Terms: Chapter 11
By: Deenaodellehyatt, Doh
Tags: Death, Grieving, Grief And Loss, Cancer

Terms: Chapter 11

Mom is dead now.

People who are religious tell you things like, she’s in a better place.

She’s not here. I don’t know where exactly she is, or, if she’s gone and everywhere at the same time. I know, she’s always in my heart, she’s on my walls, in the food I cook, the flowers I arrange, the consciousness of anyone she met along the way.

I can see how being religious could be comforting right now.

Culturally, I identify as Muslim. Religiously, we didn’t have much religion, but we did ramadan and were just supposed to be good people.

Made sure Mom was buried the Islamic way — thanks to my Uncle Mahmoud and Fedwa’s help. Fedwa organized the bathing and shrouding and found the imam to do the salat.

Never realized how much event planning and bureaucracy goes into funerals and burying.

When mom passed, it was a process. Passing slowly, each day a little less of her and a little more suffering.

I’d never witnessed the death process, and though in my heart and gut I knew she was dying, I tried with all my might and might to hope that she will defy expectations. Or perhaps if we shift our expectations, just pretend she’s not sick, think positively, something will change. Maybe it could have. Hard to say because otherwise she did go the very traditional western route with chemo gallore. maybe all that didn’t give her a fighting chance. who knows if she had healed her gut, and never smoked, and drank more reishi, and ate more tumeric with pepper, and less fried foods and who knows what combo maybe she could have beat the cancer for good. maybe she could have lived with it.

There came a day when my mom said she thinks she may be losing this battle.

I told her, there is no winning and losing. No success or failure. It’s not how hard you try, or how positive you think —

It’s not your fault.

Dad and I can’t fix it. Nabeel can’t fix it.

The doctors can’t save you.

It’s just unfair.

At a few points in the last few months, my mom would have these tender moments. I lived for them. Increasingly she was either surrendering, sleeping, or fighting. Having to be tough.

And damn is she a tough, perseverant woman. Like a true Palestinian. Resilient and pridefully stubborn.

Dignity.

Mom didn’t want anyone feeling sorry for her.

She didn’t want anyone coming to visit her just because she was sick.

She didn’t want us to even acknowledge the hardship.

As if talking about it gave it weight.

Having complex feelings when going through something of such life altering magnitude can be talked about, though.

Finally when we were allowed to have feelings, my dad and I, like sadness or anger…. when we starting figuring out our need for and system of support…

And our communication improved…

Then she was back in the ER.

Back in the hospital.

Now we’re talking hospice at home.

Mom never wanted the word hospice to be used.

We’re just getting the house all ready for her to be very ill…

Hospital bed in her bedroom, commode next to the bed, everything within arms reach, because she could’t get up.

There she was frantically trying to find where everything would go — explaining, to my uncle Mohamed and my cousin Anwar, and me, that she’s right handed, and that she needs a thing of tissues here…

I realized what she was talking about and moved the little bedside table shelf I had gotten on amazon.

She lost consciousness mid-sentence.

About 5 minutes go by and she, alarmed, wakes up in a panic, big gasping breath, eyes wide and darting,

She’s afraid of dying. She doesn’t know how much time has gone by…

And my uncle is concerned.

I tell him this has been happening for the past day.. she goes in and out and awakes startled.

Infinite elipses.

When she wakes up panicked, I assure her everything’s okay, she’s not alone.

And ask if perhaps “this is what you wanted by the bedside.”

And she looked up and coyly smiled, “yes that’s it.”

Never a finishing a sentence for about 70 hours..

Later before bed that night, she was feeling ambitious. Instead of using the bed pan, she wanted to try the commode that I got on amazon. With great strategy and difficulty, I helped her get up, and got her on the commode. She was in and out of consciousness again..

I had to remind her, mom, you need to pee.

Then it got to be too difficult for me alone hold all her up. My dad and the helper we had just hired came in and after she peed, we helped figure out wiping her, then getting her on back on the bed.

Repositioning her became extremely important.

I was thankful for my Alexander technique training.

I held her. Curled up next to her.

Listening to her breathing.

The next day, her feet went purple. This means multiple organ failure, the nurse told me. My dad and brother washed her.

At this point it felt like you were washing her body, not as much her her.

How do you explain this? Her spirit was slowly leaving. This is how people explain it but I don’t know if that’s exactly how I see it.

I still don’t know what I know about death, what I think about what happens, or how I feel about death.

The next 24 hours were filled with loving goodbyes. She gasped for air, hard to tell if she was really there. But we tried with everything in us to connect with her. To tell her it’s ok, we love her, she's safe, and it’s ok to let go.

In peace.

She stopped breathing.

Breath is life.

Breath is life.

Breath is life.