Daughter-in-Law to the Dying
My mother-in-law, Glory Ann Bier, was diagnosed with metastatic cancer a while ago.
It was a revelation to be on the other end of the stethoscope, so to speak. It was strange for me as an oncology nurse to observe the dynamics of patients and their families from the inside. To some extent it was like watching a movie when the scary music starts playing: the audience knows what's coming but the characters do not. Knowing what comes next didn't really help me. I tried to use my knowledge to benefit my family. I think I was helpful. Family members told me I was.
Glo wished to live independently forever. Her New England farmhouse still had pencil marks on a door frame showing the heights and names of her boys - now middle-aged men. I came to understand how if you have lived in one place in time familiarity makes even old coffee mugs into friends.
We lived on the other end of the US continent. I feared greatly that I would hear a call from an official, "Well... we found your mother-in-law in her home, I'm afraid that she is dead..."
It wasn't that I feared that she would die. We all die. Really. We all do.
I feared how she would die.
Unfortunately, as an RN I had my mind full of all the terrible ways an elderly oncology patient can die. I had a little too much information. Images would flash in my head.
Glo died peacefully and quickly in the presence of a family member. It was about as good as these things can get.
My husband and I had seen her recently and celebrated her birthday. I asked her what she wanted for her birthday cake. A tart. Not just any tart. The strawberries had to come from such-and-such a farm stand, the tart shell had to come from Julia Child's cookbook, and the custard - a mascarpone cheese custard - from yet another cookbook.
It was my first ever tart. And we were expecting guests. My first attempt at the custard failed miserably. I was cursing and stressed out. My second attempt succeeded. It was marvelous! I ran back to Glo's sitting room and gave her a spoonful to taste. I will always remember her glee in choosing her special tart. She poured through all of her cookbooks.
Glo divied up many of her belongings while she was starting to fail. After she died, they told me that she wanted me to have the cookbook with the tart recipe. I requested and received her tart pan. This to me is what treasure and inheritance is.
It was a revelation to be on the other end of the stethoscope, so to speak. It was strange for me as an oncology nurse to observe the dynamics of patients and their families from the inside. To some extent it was like watching a movie when the scary music starts playing: the audience knows what's coming but the characters do not. Knowing what comes next didn't really help me. I tried to use my knowledge to benefit my family. I think I was helpful. Family members told me I was.
Glo wished to live independently forever. Her New England farmhouse still had pencil marks on a door frame showing the heights and names of her boys - now middle-aged men. I came to understand how if you have lived in one place in time familiarity makes even old coffee mugs into friends.
We lived on the other end of the US continent. I feared greatly that I would hear a call from an official, "Well... we found your mother-in-law in her home, I'm afraid that she is dead..."
It wasn't that I feared that she would die. We all die. Really. We all do.
I feared how she would die.
Unfortunately, as an RN I had my mind full of all the terrible ways an elderly oncology patient can die. I had a little too much information. Images would flash in my head.
Glo died peacefully and quickly in the presence of a family member. It was about as good as these things can get.
My husband and I had seen her recently and celebrated her birthday. I asked her what she wanted for her birthday cake. A tart. Not just any tart. The strawberries had to come from such-and-such a farm stand, the tart shell had to come from Julia Child's cookbook, and the custard - a mascarpone cheese custard - from yet another cookbook.
It was my first ever tart. And we were expecting guests. My first attempt at the custard failed miserably. I was cursing and stressed out. My second attempt succeeded. It was marvelous! I ran back to Glo's sitting room and gave her a spoonful to taste. I will always remember her glee in choosing her special tart. She poured through all of her cookbooks.
Glo divied up many of her belongings while she was starting to fail. After she died, they told me that she wanted me to have the cookbook with the tart recipe. I requested and received her tart pan. This to me is what treasure and inheritance is.
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