Forgive the length of this, my friends. I cannot do justice to my mom and God without sharing all of the little graces and miracles that have happened. I think it will be worth your time and give you confidence in God and His hand upon you.
The past two years have been difficult. We knew my mom was struggling with decline, which we attributed to her age, but gradually understood that Dementia had taken the wheel, and this journey was a certain “School of Mercy” for me and my sisters. It is an ongoing “education” of reflecting on our mom, her life and how she loved.
Dementia is a School of Mercy
Each visit with my mom over the past few years brought with it little glimpses of her mind struggling to work, grasping for reality and understanding, trying so very hard not to lose face with those she encountered. Fiercely independent, she never wanted anyone to think she couldn’t handle life. She loved to be consulted and put on her “cape” and swoop in to rescue people. She was the boss. None of this “old lady” stuff would do. It was only when she had a run-away infection in July that landed her in the hospital, admitted for treatment, was she finally unable to hide just how much she was suffering. (Surrendering)
In mid-November, the shift in my mom’s dementia had changed dramatically. Each visit I arrived with a pit in my gut at what I might be walking into. Would she be angry with me? This had happened before and was wrenching for my sensitivities and “people-pleasing” heart, which was a real lesson in loving through hurt. Would she remember who I am? We had heard from her close friend that she had started to confuse her for another friend. We knew it may happen to us, her four daughters, as well. (More surrendering)
In her room at the memory care center, she and I were now having conversations with the characters of her favorite show “Murder, She Wrote”, and ingratiating real into not-so-real, old into new, yesterday into today. She would read addresses out loud, line by line to me from an address book she found that must have been at least 30 years old.
It’s a mystery and honor to walk with someone with dementia. The phrase my friend always uses, “the long good-bye”, best fits how we get to slowly lose them and have time to say things we want to say, even if they don’t always understand, and for that I am grateful.
There is no denying in my mind that God is certainly at work in that labyrinth of the brain of those dealing with Dementia, going back and healing and working with the person on their past wounds and relationships. I have heard so many difficult but dynamic stories about people with parents who suffer with dementia and the miraculous way God works His mercy through this horrible disease.
Talking Code
One particular conversation on repeat that November trip was the conversation my mom had had with “Paul”, and she would add “last night”. She would say, “Last night when Paul and I were talking,” and “yes I told Paul that last night.” Strangely enough for my mom, (especially in the last days) that her brother Paul had gone from this life many years before, and she had always encouraged us to pray for his soul. He was always on her heart, and she had always called him “Uncle Paul” for our sake. One of the memories we visited about Uncle Paul, as I sat on her little couch with her, “Murder She Wrote” blaring in the background, was a picture of him when he played basketball in his youth. It puzzled me immensely that she knew he was gone in this context but kept saying, “When I talked to Paul last night.” She had been mixing realities from now and years ago, but this felt different.
When I returned home from that trip, I had learned that my dad’s brother, Paul, had died during the weekend my mom was referring to chatting with “Paul last night” (not “Uncle Paul”, as she always called her brother). My other “Uncle Paul” was a kind man, also dealing with dementia, and the last of my dad’s brothers. It was a bittersweet revelation.
A Quick Decline
Two weeks later, for Thanksgiving some other family members were visiting mom and sent some pictures from their visit. I was shocked at her appearance. She just looked off in the pictures in a more profound way than before. Something in my gut told me it wasn’t good. One hour after my little sister left to go back to New York from visiting my mom, the nurse called to say that my mother had slumped over, and was very weak. It was like the clock struck an alarm and she shut down. Within a week hospice was in, and she was in the hospital bed she would never get up from again.
A former prayer team member of mine I hadn’t seen for over 15 years ended up being my mom’s hospice nurse (another little sign that God was walking this difficult path with us). I called her one evening “as a friend” to get the real story. “Come sooner than later” she said.
She told me that the only intelligible thing she was able to discern my mom tell her during her initial evaluation the week after Thanksgiving, was when my mom said, “I am going on a trip to the feet of Our Lady,” and to my friend the hospice nurse, that was code for someone getting ready to depart.
One Mother To Another
We had been shocked and amazed that despite her limitations, especially after her stroke, had not yet stopped her from this rigorous trip. She would always take people with her–whoever she felt inspired to invite–often after Eucharistic communion or adoration, when she prayed deeply for God’s will to be done in her life. She often paid for people to go as well which made us all uneasy, wondering where an 80-something woman would get this kind of money, but we knew of one friend who was like a son to her, who made many things possible, and she always trusted in God’s miraculous provision, and it never failed her.
