Good-bye, Mom.

I probably could have sat down to write this the very day my mother passed away, so cathartic is writing to me, but I didn't have the time.

I'm really not sure where I should start this story, since so few people who care about my mom actually knew what she was up to the last several years of her life.  Perhaps it's best to start right before her move to Kentucky.  I'll warn you that my mother's death was not peaceful and there are some graphic medical descriptions that might upset some people.  Please move ahead with prudence. 

My parents were divorced about 17 years ago and things were pretty ugly.  My poor Mum was going through menopause quite early, and she was trying to raise two hormonal teenage daughters while at the same time attempting to re-enter the work force with very little experience and a limited skill set.  Although there was no raging custody battle, I know that my mom was deeply hurt and my dad felt guilty and repentant.  I'm not assigning any blame; since the divorce they have both, in separate instances, shared with me their own mistakes as well as the percieved mistakes of the other that ultimately led to the divorce.

Some particularly bitter battles between my mother and myself led to my moving in with my father, step-mother and step-sister the summer I graduated from high school.  For a few awful weeks as I was rehearsing a show, Mum - the reigning Queen of the Silent Treatment - didn't return my calls.  Still, as we sang the show's final song, the lights came up and I saw Mum and Gina in the audience, trying to repress a smile.  Of course, I burst into tears and the very slow process of forgiveness and healing began.

When I was on break from college, I would see my mom at times.  We would see movies, or go out to eat, or shop at our favorite store, Fashion Bug.  We still fought, and I was still thoughtless sometimes, but things were still better than they were when I lived with her. 

Not long after, my previously healthy-as-a-horse mother began to get sick.  She struggled to keep her job and health insurance, but eventually lost both.  She had a bout with thyroid cancer, which she overcame with one operation and no follow-up whatsoever.  She battled fibromyalgia and fatigue, and I came to believe that she was suffering from some undiagnosed anxiety as well.  She began to have increasing stomach troubles, too, and her breathing difficulties returned.  She could neither work, not receive medical assistance.  She tried several different charities and government organizations but was repeatedly told she did not qualify for aid - allegedly because she couldn't prove that she was sick.  It was a vicious cycle.

She eventually got to the point of not being able to pay the rent on her small apartment in Crafton and came to live with me at the worst possible time.  I had just lost my job at Starbucks.  My dad had just lost his job due to an injury.  Although Mum was his ex, I do believe he would have helped us financially if he had been able.  Their healing process had begun, also, and the bitterness between them was fading.  All we had between us was my mother's food stamps, which she joyfully used as we went to the grocery store and bought everything our hearts desired.  Still, I could not care for her and did not want her to stay long because I didn't know what to do.

A few weeks later, the decision was made.  Mum, unable to work or make any type of life in Pennsylvania, would move to Kentucky, where her ex-boyfriend's father needed a full-time caretaker.  She was still on good terms with her ex, and her nurturing instincts certainly hadn't perished when her daughters left home.  She accepted the "job" and packed up her (few) belongings.  Then she was gone.  She asked me to keep things quiet because she preferred that people not know where she was.  She didn't want to be tracked down.  I think there was a little pride involved there, but mostly it was to protect us.  She had the opinion that, if she happened to owe any debts, the creditors would harass my sister and me relentlessly, and she hated that idea.

Her increasing stomach troubles caused her to shun social events.  She told me about "attacks" or "episodes" she got which caused her to vomit uncontrollably, for seemingly no reason.  She tried changing her diet - cutting out dairy, fatty foods, and gluten.  Still, nothing changed.  She could barely go on a quick trip to the store because she lived in constant fear of another inexplicable attack that would leave her in pain for hours.  Although I believed her, I attributed much of her condition to anxiety and kept suggesting she seek mental help as well as medicine.

I offered to visit her several times.  Each time she refused.  She was unable to come to my wedding, which deeply hurt me.  I knew it was not her fault, and I eventually forgave her, but it took a long time.  We wrote letters back and forth and talked on the phone sometimes until my mother learned how to send text messages.  We kept in touch at least once a week in some form, and I did get one beautiful chance to see her.

My sister Julia, despite everyone's misgivings and gentle warnings, chose to get married before she graduated from college.  She picked June 2, 2012, and as we drove down to Tennessee, my husband kept mentioning that my mom's place wasn't too far off our route.  "She won't let me visit," I insisted.  "She says that she's on a strict schedule and the man she takes care of is pretty fragile.  I've offered before..."

