Determined To Succeed

I don’t know exactly where to begin when it comes to putting memories of my mom, JoAnn, to words. So I guess I will begin at the end.

My mom, JoAnn, who grew up in Cicero, Illinois, passed away on Tuesday, June 9, 2009 from pancreatic cancer.  Pancreatic cancer is the sneakiest, worst and most evil of cancers because when you find out you have it (which is usually Stage Four) it’s too late. Pancreatic cancer “presents” itself when it gets so bad it causes some type of other physical symptom. In my mom’s case, it was jaundice.

I was getting my hair cut on the afternoon of Friday, May 22.  Since I was having a stressful time at work I wanted to relax while getting my haircut in my favorite salon (yes, sometimes, I pamper myself that way). So, I left my phone in the car. I figured “who’d call me in the hour I’d be in there.”

My Aunt Linda, that’s who.

When I left the salon, I went to the car and saw Linda didn’t call just once. She called four times. My heart began to race as I dialed my voice-mail. You see, for the past couple of years my mom had been in and out of hospitals with her diabetes and other circulatory problems. In fact, Christmas 2008 was spent at her hospital bedside. Hell, at least I knew she was getting good care so it was, ironically, the time when I could relax and just be with her.

But this time was different. Linda’s voice had an immediacy to it I’d never heard before. “Bill. You need to call me as soon as you get this. I don’t want to leave this on a message.”

When I called Linda said she had never seen anything like it. My mom instantly went yellow. They rushed her to the doctor and admitted her. That was May 22.

On May 23, the doctors told me about a “mass” on her pancreas, and after some consultations with oncology it was confirmed as pancreatic cancer, the Malifacent of all cancers, on Sunday, May 24, 2009.

I rushed to her bedside as soon as I could, which was that following Tuesday and, except for a couple of days where I came back to take care of some work things, I was at her bedside the rest of the time. She was transferred from hospital care to hospice on Wednesday, June 3, 2009.

That was the last move she ever made.

I have to say the people who work in hospice care are true angels on this planet. They know when patients come to them it’s for end-of-life care. For them to deal with that and give the amount of care and compassion they do on a daily basis is nothing short of remarkable. I will be forever in their debt for their care of my mama.

When Tuesday morning came I went, as I always did, to the hospice unit and my mom’s breathing had taken a bad turn, even from just a few hours before. Hours passed and she took less and less breaths. Her limbs were growing cold. I played some movie music on my computer to help ease her and I told her it was OK to go. I was watching her, holding her increasingly colder hand  for as long as I could until finally I watched her pass away peacefully at 5:00 p.m.

I was so surprised that, even though my mom had a room next to the busy Cicero street, there wasn’t a sound. It was as if the whole world had stopped to observe a moment of silence as my mom took her last breath at “quittin’ time.” Just then, an overwhelming sense of peace came to me, as if her spirit passed through my body to tell me it was OK, now. Everything’s fine. No more pain and suffering. My mom was now healed and all better, just not here on Earth.

Just as I walked out of the room so that the wonderful hospice nurses could tend to her the daughter of my mom’s roommate came out and talked to me. She was teary-eyed herself but not because of my mom. In fact she didn’t even know my mom had passed until much later. No. She needed a hug and some talking to about her own mom, who was lying in the bed next to my mother’s. I couldn’t believe what I did next. I actually had the strength through that peaceful wave that washed over me to hold this woman and talk with her about her mom. We are both only children, you see, even though this other only child was about 25 years older than me. I held her and gave her a hug and said, no matter what, her mom would soon be at peace. That she was a good daughter. That she was doing what she was supposed to do and just be there (a bitter pill for me to swallow since I wanted to fix everything just a few days before). I held this poor woman’s hand and said that it would be OK. I knew it would be. That even though death is painful, it’s a part of this life. A sucky part, but a part, nonetheless. And it was happening the way it should happen. Where we, the children, say good-bye to our parents and do their memories honor by being the best children we can be – for them and ourselves.

According to her wishes my mom was cremated without much fuss (she never did want a big to-do, nor did she want any kind of traditional wake) and I spread her ashes in East End Park which is now called Harold Washington Park (after Chicago’s late, great mayor), the park she took me when I was a kid. It was raining lightly and beautiful and everything was so green. It was so green that you could almost touch the color itself without the leaves. I clutched my mom’s ashes and took a walk, alone, in the park.

I was glad it was raining. That meant no one was around. I was glad it was raining. No one could see me cry if they were there. I started having a panic attack. Where would I spread my mom’s ashes? Which part of the park? Not the childrens part. Not here. Not there. It finally came to me that we had so many good times just walking and talking so that’s what I did. I talked to my mom and I let the ashes drain slowly from their plastic bag. It was beautiful, and rainy and warm and it was just me and her.

When the ashes were all scattered in a winding path in the grass throughout the park I stood there and cried. I cried because that was the last time I was ever going to get to hold my mom.

Over these past few months I have been saying good-bye in different ways again and again. Taking care of her bills and estate and finalizing things with lawyers and insurance companies (who have all been wonderful, actually). And I continue to say good-bye again and again as the bills are taken care of one-by-one. Letting go of my mom’s physical self a little bit every time.

But the one thing I am so grateful for is photos. I always took them for granted so, so much when I was growing up. I hated pictures of me (and still do), but it wasn’t until I found old pictures and negatives of my mom that I found that sense of peace again. Not just from knowing she was healed in every way and in far better places, but seeing these photos and reconnecting with her as she was living. Some photos taken before I was a gleam in her eye. That was cool, too. To look at this young girl, this young woman who would become my precious mother. It was nothing short of a miracle.

So on these pages devoted to her I will share with you more memories and photos. And before I forget the reason I started at the end in the first place I wanted to share to share this photo in particular – the last one that I know of taken of this remarkable woman, JoAnn Larson. It was from 2007 and she is with our old cat, Spooky (we found him around Halloween – go figure).

Admittedly I cropped out her surroundings because they are not how I want you guys to see my mom. She lived in a state of disarray, in a state of constant mess both mentally sometimes and definitely physically. What I cropped out was the mess of her room. I did this so you could concentrate on her face. Her smile. The smile of my ma (the way we Chicagoans say mom) when she was 68-years-old and we hadn’t yet known that this ugly cancer was growing inside her.

I just look at her face (the original of this picture is on my desk) and I smile, and sometimes cry. I miss my mom and her voice so much and always will. But thank God for photos. Whether they are taken with the mind’s eye or with a camera, they help us to remember that our loved ones are with us always and forever.