My mother is at the end of her life. She’s in hospice care, cared for in a place where she’s lived for many years, near one of my four brothers. When it was obvious to us all that she was beginning her downward journey, she said to me, “I don’t mind what happens next. I just want to be comfortable, and for you children to be happy.”
Which is what we wanted for her too, I said. And for myself, at the end of my own life.
That first time, the first emergency when we all descended on her, and the nurses worried because she wouldn’t eat, I brought chocolate. Weak as she was, she helped herself. The box was gone by the end of the day, and she sent me out for more. Luckily, See’s has stores everywhere in California.
The nurse, seeing her untouched dinner, said worriedly, “Is this normal for her?”
“It is after she’s had most of a pound of See’s candy,” I said.
Then Mom wanted dim sum. I went out for that. She ate it greedily, and broke out in a rash. It turned out she was allergic to shrimp. She’d never told me. “Why did you eat it when you knew you were allergic?” I asked. “Oh,” she said. “It just tasted too good. I couldn’t resist.”
Each time she took another dive downward, we all reappeared with chocolate. Three times the nurse told us she only had a week at most to live. Every time the nurse couldn’t figure out what had happened as she stabilized, enjoying her meals again.
We all knew. It was the love that the company and the food applied directly to her heart—the energy. We all got energy in return. As my youngest brother said—he who had to travel the farthest each time we worried it would be the last—”This is exhausting. But so rewarding as well.”
Completely right.
This last time, there was a family Zoom, with the nurse explaining there could only be a few days left— “The Lasik’s just isn’t working.” We exchanged dates of arrival: airports, trains, cars. We planned the funeral. We cried.
As we arrived, the chocolate came, too. And she revived again.
The first day I got there, she asked if I would eat meals with her. “It’s so boring eating alone,” she said.
“Of course,” I said. “What shall we eat tonight?”
Her eyes gleamed. “Sushi!” So I went out and got a big batch of sushi, with a little bottle of sake for us to share.
“Oh,” she said as I poured it out, and we toasted. “I’m going to get drunk.”
“Well in that case, I won’t let you drive,” I said. We both laughed hard at that. The nurses had warned me that laughing made her need for oxygen more acute. But it was obvious to me and my brothers that the benefit way outweighed the risks.
My mother revived like a flower. As we ate our sushi, she looked up at me and smiled.
“This,” she said, picking up another bit of tuna roll, “is what makes life worth living.”
I said, “Mother, I certainly am your daughter.”
She laughed again, and we ate and drank, and laughed some more. It was a wonderful evening altogether.
Laughter, as they so rightly say, being the best medicine. Though it helps if it comes with lashings of chocolate.
And love. That’s what it all comes down to. Laughing, eating, loving. That’s what makes life worth living. She said it, and Mother knows best.