"Call her," commanded Ross.

I did.  She sounded delighted.  She made plans to see us that Sunday, as we were headed back to Pittsburgh.  I hung up the phone in a daze.  I was going to see my mom after almost three years!  Julia's wedding was beautiful, but honestly, seeing my mom was even better.  Of course, she prepared a ridiculously huge spread of food for Ross and me: pulled pork and cold cuts for sandwiches, chips, homemade broccoli salad, pistachio pudding, lemon merengue pie, and Jell-O for dessert.  It was delicious, of course, and we chatted for several hours about her pets (she had continued her Pittsburgh mission of rescuing, training, and nurturing strays), her hobbies (she had begun to write poetry and dabbled in illustrations).  She never once mentioned her health, which was a typical topic of conversation otherwise.  We got a few pictures and enjoyed ourselves immensely.

Looking back, it was Julia's determination to get married when she did, that allowed me to see my mother one last time.  I am so grateful that Jules heard from God when the rest of us were not sure what to believe.

The call came at 3:00 AM Thursday, when my phone was on silent.  I woke around 7:00 and saw that I'd missed a call from Kentucky.  The message said that my mom was at King's Daughters Medical Center and in surgery.  I called back immediately, of course, hoping for nothing worse than an irritated gallbladder or inflamed tonsils.  She woman I spoke with had no information for me, as she'd just arrived for her shift, but she'd have the doctor call me as soon as he was finished with my mother.  I thanked her and set the phone down as I sat on the couch.  I was ice-cold and shaking.

The doctor called back within a few minutes.  The first thing he asked me was if my mother knew she had a hiatal hernia.  My heart dropped, and at that moment, God allowed me to enter Task Mode.  I did not have time to be a hysterial grieving daughter.  Instead, I was a business professional, thinking objectively.  "Yes," I admitted, "...but she consistently refused to seek medical treatment for it."  The doctor went on to politely, clearly, and gently explain that my mother's hernia had caused her stomach to burst, infecting her entire abdominal cavity and causing her incredible pain.  He said that they had done what they could, removing her entire stomach and her spleen, but that her chances of survival were minimal.  He said that, if she did make it through the initial recovery process, she would still face the risk of infection.

I took a deep breath and metaphorically plunged into that icy, numbing pool that is fear.  I packed my bag and told Ross that I was leaving and he didn't need to call off work.  Of course, he did, and he packed a bag, too.  We were forced to stop at Wal-Mart for oil for my car, and received a call from the hospital.  A nurse was asking when we expected to arrive.  At that point, I did lose it, crumpling down in the middle of the store, mascara bleeding down my face.  "I'm on my way," I sobbed, and Ross gathered me up.  At ten o'clock, we were on the road.

The drive should have been about five hours, but we made it in four and a half, the tense silence almost overwhelming us.  I prayed around ten-thiry, and God gave me the same strange sense of peace I had when we learned that we were losing Bennet, our second child.  God had whispered, "I have his heart here with me," indicating that the baby had already gone on into heaven before me.  I got the strong sense that things were okay - not necessarily that my mother would recover, but that we would be able to be there with her.

And we were.  Before I had arrived, I'd had the sense to ask the doctor what I would see when I got into the room.  I was already under enough stress; I didn't need the added surprise of seeing something I wasn't prepared for.  Sure enough, my mother was lying there, pale and puffy.  A machine was pumping blood into her body as another one was attempting to suction blood out of her abdomen.  A thin stream of blood was running out of her mouth.  There were tubes in her nose and one in her throat.  She was connected to at least half a dozen IVs that were pumping her full of sedatives, painkillers, and blood pressure medication.  She was undeniably on her death bed.

Yet, when I walked in the door and simply said, "Mummy", she opened her eyes and looked right at me.  She always had the loveliest eyes - almost black, with perfectly arched brows.  In those eyes just then I saw a heartbroken apology.  Her father had died unexpectedly 15 years before, leaving his two daughters to sort through a hellish mess.  In that glance, I believe I saw her fear over doing the same to us.

"I'm here, Mummy.  I love you," I said.  Dutifully, I added, "Gina loves you, and Gram and Brent, and Mar...and Dad and Deana.  We all love you."

