Mother's Day

I'm working on the Sunday centerpiece for Mother's Day. It's a great story about a women who through her husband and sons, has indirectly touched the lives of thousands of children. See her husband and three of her six children are pediatricians. Great story but I found myself swallowing back tears during the interview this morning. (Don't worry I didn't let on) It's been barely a year since my mother passes away and I have to say it's still hard.

Reporter's Notebook on her death

It's over. At 9:05 a.m. Thursday Terri Schiavo took her last breath, 13 days after her feeding tube was removed by a court order. But I have to ask - is it really, over?
This case, which divided not only a family but a nation, challenged both our personal and political beliefs. In the years we have watched her parents, Bob and Mary Schindler, and her husband, Michael Schiavo, struggle over what Terri would have wanted, the case has shone light on euthanasia, the rights of state and federal governments to intervene, and the role of a spouse.
It has defined medical terms like "persistent vegetative state," "brain
damage" and "minimally conscious" for a new generation - many who will have to
decide for themselves what they believe when they are faced with similar
decisions.
In the end the story is less about Schiavo herself than about us all.
On March 9, a doctor phoned me at work from Oregon to explain that my mother's kidneys had failed that morning. He asked me if I was opposed to the idea that he stop aggressively treating my mother's liver failure and simply make her comfortable until she passed, I said no. Tears streaming down my face, I eked out the words, "quick," and "painless."
The doctor then made plans to meet with my grandmother and younger brother, who were already in Oregon, and my mother's current husband, Dan. After meeting with the doctor, my grandmother, my mother's younger siblings and my brother also agreed. We all hoped my mother's death would be more peaceful than the life she had led.
Like Terri Schiavo, my mother did not have a living will. And at first her husband wasn't sure what he wanted. He had watched as my mother got sicker - the ammonia levels in her blood rising -leaving her disoriented on good days, unconscious on bad days. Months earlier, the diabetes she didn't take care of had left her blind.
She rarely left her bed and had fallen over a dozen times. In the end, it was my grandmother who had a long talk with Dan, and eventually he too agreed. I know that I am fortunate that there was little disagreement between my family and my mother's current husband. It was difficult to accept that this man, who'd only been married to my mother for a couple of years, had more say over her life and death than her daughter, son or mother.
And I could not imagine watching my mother die more slowly then she, in fact, did. When I walked into my mother's hospital room all I could think was that this husk - skin grayish-green and
bloated - is not my mother. There was nothing left of the woman who had inspired neurosis and fear in my child self.
It is a misnomer for President Bush to assume these people are weak and need or want our protection - he did not know my mother. She was one of the most headstrong and stubborn
people on this earth and she would have hated lying there depending on anyone or anything.
As the nurses increased the morphine and my mother began to skip breaths, it was hardest for my grandmother - my mother was her oldest child. My brother and I sat on either side of her holding her hands, each taking our turn to make peace with her alone as the hours passed.
At 10 p.m. on Saturday, March 12 - only four days after the doctor posed his question to us - my mother stopped breathing and it was over.
As the days passed my family continued to mourn and discuss our own end of life plans. Many of us are planning to see lawyers and write living wills. We know how lucky we were - this time.
It will be years before my brother and I truly understand the implications and repercussions those days will have on our lives, and I do not envy the Schindlers or Michael Schiavo the years they will have to digest.

Honestly, I'm still struggling with ... I can't even explain what exactly it is I'm struggling with ... I keep staring at the book, "Motherless daughters" and wondering if I pick it up again will I make it pass page 10? I have an essay, meant to be cathartic and finished by my mother's yahrzeit, that I've start again and again but can never seem to finished. I keep waiting for the pain to lessen. Sometimes I think it has but then it sneaks up on me again and I'm a blubbary 5-year-old who's been lost in the department store.
I just hope I can channel my pain into a very beautiful story for her children in celebration of their Mother's Day. And I think I will.