Mom's Death

My Mother: Lillian Berneice (Childs) Middleton
October 5, 1922 to January 15, 2010

Mom had been in declining health so I knew it was just a matter of time before she would die. But when I went to Bartlesville the first weekend of October, 2009 for her birthday party, I was very surprised to find that she knew who I was. All five of us kids and other family members met at her nursing home, Heritage Villa, in Bartlesville and enjoyed a good feeling of being together as a family.

At first I thought Mom looked so awful and, likely too confused to know who I was. We were in a large room. Mom was in a wheel chair. The foot rests of the chair were pulled up so that her stocking feet partially touched the floor. As everyone was eating ice cream and cake and engaging in lively conversation, Mom began to move her wheel chair with her feet pulling herself along slowly with very tiny steps as she turned it toward the large open doorway to the corridor. I stood by her side, curious about what she was doing and thinking that she was just aimlessly pulling herself along.

To my surprise, she continued into the hallway then turned left down the hall leading past the lounge or TV room toward the lobby. As she progressed down the hall, I thought about how strong she had always been for such a little lady. As a child and teenager, her only means of transportation had been on foot. And in their later years she and Dad walked a four mile walk once or twice a day when the weather permitted. So, this feat of pulling herself along in that wheelchair in spite of her horrific looking physical condition really impressed me and made me question my assumption about her physical health.

When she came to the lounge area, she parked herself beside a nicely upholstered wingback chair. I could tell by her expression and posture that she wanted me to sit in the chair beside her. From our position in the hallway we had an excellent view into the TV lounge, a very lovely well decorated large room with a big fireplace at one end, large open entryways on each side, and lots of comfortable chairs with an assortment of nice tables and lamps. In the room, were a number of residents, some with family members or friends visiting them; each in various states of mental and physical impairment. But most prominent and interesting to me was the big flat screen TV on a wall directly across the room in front of me where a Dallas Cowboys game was being broadcast; the volume barely audible. As we sat there, I only smiled at Mom and touched her hand occasionally, thinking it futile to try to converse due to her confused mental state and the fact the she was no longer wearing the hearing aids that had been her lifeline since about 1962; ten years after she had lost practically all her hearing due to an ear infection which resulted in nerve damage.

Occasionally, a worker would pass by us and stop to greet Mom and me. I assumed this was done as much as a PR gesture as out of sincerity. But after a few more folks had greeted Mom and told me how much they enjoyed her spunk and spirit, I began to take them more sincerely. Finally the most incredible and unexpected thing happened. This very nice and energetic staff lady stopped to say hello to Mom and wished her a happy birthday. Even though Mom could barely speak and her voice had been basically incoherent before, I distinctly heard Mom tell the lady, “this is my only son”. That moment will be one of my most precious memories of Mom for as long as I live. With those few words, she made me realize that I had been wrong to avoid visiting her in these last three years of her life. But it also made my day because I knew that she was able to understand and appreciate the fact that her children cared enough about her to come together to honor her on her 87th birthday.

But still looming in my mind that afternoon was the dread of trying to say goodbye, knowing that she would likely begin begging me to take her home, to get her out of this lockup. Because I was the only child of hers who was not a regular visitor, after all the sisters and family members had gathered around us and one by one began to leave, I was left there with only sister Sandra, the one most dedicated to Mom’s care and personal oversight. She lived nearby and had been Mom’s closest family contact, taking her to church two or three times a week and to lunch on Sunday for several years until Mom became too ill to go out. Eventually, Sandra told Mom that she had to leave. Naturally, Mom began to ask Sandra in a barely intelligible voice to take her home with her. Sandra gently but firmly said no, offered reassurance that she would be back in a few days and walked away.

Now, I was there in the situation and circumstance that I had feared. What would be her reaction when I got up to leave. After all, my wife Judy was waiting for me out in the parking lot and I needed to handle this in the best way possible. To my surprise and to her eternal endearing credit, as I held her hand, stood up, and kissed her forehead; saying “Goodbye Mom, I love you”, she simply looked up at me peacefully with a loving look in her eyes and asked “when will you come back”? “Soon”, I softly replied, “soon”. With that I turned and walked toward the lobby and on out the door where Judy and others were waiting nearby. A strong feeling of emotion and many thoughts rushed through my mind as I left the building. My greatest fear or dread had only been a figment of my imagination. I know that Mom had often made life difficult for Sandra as she left after frequent visits. So why was she so kind and accepting of my leaving? Did she know it would be the last time I would see her?

Three months later, my sisters got the call. Mom was gravely ill and might last only one or two more days. So the three who were within 50 or so miles of Bartlesville came to her side and along with Hospice caregivers began what turned out to be a four or five day ordeal. On Thursday morning, the day before she finally died, the girls called me on my cell phone. I was in my office at work in downtown Houston. The Hospice workers were concerned that Mom continued to hold on, even after the girls had given her the most loving and tender care, letting her know that it was ok, that she had been a wonderful mother and lived a good life; that it was ok to go now. Even Geraldine had called and said goodbye from her home in Seadrift, TX. Now they felt that if only I would say goodbye that perhaps that would allow her to let go of the extremely determined and labored effort by which she continued to doggedly cling to a bare semblance of life.

On the phone with Elaine, I struggled with my thoughts on the subject, knowing that I didn’t believe in that concept of people maintaining life through sheer will in such a condition. But not wanting to add more stress to the highly emotional state they were already in, there in the room with Mom, I agreed. The sounds of Mom’s breathing and efforts to hold on were very unnerving as they held Elaine’s cell phone next to Mom’s ear; an ear into which they had inserted one of her hearing aids. Softly, I told Mom how much I loved her and told her what a great mother she had always been. I refrained from telling her to go.

After another long and tiring day, the sisters finally left for the night to get some rest, pausing to call me with an update. Elaine said that miraculously Mom’s color had returned to a nice pink after having been in various stages of blue with appearances of death. They were awakened around 1:45 by a phone call from Hospice. Mom had died quietly at 1:40 A.M. on Friday, January 15, 2010; the last of Willie and Katie Childs' children to die.