I stayed there a few minutes, holding her stiff, cold hand.  The nurse, a small woman with curly hair, gently led us into the hall.

"I don't know how she is alive right now," she admitted.  "I've been in the Army for 22 years and this is the worst case I have ever seen.  I don't know how she was even able to open her eyes."

Remembering the wives' tale that coma patients can still hear what is being said around them, I asked, "While you were in the room, did you mention anything about my being on my way?"

"Yes," she replied. 

"Then that is how she could open her eyes," I determined.  I knew I wasn't a perfect daughter, but I knew I was always on her mind and we'd been in touch quite often over the last several weeks.  If she knew I was coming, that stubborn, wonderful old lady would stop at nothing to see me.

Over the next several hours, Ross and I were treated with great kindness and respect as we waited for my sister, Gina, to arrive with Dad and Deana.  Jerry, my mom's friend, and his family - who had practially adopted her - were there, too, on and off.  Mom didn't open her eyes again for us, but at one point in the night, the nurse told us she indicated she was in pain.  We gathered around her after I insisted to Gina that we weren't saying good-bye.  Not yet.  I believe in miracles and was completely prepared to allow God to do one, but I didn't want my mom surrounded by weeping and wailing until it was truly the end.

After everyone had to leave, I stayed next to Mom, gently stroking her calloused foot and talking to her.  The night nurse was sweet and thoughtful, but did let us know that things looked very, very bad.  She said that my mom's blood still wasn't clotting properly and that, as a result of her stomach rupturing, she was suffering from sepsis.  The rupture was also leading to multiple organ failure.  Her liver was in shock and her kidneys were failing.   Her heart and brain were fine, but nothing else was.  Nothing.  Her blood pressure continued to drop even as her heart rate increased to well above a normal range.   The nurse began to explain the concept of DNR to me, but I interrupted her.  I had already spoken to my sister and, even with no will or formal paperwork, we knew that Mum would hate to be brought back to a miserable life.  I fought a little with the ethical concept.  Was my refusing treatment for my mother the same as killing her?  Was letting her die the right choice?  Her mind was fine but her body was broken.  Was God going to do anything? 

I took a moment to talk to Mum, one-on-one.

"Mummy," I said.  "Listen to me.  If Jesus comes for you, you need to go with him.  You'll get to see your grandbabies - remember, their names are Olivia, Bennet, and Galen.  But if Jesus doesn't come for you, you need to fight.  And I will be here, fighting with you.  Okay?  I love you."

My mother had struggled with her faith, and faith in general, her whole life.  I don't think she ever stopped believing in God, but I know there were a great many trials that forced her to question what she believed.  I do know that she had found a lot of internal peace when she moved to Kentucky.  I think that God had allowed her to mellow and find forgiveness in many ways she didn't expect.  She once called me to tell me that she'd finally forgiven my dad for the divorce and everything that went with it...but that God had told her she needed to actually call my dad and tell him that.  She'd laughed, but she had done it.  She'd had a long conversation with Dad that, I believe, was a key to her own emotional healing.  I know she loved her Jesus.  She read her Bible.  Most of the letters and texts she had sent me mentioned that she was praying for us - for a job for me, a better job for us, healing during our miscarriages, better weather, safety.

I didn't fear for her soul that night, but I wonder if she was scared.  I wonder if she'd seen the Lord and said to Him, "Please...not yet.  Let me keep trying."  I wonder if she was afraid of leaving her Kentucky family in the lurch.  After all, she'd just adopted yet another stray kitten a few weeks before - not to mention all the other people and pets she was caring for!.  "We will take care of the animals," I found myself assuring her.  I finally left the hospital around 2:30 that morning, about 24 hours since she'd been admitted.

The final call came a few hours later, as Ross and I were sleeping in the Hospitality House provided for us.  "She isn't responding to the medicine and her blood pressure is still dropping.  I think maybe you'll want to come in now," came the gentle drawl.  "Should anything happen, do you want us to do chest compressions?"

"Absolutely not," I replied,  "Don't you touch her.  Don't put her in any more pain."

As I dressed, Ross made the calls to the rest of the family.  We gathered in the hospital room, six of us touched by this stubborn, hard-nosed, big-hearted little woman, and said our good-byes.  Still in Task Mode, I approached the nurse and said crisply, "We're ready."  I then asked her to explain to my fmaily what was going to be happening, making entirely sure that she would not be in any pain at all.

