The Last Days Hospice
I lose count,
of days, of money,
of calories.
The latter may seem trifle.
But in the mental maze of
small mind it has been
an abacus.
Sharp ideas
have lost their point.
I have tried to make sense
of the senseless,
to mitigate the meaning,
the process of death.
With all my will I strive
to accompany my mama
on this road;
mind side by side
with her mind,
present to her trauma,
whispering,
You are Christ,
You are holy,
a child of the Utmost;
pulling her into my breath
where she could not breathe,
pulling her out of her body
when it made her scream,
Don’t touch me. I’d rather die!
The pain, a giant ogre,
stalked us as we journeyed
a forest of impossible choices.
I stumble,
a Victoria who bends
to wipe the face of Jesus
finding she has smeared it
with her own snotty mess —
had hoped to lift him up
but knees fail as she stretches
to sop His blood-sweat-tears,
slamming hard against the cross.
Victoria had no victory.
She left Him with regrets
I weep like Mary
who knew that freedom
for every son of God
was just a ways beyond
that tree.
But oh Father
red rivers must be crossed.
She wept with strength,
with flippers on her feet.
Mama breathes
like a marathon runner.
This world does not have
oxygen enough.
Something in me purges.
My body develops
a bronchial ailment…
lungs torched,
the fire on for days.
Jess says,
Separation anxiety
singes the heart.
It’s the fire of guilt,
the fear I am responsible,
having assumed my place
as master of ceremonies,
having taken the job.
You know,
wanting to be god
when I cannot see God
because death overwhelms
the socket circuits.
There was this little conversation…
Mama stepping back
from her own small mind,
Who witnessed the devastation.
What happened to her?
(She meant herself.)
You fell, Mama.
Is it bad?
Yes, you broke a hip.
The tips of her mind fingers
turn this over,
feeling in earnest
the demise of the flesh.
Can she walk?
No, you will not be
able to walk now.
Can she go home?
No. I’m so sorry.
We are doing everything
possible to make you comfortable.
I love you so much.
I love you so much.
Under closed eyelids
a sparse sprout of tears.
Rivulets of lava
crisscross my heart.
What kind of
path to God is this?
Talking to myself,
I feel helpless.
Truth is the path to freedom.
Remember what is true.
But then I want to moan
out loud
in protest to her agony.
She moans long
instead.
The pain button becomes
both foe and friend,
gesture of hope to relieve,
bitter bargain that speeds
the end of cherished
consciousness.
The nurse brings another dose
of Dilaudid.
Die-lord-id?
Like a wrench loosening the psyche,
suffering unhinges self-sacrificial wishes.
Maybe I can take on some of her pain?
I shudder, I forget,
Mama and I are Spirit.
In this morbid place
I seek her death as my escape,
a hatch door which
will finally open
to some greater heaven.
Jess is whispery,
There is no death,
no opposite to Life.
no hatch door
through which
part of Mama flies,
another part,
yet left behind.
Death goes nowhere,
having never been.
It is illusion of ending,
a mind-bending-sending
of the Son of God to hell.
My faith in dying digs deep roots.
Whatever we share increases.
Whatever we believe invests.
My belief that Mama is just this body
is equally intellectually burrowed.
Her suffering is proof, evidence,
the Will of God is cruel.
The Love of the Father
lacking or worse,
apathetic to the child.
Does He exist?
His Voice asks back,
Do I?
There are so many things
I demand to understand,
understanding itself insufficient.
Morning refreshes my heart.
I open the double doors to the hospice veranda.
The garden is lush with green.
I mark my journal.
In death, as in life, we project our expectations.
Wanting others to behave in ways we believe
relieve our fears, ways that will make us happy.
Hurry up! Or, please! slow down. We state our needs
hastening loved ones to sever the tie
to save us pain! to save us strife!
We cry,
You can go, you can leave, we’ll be fine.
Even, the euphemistic, just look for the light!
The other persuasion, also narcissistic,
Hang on, hang in. Beat the grim reaper.
Whatever you do, don’t give up!
It is all about us.
Always all about us.
I want to pray before others arrive.
She is sensitive to any movement.
Resting my hands lightly on her chest,
I wonder if my touch will bring pain.
She breathes with labor, then
elongated periods of breathlessness..
For a while I listen to the abnormal rhythm,
asking Jess to use me,
I am willing to be a conduit…
Mind stops praying,
un-questioning, unsaying
everything.
Peace lightly envelops.
We must drop expectation now.
Set her free from your needs and wishes.
Wants and perceptions,
these, your limits.
Entrust time
to the Watch
of the One Who is timeless.
An Ah ha experience!
My best intentions Seen,
a set of purloined ideas,
frames for death and dying,
images of fear.
There is no dying with dignity.
Death is a liar.
A hell of a brain fryer…
Only,
Mama Her Self is
the Law of God,
Being True, She never
broke a bone, lost a mind,
or found Her Self apart
from everlasting Love.
I slip into acceptance.
Still there is a shadow,
a lingering question unsaid …
He answers quietly,
not today.
I wonder, how to be a teacher of God
through these neurotic days?
How do I act, and speak and behave?
Even you, Jess, raised Lazarus
with a heart that sighed and wept.
I feel profoundly powerless,
especially if Mama is grimacing,
Like an amnesiac
on Manhattan’s subway,
part of my mind
cannot find home.
The tempter accuses…
Compassion, insignificant.
Your Love not good enough.
Your Love not deep enough.
And in the background
a little ego chirps
of personal life neglected.
Mama is going back to the beginning.
Friends bring pictures of her in the prime of youth.
There are pictures of me held in her arms.
Like scenes from a movie,
I do not know this little girl.
I do not know her mother.
Everything I perceive is black and white,
ghostly surreal.
I dream
and watch myself unpeel
the roles that we have taken.
Jess offers a cure…
Can you imagine the effect of one pure heart
in a dark room of death-idolizers?
One who denies the triumph of substance?
One who hovers as Spirit, as Light?
Denier of the denial of Life…
simply affirming God-forever.
Here is a blessed thought to consider.
There is no death.
Neither is the temporary made for the eternal.
Your mama,
before ever knowing the role of MaryBeth’s mother,
is and has always been
a child of God, an Extension of Our Father
co-creator in His Spirit, and you,
among Her spiritual weavings!
Give thanks for the perfect prodigal child,
her human love which gave you life,
and for the soul Who never lost its dominion
Who is at Home even now
supping at the Table of Love.
Thank you,
Child of God, Maria Antonieta Spadaro Scalice Palermo.
Mama, I love you and I will to remember you always
as part of God and part of me, we the family of Christ,
not merely born of men, but children of eternal Life.
She waited till the full moon,
and the feast of Our Lady,
whose pictures, whose face
decorated her living space;
to whom she had consecrated her days.
She left so gently,
tiptoeing out into the morning,
before the sun could heat the pavement.
She gave me a chance to say good bye.
I am here Mama,
I am here.
I love you.
Take care.
I turned to my daughter,
Who drew me near.
I love you Mama.
I am here!
I love you
mama…