. And the muscle cramps which vice down on my legs as they complain about their extended lack of use and movement.

I wonder if the above strategy of using physical discomfiture as distraction from emotional pain has other implications.

Still, this pain comes in a form which I know how to address. It also comes with the benefit of being finite. Physical pain, will, eventually, cease.

As I continue to sit on the floor watching my mother one of the staff informs me this is the first time she has slept in the past 72 hours. They prefer that I not wake her.

At that point I experienced a sense of guilt at being slightly relieved.

After some time she still hasn’t woken. Stirring and opening her eyes only once. Even though her gaze fell on me briefly I am not at all sure she was aware of me or my presence.

Well, its a long drive back to Nashville.

The next day my eldest brother called to tell me my mother had died. The news strangely held little impact until a half hour later when my youngest daughter came out onto the back porch where I was watching the sun set to ask, “Daddy, are you ok?”

At that time the emotions forcefully manifested.

The next day I made preparations to return for the funeral.

The funeral itself plays a part in the healing process. I wonder would anyone would benefit from an exploration of that event?

This entry was posted on Thursday, October 16th, 2008 at 9:37 pm and is filed under Elemental Truths, Nudge, Reg Adkins, behavior, communication, counseling, personal development, success, temperament, tips. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.