As Gina and I each held one of her hands, we began to remind her of all the wonderful things she had done for us, and told her about some of the things were were doing and still hoped to do.  Gina had just started a new job and I was looking at a great volunteer opportunity.  I told her that I'd lost a few pounds since the new year.  I reminded her that her skin still looked as fantastic as I remembered when I was a child.

Gradually, her heart rate slowed and the nurse continued to lower the dosages of her blood pressure medication.  I kissed Mum's forehead and snipped a lock of her hair. 

And then she was gone.

I didn't have any time to mourn.  I haven't mourned yet.  We had to make immediate decisions regarding a funeral home, memorial, and other things.  Mum had expressed to my sister and me that she'd wanted to be cremated.  Based not only on that wish, but on the horrible condition of her body, we agreed that it was the best way.  She'd had so few friends in Kentucky that we hardly needed a lavish memorial - plus, she would have absolutely hated that.  We ended up scheduling a short service without any professional speaker.  I would give the eulogy and that would be it. 

We celebrated Mum's life by enjoying country-fried steak for lunch that day.  Later, Gina and I went through my mom's bedroom.  She'd been a remarkably organized woman and had labeled virtually everything - her important documents, her treasured photos - even things she'd brought from our old Crafton house as she'd moved into smaller and smaller apartments.

Although Gina and I have never gotten along particularly well, God gave us a supernatural grace to go through her things without argument, without pettiness, without tears.  We each wanted different reminders of her - Gina preferred things that she'd used, like a pair of scissors or a recipe book - while I preferred things she'd liked, like lighthouses or cat memorabilia.  We each chose a few pieces of Mum's costume jewelry that had been our favorites.

Then came the brief memorial, where about a dozen people mourned the passing of Cindy Thielet.  Then a meal, then the long drive back to Pittsburgh.

As I said, things haven't hit me yet.  God gave me the grace and ability to take on the huge honor of handling my mom's final hours and last wishes.  That grace, it seems, is still in effect.  I'm a little numb.  I do have the overwhelming sense of gratitude that she was deeply loved and well cared-for by her Kentucky family.  These people were her true-blue friends.  Not that she didn't have any in Pennsylvania - I don't mean that.  I simply mean that she wasn't simply providing a service for them.  She was family to them, as much as she was to me.

The final gift I got from my mom, well, I have yet to unwrap.  In shuffling through the things on her desk, we found a wrapped package addressed to me, as yet unmailed.  I haven't been ready to open it yet.  I know it will be another silly gift; she'd loved to send little trinkets for the cats, or pictures to Ross and me.  But it's literally the last thing my mom had set aside for me, and I'm waiting for the right time to unwrap it.

We're planning a potluck supper in her honor for the Pittsburgh friends and family in the next few weeks.  Most people's memories of my mom involve great food, so there's no better thing to do to honor her than eat!  I'm trying to look forward to that - a celebration of a warm-hearted Polish lady who touched everyone she met.

Bye for now, Mummy.  Love you.

Hesitation

Writing tends to bring healing and a sense of clarity to my life - particularly when I am dealing with difficult situations, so I am not entirely sure why I waited nearly a week to write about my miscarriage.

Most likely it's because we kept this last pregnancy very hush-hush.  Only a few people knew: our parents, a handful of prayer-warriors at church, and a select group of friends - mostly moms themselves - who were cheering us on and hoping that this was finally the one they'd get to coo over and spoil rotten.

Sadly, we were all disappointed again.

Please note, before you read any further, that this post does contain some slightly graphic medical references.  If that sort of thing makes you uncomfortable - or if you would prefer not to know certain details about my anatomy, then do not continue.  I am choosing to share stories like this in order to raise awareness and offer hope and healing to others who have had similar experiences - not for shock value.  The content is neither crude nor vulgar, but since this is a family-friendly blog, I felt that a gentle reminder about the graphic nature of this subject matter is in order.  Thanks.

