Painting Her Toes; letters from heaven

This has been one of the most difficult blog posts to write, yet also the most therapeutic.
The death of a loved one is a hard thing to process, more so, the permanence of it all. Yet it's something we will all experience in our lives. Everyone grieves differently, and according to everything I have read, "They" say, that it is all normal. Some completely lose it and are inconsolable for weeks, months and even years. And then some, just move on with life, without much of a hiccup after a major loss. Who's to say what's right or wrong... or that one may have loved deeper than another. We are unable to feel another's pain, or judge their intensity of grief. What we can do, is offer love, support, friendship and understanding. This is my story...

A few months ago, I received an email saying this..."Going thru a notebook, found this. I love you... and, oh man, did she ever love you. Thank you for being you."
Attached was this:

 

This letter was written March 2017, after I left a short visit with my stepmom, Dianne, in Florida. She wrote this out, planning to type it later and post it to Facebook along with a photo of her painted toes to brag about me. She never got around to posting it... which is okay, because when I received it, was in November 2017, over a month after she passed away. I believe, it was her letter to me from heaven. 

Di and me March 2017

September 21st 2017- Brad met me in the lobby and as we were walking into the entrance of the ICU, he warned me to "be prepared, she's not looking good". I knew already, there was no amount of preparation I could do for this. This woman who I just flew across the country to see, on a one way ticket, is my mother. Well, one of them anyway. She came into my life on my 2nd birthday and loved me and helped to raise me ever since. She married my dad when I was six years old, attended Brownies with me, and Karate classes, took me to the doctor, school conferences, planned play-dates and picked me up from school when I was ill. She was my primary caregiver in addition to my dad for the majority of my childhood.  The fact that she divorced my dad more than twenty years ago has had no bearing on our relationship. She has always remained in my life, as well as my kids and grand-kids lives. She has since remarried Brad, and had three additional stepdaughters. We are all family.

 I received the call the previous night that she had been placed on life support. I had come to visit her about a month ago, and she was in good spirits when I arrived August 30th. We spent two good days together and were able to take an overnight girls trip to Daytona Beach, have a wonderful dinner and do some shopping as well as play in the ocean a bit.  Now, just over three weeks later, she is hooked up to numerous IV's, has a breathing tube down her throat, is getting dialysis and has a catheter. She is unresponsive to my voice 99% of the time. There were two moments I think she may have been aware of my presence.

I had gotten a little over three hours of sleep the night prior to arriving here and am emotionally and physically drained. I feel very strongly that her spirit is no longer attached to the shell, her body... I feel like this is the end, like she doesn't want to fight anymore. I want to tell her that it's okay, she doesn't have to hold on. She can let go and be at peace.

I hear Brad tell her to fight, that it's not her time. He needs her. And I realize that although she was one of the main people in my past, and has had a huge part in creating who I am today, I have my own family. I have my husband, my kids and my grand-kids. As much as I love her, and want to spend many more special moments with her.... she's not the focal point in my life, as she is his.  He is not ready to move forward without her. She was my past, but she is his future. I can't even imagine how difficult that must be.

All I want is some time alone with her, I want to climb in her hospital bed and snuggle up to her and tell her, and maybe myself, it will be ok...but I cant. I can barely hug her or kiss her. There are so many machines and tubes attached to her. She is bloody and bruised from all of the pokes and prods. Her eyes aren't open, but they're not closed either. She doesn't focus. Her feet twitch every once in a while. She seemed to squeeze my hand once, but I'm not sure if it was intentional.

I know the staff is here to help, I feel frustrated though because I always feel as if I am in their way. Don't they know I am her daughter, it's me she wants to help her, not them. I comply, I realize I am being emotionally irrational. The constant beeping, the alarms, are so overwhelming. At one point a suction machine turned on that was sucking blood and mucous from her mouth but no one had prepared us for that. She started thrashing like she couldn't breathe and the gurgling choking noise was so scary that I ran out and yelled "We need help!" Many people came running in, but when they realized what we were worried about, they were irritated.  I got a talking to by her nurse who happened to be right outside her door and didn't seem concerned at all.  This type of thing they see all of the time. This is their job, waiting and watching while people die and the families grieve.

After staying the night, so Brad (being at her bedside for two days straight) could go home and shower and rest a little, it was time for a shift change. Brad came back and I left to the coffee shop for a couple hours. Upon my return, he was waiting outside, agitated. He said that the doctor had a conversation with him that upset him. They addressed with him her desire for resuscitation. Basically, up until that point, there was hope for a miracle, that she would pull through. That time had passed. She was in major organ failure with tubes helping her breathe, and medicine making her heart continue to beat. She was on continuous dialysis and had too many IV's to count. The staff told him that if she went into cardiac arrest, and they tried to resuscitate, they would inevitably break her ribs and she would be in horrible pain, yet most likely would never recover again. How... does one accept that kind of news about your spouse that you planned to spend many more years with? Needless to say, the news didn't surprise me. I had already come to that conclusion. We talked about our feelings, and the reality of the situation at hand and we cried.

The amazing thing, was that amidst conflict in the past with Brad and I, at this time, this horribly difficult time, we honored each other. I wish I could teach everyone to do that... with grace and compassion. He, as her husband, had the ultimate decision making power, and me, as her "ex step-daughter" had no legal rights, had it not been for a Health Care directive. At this time though, it wasn't about legality... we were a team. Fighting for the life that we so wanted to protect. I was honored and so grateful that he took my desires into consideration.

Other family members began showing up, her sister and sister in law, and her middle stepdaughter, Erin. We cried, we talked, we sat and waited. I decided that Di needed a pedicure. I had given her one approximately six months ago, right after her initial diagnosis.

March 2017- Di called me on her birthday right after they'd gotten home from the hospital to tell me that the ER doctor told her and Brad that she's in liver failure... that "she'd either need a transplant or it was just a matter of time". She told me she was scared. When I asked her if she wanted me to come visit, she said "yes, that would be nice" without a pause. That told me how truly scared she was. Later that day, I booked a flight for the following week. While there, we shopped for organic food, I cooked for her... all the healthy goodies she liked. We laid by the pool, we talked, we laughed and a few moments, we cried. At one point, I was sitting outside getting some sun and she came out and just stood there quietly. I asked her what was wrong and she started to cry, "I'm scared" she said. We hugged and she thanked me profusely for coming. The night before I left, we were working on a puzzle in the kitchen, and I decided, she needed a pedicure. So, we got a tub, I washed her feet, massaged them and painted her toes. She was beaming, and raving how sweet I was for days. <3

Di, me and Skylar June 2016

So, when my stepsister told me she was coming to Florida, was there anything we needed, I asked her to bring nail polish, and she did.  As we were all sitting around Di's bedside, in the ICU, we decided it was time. She was unresponsive, we had all come to the realization that this was the end. This is our final goodbye. We put chap-stick on her very dry lips, massaged her hands, legs and feet with lotion and Erin and I painted her toes.