My mom’s devotion to Mary, the Blessed Mother of God, has always been part of her faith life. In fact, when she was born the 11th birth to a big Irish family, she was devoted to the Blessed Mother and for the first 7 years of her life, she wore blue in honor of “Our Lady”. On her 8th birthday, she got a red dress. She was born on a Marian feast day of course. She never stopped sharing about “Our Lady and her Son” to anyone who would listen.
When I arrived at the memory care center a few days later, my mom looked into my eyes and started crying. She looked like a totally different person who had aged 20 years since the three weeks before. She mumbled weakly something about “my babies”. I was scared of the moment my mom wouldn’t recognize me anymore due to her dementia, but mercifully, that never happened. She and I collected ourselves and she looked me in the eyes and asked, “Is it Medjugorje time?” I answered, “It’s Medjugorje time whenever you want it to be, Mom.”
These are the things we discussed, but in the end, we knew that where we agreed was the fact that we are loved, forgiven and it never hurts to pray (lift our hearts to the Lord) for anyone or anything in our lives, whether or not we believe that prayers after death are helpful or not. In the end, I would rather be on the right side of wrong, meaning it doesn’t cost me anything to remember and pray for my mom’s soul, nothing is wasted in prayer.
Medjugorje is a beautiful little village in Bosnia-Herzegovina. My mom had made a pilgrimage there every year for the past 18 years. One day, this past September, on the very day it was validated as a place for devotion by the Church, my husband and I were traveling on our anniversary trip in Croatia, and drove to Bosnia. Our trip was supposed to be a surprise for my mom who was planning to be there. She never stopped asking me to go with her, and I knew that the best gift I could give her would be to show up there with her at the Holy Mass, across the world, in her favorite place. It would have been the ultimate gift, but my mom was declining too quickly and could not make the trip. She would never know that I went to surprise her. Instead I lit candles for her and prayed for her. I never told her I went. I thought it may break her heart because she wanted to be with me when I saw it. I am guessing that now she knows.
We were told multiple times by the staff at the memory care center, and the people who came from the local parish to bring communion to my mom that my mom was packed and waiting at the door for her “driver to come and pick her up and take her to the airport because she was going to Medjugorje.” It took a while for these people to become the wiser of this determined lady, that she was not actually going to be leaving on a trip. She wanted nothing more than to go back there and it broke our hearts for her she would not be making that final trip due to such decline.
Dentists, Priests and Purgatory
Once she invited a young dentist she had helped hire as one of her guest pilgrims, and he, a “lukewarm” Catholic at the time, went along and on that trip, and heard his call to the priesthood. Doctor…I mean FATHER Stephen, gave the words of remembrance at her funeral. Mom and I joked that Fr Steve was probably giving penance for his people after confession, like “go get a filling” or “floss twice a day for a week” because he had been a dentist in the same city where he was now a priest!
Fr Steve’s words of remembrance were inspired and he spoke the words my mom wanted him to say. Namely, that we should never assume someone is in heaven, and she wanted us to continue to pray for her soul after she died, never giving up on the hope she had in Christ.
Famous Last Words
Fr Steve asked her a week before she died what she may say to Jesus when she meets him, and she uttered “I could have done more.” He encouraged us to pray because we should never assume anyone is in heaven.
This deeply bothered many people in the church that day, mostly to the tune of “if she isn’t in heaven, then the rest of us have no hope!” But this is not the attitude she would have wanted us to extract from her words.
A few days later, a bunch of extended family gathered for dinner and discussion ensued with struggles about why we would doubt the salvation of this woman who lived her life giving away all her money to help others, and never stopped evangelizing others to love Jesus and to let his holy Mother help them with all they need. I found myself trying to explain Purgatory and the ancient practice of offering prayers for souls that have passed.
We discussed the residual effects of our sins, and dispositions of our hearts when we die, for which only God knows the deepest recesses, and how all of our salvation secured through the death of Jesus Christ, still allows for free will. Not to mention the enemy’s inevitable lies to convince us we are not “worthy” or we have sinned too much to be forgiven. God’s mercy is endless and we should never doubt it, but when it comes to our will, intellect and illumination of our life’s choices, does there lie a possibility that we could fall prey to the enemies deception? Or that the deepest truth of our hearts is not in earnest, but rather selfishly dispositioned?
We all agreed that having a discussion about faith over dinner and drinks could not have been more pleasing to my mom. It was what she loved to do the most. Our friend, Father Black, who gave the funeral mass and homily, shared that my mom’s favorite thing to do was dine out and “break bread” while telling stories and talking about faith.
As we continued this spiritual conversation in the car on the way home from the funeral trip, and continued to ponder these things in our hearts, as death causes all of us to pause and recollect, I surrendered what felt I may not have conveyed or explained. But in the days following, I received two confirmations from the Lord about how I defended my mom’s wishes to continue to pray for her salvation, even after her passing.