Although, of course, we're not happy with the outcome, I must start my story by saying that this miscarriage was very different from my previous two, probably because I had a different doctor.  After we lost Bennett, Ross and I visited our friends Matt and Jaime at their new house in Brentwood.  As it often does when we're with friends who mourn with us, the topic of the miscarriages came up.  I mentioned to Jaime that I felt that God was urging me to look into seeing another doctor.  The way I described it to her, it was like I was going to McDonald's instead of visiting a gynecologist.  I paid for my order and got what I asked for, but there wasn't a sense of human interaction or compassion.  Just...fries.  So, okay...maybe that wasn't the greatest metaphor, but I think she got it anyway.  I explained to her that things got worse when I went in for my two-week appointment after my D & C in May...and the doctor asked me where my 3-month old baby was.  She was referring to my first miscarried child, who had been due on February 29th.  She had not only performed that surgery, but had also performed the one two weeks prior!  I responded quietly that I'd lost both babies, but inside I was just dying.  Had she taken - literally - three seconds to review my chart, she could have seen that I had not given birth yet.  I understand that these doctors see hundreds of patients in a week - and frankly, they aren't really looking at our faces anyway - but that was a painful blow.

When I told her the story, Jaime reacted exactly as I expected her to - "GIRL!  NO.  ARE YOU FOR REAL?!  NO.  THAT IS NOT EVEN RIGHT!" - which made sense, since she had left the same practice for similar reasons (although fortunately for her they did not revolve around losing a baby).  Jaime excitedly and respectfully suggested I consider her doctor, a Christian who was both gentle and open-minded when it came to obstetrical medicine.  Funny thing was, I had been recommended the same doctor by about three other women.  I felt that it would be a wise move to at least schedule a consultation with him.  There had been no follow-up whatsoever to my previous miscarriages and, while I understand that two losses in an otherwise healthy woman don't automatically equal a medical anomaly, I thought there should have been more than a pat on the shoulder and a "Go ahead and try again."

I truly felt like I was obeying God when I switched doctors.  Everything was better - the staff was gentler, funnier and more personable.  The practice was considerably smaller, meaning that better care was offered (at least in my opinion).  My first meeting with the doctor left me feeling that I was in far better hands.  Little did I know that, nine days later, we would get pregnant and I'd be right back in the office again! 

I kept thinking that I was glad I had listened to God, because things would be different this time.  I would be getting more personalized care from a more engaged physician who took the time to ask me how I felt as well as the details of my medical history.  I was so relieved.  I settled back and tried to enjoy the first days of another pregnancy.

Unfortunately, it doesn't seem that the care of the world's finest doctors could have saved our baby.  From the start, things didn't seem right.  My hormone levels weren't consistent with the suspected date of conception.  Then, at our first early ultrasound, the technician misdiagnosed an ectopic pregnancy, which threw my already frayed nerves into a tailspin.  She then retracted and said that it appeared the sac was at the very top of the uterus - that it had literally implanted itself immediately upon emerging from the Fallopian tube.  I joked that it would be just like my kid to be such a lazy son-of-a-gun.

She didn't really think that was funny.

Neither did I.  She had almost just given me a heart attack.  I wanted to scratch her eyes out.

However, she noted that the sac appeared to be that of a pregnancy that was about four weeks old - but we'd dated the pregnancy to be over seven weeks old.  Still, that age was consistent with the hormone levels the doctor had checked.  I tenatively asked if we could have been wrong about our due date, because my cycle was irregular, and she agreed heartily.  We left the office with a tiny glimmer of hope.  I wasn't throwing up yet, and had few other pregnancy symptoms, but maybe that was just because we had miscalculated our dates.

Maybe.

Three days later, Ross and I were getting ready for work and I saw it - blood on the toilet paper.  I'd been watching for it since we first learned we were pregnant, which was the night of a youth meeting at our house.  I hadn't seen it, and I'd thanked God every time I didn't.  But there it was.  I took a breath before I panicked.  Sometimes, a pelvic exam - from an overly enthusiastic sonographer - could cause a little bit of bleeding during pregnancy.  I knew that was natural.  It had happened with Bennett before anything went wrong.  Besides, I had already scheduled an appointment with the doctor the week before, and I could talk to him in the afternooon.  I was not going to jump to conclusions.  But I heard disappointment in my voice when I told Ross what I saw.

