Those Who Mourn

by Lisa Livezey

I know, O LORD, that the way of man is not in himself, that it is not in man who walks to direct his steps. – Jeremiah 10:23

Autumn Morning, Adolf Kaufmann

My mom had dementia from Alzheimer’s, but she always knew me – until one Saturday close to a year after Dad died. On this evening, when I entered the kitchen where she was eating dinner, I could tell she didn’t recognize me.

I sat with Mom and her aide Joann as Mom finished up her meal. “Beth, it’s time to go upstairs and get ready for bed,” the aide said kindly. Mom pushed back her chair and stood up. Joann came alongside her, gently taking one arm to guide her into the next room. Mom didn’t move.

She wasn’t being belligerent, but somehow she didn’t remember how to place one foot in front of the other. I stood and took Mom’s other arm and together Joann and I gently led and persistently pushed and pulled Mom, getting her to move through the dining room and into the living room. After thirty minutes, we finally stood before the six steps leading up to the hall. And there we were stuck. Mom no longer seemed to know how to climb steps. For fifteen minutes, I kept encouraging her to lift her foot, to no avail. I finally pressed behind her knee, got it to bend, and manually lifted her right foot up onto the bottom step. Then I followed suit with her left knee and foot. And that’s how we got Mom up the steps that night.

In later years, we called it “The Blue Room.” The walls were a warm yellow color and the shag rug, an older carpet, featured several different shades of blue mixed among the fibers.

It was the largest of the four bedrooms, the one which my sister and I once shared. In more recent years, it had been a guest bedroom for the many missionaries and friends that my parents hosted. It held a king-sized bed, large closet, and direct door to the hall bathroom.

Mom had been sleeping in this room for the last couple of months, making it easier to attend to her showering and personal needs. Things had been getting messier and I’d already cut away half the rug, pulling it up and excising portions with a razor knife. The hardwood floor underneath was easier to wipe up.

I told the hospice deliverymen to place the hospital bed in the corner of the blue room, nearest the bathroom door. This was the very same corner where my grandmother’s hospital bed had stood thirty years earlier when Mom lovingly nursed her through end-stage cancer and where she had passed away. It was the same corner where fourteen months earlier, my daughter had brought forth a baby boy in a beautiful home birth.

This room was a portal for life, both in and out of this world. Now the door to the next life was again opening – this time for my mom.

As Mom’s life was fading, we kept vigil by her bedside. Adjacent to Mom’s hospital bed sat the king-sized bed, which allowed me to rest comfortably overnight. During the day, Mom’s faithful aide was present and hospice staff sifted in and out – the nurse, social worker, hospice aide, chaplain. There was a grief counselor on call, who promised availability for an entire year after Mom died.

With a tiny syringe, we administered medication and water, squeezing them into the corner of Mom’s mouth. I could hear her swallow the liquid. Also given were strong painkillers to ease her moments of agitation and restlessness.

In the afternoon came a lull as Mom slept. Feeling weary, I stretched out beneath the bedspread of the king-sized bed and closed my eyes. 

My daughter entered the room and sat quietly at the bedside of her beloved “Gigi.” After a time, she approached the king-sized bed and lifted the bedspread. Then, my daughter climbed in beside me. We spoke not, but just lay beneath the cover, our mutual grief providing a blanket of comfort and support. She remained there with me for an hour or more as I recalled times she’d spent as a child with Gigi – playing, painting, eating popcorn, and for six months as a teenager, living in one of the bedrooms here. Deep within all of us, gentle transitions were taking place.

“She looked so peaceful and at rest,” the funeral director said while we were making arrangements for the interment of my mother’s body. Wow, I thought, He sees a lot of dead people. The difference in Mom must have been remarkable.

I recalled Mom’s final hours a couple days earlier. Physically, she was clean and comfortable, thanks to hospice help. Spiritually, she had hope due to her deep Christian faith, and emotionally she looked forward to seeing Dad in heaven. Mom had fought the good earthly fight, keeping on through hard times.

My sister lived two thousand miles away but had now arrived to keep vigil with me during Mom’s last days. Even though my sister didn’t profess faith in the Lord, it was her idea to sing “Amazing Grace.” While we sang, Mom peacefully passed away.

After Dad’s death a year earlier, caregiving responsibilities had careened down upon me. The relentless demands were both hands-on and administrative. Nine months into non-stop days brought about some wise advice and I realized something needed to change. “Lord,” I prayed, “Mom loves being at home, but I can’t do this much longer. When the year anniversary of Dad’s death comes, I will place Mom in a care facility.” I comforted myself at the time, thinking at least I’d have kept Mom at home for an entire year.

The paperwork to admit Mom to a nursing home was on my desk when she suddenly suffered rapid decline. And Mom entered glory on a Sunday morning—exactly 365 days after Dad.

Thank you, Lord, for hearing and answering our prayers. Amen

This post is an excerpt from Lisa’s book, Minding Mom: A Caregiver’s Devotional Story. (This is an affiliate link to her book.)

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