Tempus Fugit: Adieu, le 14 juillett 2015!

Author’s Note

Mid- to late July is the hardest time of year for me. My mother died on Sunday, July 19, 2015, and the period between July 10 and the Dreaded Anniversary always hits me especially hard, no matter how hard I try to not dwell on it. It was around this time, eight years ago, that Mom started getting hospice care at home – and I had to come to terms with the fact that she wasn’t going to be with us much longer.

July 14, of course, is Bastille Day in France and its overseas departments and territories. No one on either side of my family is from France, but my father lived in Paris for several years as a child and teenager, so in many ways, he was more French than Colombian. (He even spoke Spanish with a slight Parisian accent and spoke to me in French when I was an infant, according to my mom’s accounts.)  Because of that tenuous connection with la belle France, in my head I always celebrated Bastille Day – I’d hum La Marseillaise or listen to classical music pieces by French composers such as Berlioz, Debussy, or Ravel.

That is – I did…up to 2015.

Adieu, Bastille Day

Le 14 juillet 2015 fell on a Tuesday. It was a typically hot, rainy summer day in South Florida – I remember that thunderstorms lingered over East Wind Lake Village for much of the day, and the skies were covered by a mass of grey-black clouds. It rained on and off for hours on end, and occasional bolts of lightning lit up the dark interior of our townhouse, followed by loud crackling booms of thunder – Nature’s version of July 14 fireworks.

Mom had come home from her last trip to Kendall Regional Hospital only the day before, so Tuesday was a long and busy day for me. I woke up – as was the norm for me then – at 6:30 AM after sleeping fitfully for a few hours on what I’m told is called an “egg crate” foam mattress on the dining room floor of our townhouse. I was physically and emotionally tired, but as my mom’s primary caregiver, I was duty-bound to be close to Mom’s room without actually sleeping in there.  

Not only did I have to be up early in case my mother woke up before “Fulana de Tal,” the home health aide from Nursing South who watched over Mom from 9 AM to 1 PM, showed up to start her shift, but I also had to deal with the Catholic Services hospice care manager, “Jorge,” who was in charge of Mom’s case. He was supposed to drop by around noon to introduce himself and tell me about the hospice process and what to expect over the next few days or even weeks. So, as exhausted as I was that morning, sleeping in was not part of my agenda.

Thankfully, I don’t have detailed memories of that day, so I am not going to write a blow-by-blow report of that Tuesday in mid-July eight years ago.

I do remember, though, the onslaught of negative emotions that hit me like a well-aimed punch at my solar plexus:

• Sadness at the thought that I was going to be an orphan. In reality, I was already an orphan in a way; dementia had already stolen most of my mother’s memories, effervescence, and intelligence – I think if she had loved me just a little bit less, she wouldn’t have remembered who I was, and if I am to be honest, had she lived a month longer, she would have forgotten I was her younger child
• Anger at the realization that instead of bringing us closer together as family members, Mom’s long illness and all of its ramifications had pushed my half-sister Vicky and I further apart. We had had a strained relationship for ages – in my adult years, the schism began when I was 24 and still in college – but Vicky was furious because Mom had chosen me and not her to be the acting head of the household. After all, I lived at the townhouse and Vicky did not. And Mom – knowing how poorly her older daughter managed her finances – didn’t trust her to pay the bills of two households on time. So, I was Mom’s “Johnny on the spot” for all things related to the running of the household. Vicky was pissed, and if I thought she had been hard to deal with before 2010, she became even more difficult over the next 60 months.
• Fear of facing the unknowns of life after Mom died. I had no idea how I was going to survive on my own, especially knowing that my half-sister was going to be adversarial and rapacious once Mom was gone. I had no idea what the future had in store for me; I’m not particularly good at planning ahead for life-changing events. Indeed, I get overly anxious whenever change looms on my horizon, even if it’s “change for the good”

“A Matter of Days”

As I recall, I managed to be outwardly calm and collected when the guy from Catholic Services showed up on time – or as close to “on time” as a person in Miami can be – and went over the various things I could expect. For instance, “Jorge” (I don’t remember his real name, but he was Cuban-American, so “Jorge” it is) said that even though Mom was worn out physically and mentally, no one could say how long she’d last. “Sometimes a patient has a strong will to live and can last several weeks, even months in hospice care; other times, it’s a matter of days. However long it takes, Alex, we’ll be here for you and Vicky at any time of day or night.”

Jorge then told me to expect a package that contained – among other things – several ampoules of morphine that needed to be refrigerated. Under no circumstances could that package be opened except by the registered nurse who was “on call” to administer “end stage” medical assistance, especially if Mom were in pain or distress. (Of course, the next day, when the package – which for all the world looked like a sturdier version of a “take home” bag from a Chinese restaurant – arrived and I’d put it in the fridge, guess who opened it? If you guessed it was Vicky, you are correct.)

Jorge also advised me to carry on with my normal routine, partly to keep Mom – or what little of Mom was still there – calm during her final days (or weeks, he hastened to add), and partly because a routine, even a difficult one like the one I had then, is comforting. I don’t recall my exact reaction to that then, but it’s true. I’m a creature of habit, and once I establish a certain schedule, I have adverse reactions when it’s disrupted or taken away entirely.

I didn’t say much to Jorge during this conversation. Most of the time I merely nodded or said “Uh huh” to indicate that I understood what he was telling me. The only thing I do remember was when I said, “I’m having the hardest time dealing with my half-sister, though. Until recently, she’s been in denial that Mom’s not going to live long. The other day, for instance, she said she was praying hard so that Mom would be around for her 87^th birthday in October. Vicky was a nurse. She knows better than that or should. Yet she’s acting like a five-year-old.”

“Don’t worry about Vicky,” Jorge said calmly. “If she gives you a hard time, call me, and I’ll deal with her myself.”

I, of course, nodded quietly, feeling at least a bit relieved because I knew I had someone at my back.

Mom was, by then, extremely worn out, and dementia had done a real number on her mind and personality. She still knew who Vicky and I were, but aside from that, most of who Beatriz Diaz-Granados had been before 2010 was gone. She spent most of her last days sleeping or trying – but failing – to watch “her shows,”[1] or reluctantly eating meals offered by either the home health aide (HHA) or my half-sister. She was, tragically, spent, and less than five days after le 14 juillet 2015, she was gone.  

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[1] To this day, I can’t stand to see Judge Judy clips on YouTube, and I’m secretly glad that no one here watches Jeopardy or Wheel of Fortune, despite what I might have said when I moved to the Tampa Bay area seven years ago.