I Could Have Done More
We went to mass the next Sunday and the homily given by our deacon began with the retelling of a movie which collected many awards in its day. The movie, “Schindler’s List“, is about the munitions factory owner, Schindler, who managed to save some Jewish workers from certain death in the concentration camps by convincing Nazi officers that his workers were valuable and necessary to the war cause by their contribution in his factory. In one of the final scenes, (spoiler alert) as the workers thanked him for sparing their lives, he looked around and said, “I could have done more.“
My family in attendance and I looked with mouths agape and tears in our eyes at one another, some of Grammy’s last words lingering in the air around us as a prophetic message.
The question that is argued among Christians today, whether we are saved by grace or by works, really isn’t the question at all. The question is that because we are saved by grace, how much can we afford to permit ourselves to set aside what we can and must do to serve Christ in the world, not by attacking others with expectations, but by our example of love and generosity. But how much are we expected to give?
How Much is Enough?
I heard a good measure the other day. The answer is, if it isn’t costing me something, it’s not enough. I believe every good act of generosity out of love, even a smile, makes a difference. But we also shouldn’t let ourselves off easy. As I am one to be hard on myself (not from God, I know) what happened before my mom’s funeral mass could have wrecked me, but it didn’t.
Freedom Despite Heartache
I became very sick the morning we were to leave for the trip for the funeral. Somehow my husband convinced me to get in the car, thinking I had a migraine and a little Advil would soon take effect. After one of the longest days of my life in snow and traffic and being miserable, we finally made it to the hotel after more than 10 hours, in what is usually a six-hour trip. I had a fever and was feeling worse than before and fell into that hotel bed crying and exhausted. I knew I would not make it to the funeral in the morning.
That night I had a dream. I dreamt I was explaining to my dad that I could not be at the funeral mass. He was in a black suit on the way to the funeral.
My dad passed away three years ago. My mother’s funeral was on what would have been his 90th birthday. They had been divorced almost as long as they had been married. I had always prayed for their forgiveness for one another. When I woke up from that dream, I felt such a strange sense that my dad was trying to tell me to rest. That he was going to be there, and I didn’t need to worry about missing it.
As I laid in the hotel room, imagining the Holy Mass for my mother; my mom’s friend, Cecile with her operatic soprano voice singing a farewell song to the tune of “Danny Boy”; Fr Steve and Fr Black words of remembrance; “Amazing Grace” playing on the bagpipes that escorted my mom out of the church; I was overcome with a peace that I cannot explain. I was having my own little funeral for my mom, in my heart, alone in that hotel room. I gave my misery, sadness, pain and discomfort, as an offering–a prayer–for my mom’s soul, as she had requested from us all of her life to continue to pray for her after she died. I was loved by my mother, and she knew that I loved her. And we were loved by God. Even if someone has had a bad relationship with their mother, there is something that goes beyond the hurts of this world in the heavenly realm. I was so grateful to my earthly mother for introducing me to my heavenly mother, when things didn’t go smoothly or I needed extra help in this life, she takes my hand and direct me to her beautiful Son.
Another Funeral
A friend’s dad passed away about two weeks after my mom. I attended his funeral mass at our local parish, and it was the funeral mass I never got to attend for my mom. It was difficult and healing. As our pastor gave the homily for the sweet soul that is her dad, he reminded us of the lingering discussion we had after my mom’s funeral. His final word? “Let us have the humility to never assume that anyone is in Heaven. That is not for us to judge.”
I cling to the words of St Paul
3 It does not concern me in the least that I be judged by you or any human tribunal; I do not even pass judgment on myself; (1 Cor 4:3)
Only God knows our true intentions and hopes, our faith and trust in Him is our salvation. It calls us to strive all the more for virtue and repentance.
Where is the apex of where God’s justice and mercy meet in regards to our life, its fruits, the level of authentic charity by which we make decisions? If I had to guess, I think the answer is in the way we loved in our lives.
Above all, let your love for one another be intense, because love covers a multitude of sins. 1 Peter 4:8
A Wink and A Smile
I would be remiss if I didn’t add a final note that 10 days after my mom passed away, I was in a church watching my two grandbabies be baptized. The priest reminded us at one point that we invite the saints into the space with us as the kids joined the body of Christ. He invited us to close our eyes and imagine them walking in. He went on to name many of our saint friends, and as he was listing them, I saw a young, restored version of my mom walk into that church. She sat down, smiled her knowing smile, and winked at me.
Let us fight the good fight, and give thanks and pray for those who have gone before us.
