For Mother, With Love and Essential Expensive Moisturizer

My mother’s end of life was precipitated by a fall. She barely made a sound when she hit the gold-flecked linoleum, what with her frail 86-year-old frame of skin, bones and determination. 

Always the sartorial perfectionist, she regarded her cane as a festive, holiday ornament, rather than something one would use to prevent a catastrophic tumble. It was adorned with bells and silver, and it lit up when the sun went down. She held it like a baton as though she were a cheerleader. 

There was no cheering the day she fell, though she did scream in agony in the aftermath—a portent of the beginning of the end. 

For my part and being the good daughter, I immediately called her doctor who refused to prescribe medication for her excruciating back pain; he was concerned she would become addicted. I protested to no avail. (Granted, her doc may have sensed the desperation in my voice. That or she tipped him off about her wayward daughter.)

Undeterred, I called a different, more pliable doctor who promptly obliged "my mother's" request, giving her (us) 100 Vicodin. My kind of man. My mother took (most of) the pills as prescribed and never got addicted. Six months after that fateful fall—we still don't know if she tripped over something or just collapsed—she was diagnosed with lung cancer, which she beat, and then lymphoma, which eventually took her out.

At that point, she considered her life over. She sat alone in her luxurious condo, crossing the days off the calendar, not unlike a prisoner on death row. I visited when I could. She pleaded with me, even then, to stay out of her kitchen. I was 58 years old and detested peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, so that wasn't a problem. 

Her new doctor coerced her into having lung surgery, threatening to fire her if she didn't acquiesce. Just another wonderful, compassionate medical professional—I’ve known a few. She got through that surgery—as an official cancer survivor—only to discover she had lymphoma. When told she needed chemotherapy, she asked, “What’s that?” She thought it was a card game like Canasta. I had to explain this was no card game. It was more of an end game.

She leaned into me and whispered, “I want to die.”

I encouraged her to share her wishes with the friendly doctor. She was in hospice the next day. She didn’t know what hospice was either, but she was thrilled that the Depends were free. Eleven days later, she was gone. 

Before she passed, she asked, "Was I a good mother?"

"The best," I lied. 

As a recovering addict, her Ativan and morphine were admittedly tempting, but recovery taught me to flush the contraband down the toilet and eat a doughnut instead. So that’s what I did. I was not a perfect daughter by any means, as demonstrated by the fact that I did, in fact, take two bottles of her Le Mer creme de Le Mer moisturizer after lovingly applying it one last time to her face just before she took her last breath. A special sendoff to the afterlife. She would have approved. Thanked me even. 

Because...priorities, hers.