At the doctor's office, when I gave my urine sample, I noticed more blood.  Just a little bit.  Not enough to worry a woman who hadn't already lost two babies.  I told the doctor, and he paused.  He told me not to give up yet, and that even though I was considered high-risk, that there was probably a 50% chance that things would be okay.  I clung to that...and I clung to the promises that God had given me...through the Bible, through his ministers and even through one young boy in our youth group, who bravely spoke over us the month before at summer camp.

I am  still shocked at how calm I remained through the rest of the week.  "God," I found myself praying, "I know what is happening in my body.  I am losing this baby.  But if this is the baby you want me to keep, I am not counting out a miracle.  I know what medical science says, but I also know that your power raised Christ from the dead.  Your power put worlds and stars in motion.  It is not too difficult for you to quicken a tiny cluster of cells inside my womb and breathe life into them.

If this is the baby you want me to keep."

I had dozens of people praying.  So much encouragement.  So much love.  And yet...the blood kept flowing.  From brown to pink to bright, bright red, and I knew that our baby was with his sister and brother in Heaven. 

The phrase still sounds unreal, even when I speak it aloud, lips and teeth forming reluctantly, questioningly around the words, "I have lost three babies."

So why was this miscarriage different, even more peaceful than the others?  Without a doubt, the doctor's influence was immense.  They weren't ready to give up at the first sign of trouble.  In fact, even after I had begun to bleed, they continued to monitor my hormone levels to make absolutely certain of what was happening.  I had a final ultrasound to determine if there was any chance at all of the baby surviving.  That was far, far more than my old doctor had done.  With Bennett, everything was fine up until our third ultrasound, when they could not locate a heartbeat.  I was scheduled for surgery the very next day.  No research, no questions, no compassion - and no follow-up.  My heart aches even now, wishing that I had gotten a second opinion.  When this loss was confirmed, I met with my doctor, who offered his sympathy and gave us a plan of action (he will be referring us to a high-risk specialist). 

The first thing he said blew my mind: I did not need surgery.  My previous doctors had struck fear into my very bones regarding surgery.  They said that it was crucial to ensure that the body would return to normal - that I could scar or become infected without it - that it would "clean" the uterus for a future pregnancy.  All these things may have been true, mind you, but the last place on earth I wanted to be was in an ugly dressing gown, stripped of my underwear and my dignity, waiting to be stabbed and swabbed in a freezing, sterile room with half a dozen nurses refusing to make eye contact and the other half dozen artifically sympathetic to my loss.

"Your body is handling things on its own," the doctor said gently.  "Of course, we can perform a D & C if you need it - if you continue to bleed very heavily, but let's see how things work out on their own first." 

I can't tell you how much peace I felt in that moment.  For the first time, my body was actually making its own decision to release the baby.  Before, I had felt that my body betrayed me with two awful missed miscarriages - continuing to "act" pregnant even after my babies had died.  But in this moment, I felt that my body was doing the right thing.  The baby was not growing - for whatever reason - and my body allowed its release.

Of course, that doesn't mean the following week was a spiritual nirvana.  I was in a lot of pain, I was sad, I overate, and I practically bought out Wal-Mart's entire supply of jumbo elephant-sized maxi pads.  Fortunately, I was also able to load up on the ibuprofin since I could not longer hurt the baby with any medication.  A sushi date with Ross was pretty well-deserved, too.

And, speaking of Ross, can I just tell you that, never in my whole life was I more sure that I married the right man than when I saw how he handled our miscarriages?  He wept with me, he tried to make me laugh, he reminded me that it wasn't my fault, he refused to ignore the situation, he gently whispered to me that God keeps his promises and that we will have children someday.

We had picked out a name for this baby early on.  In fact, I was already using that name to talk to the baby.  Yet...after we lost him, I felt that it was okay if we picked another name for him and saved the first name for the baby we will be allowed to hold.  Ross was in agreement with me, and we picked out the name Galen John for our latest little one in Heaven.  Galen is Greek for "calm" or "peaceful".  Even as I was in physical and emotional pain while I was losing him, I felt so much peace...peace in God's promises, peace in the fact that my body was making its own decision, peace stemming from my husband's love and the support of my family.

I know that my daughter and sons - named after healing, blessing, and peace - are among the great cloud of witnesses the Bible tells about, and those witnesses cheer us on towards the great goal - the prize of Heaven, an eternity with Christ.  One of my goals is to look my children in the eyes and tell them how much I love them.

But something tells me that they already know.