Today my mom would have turned 82.
In our last extended conversation, we talked about dying, love, and ice cream.
I didn’t know it would be the last time she could speak in full sentences.
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Today, my mom would have turned 82. But she passed away earlier this year, on February 8.
On Thursday, January 29, I stayed up late typing up a conversation I’d had with her that night because it felt so meaningful and important.
She’d been diagnosed with terminal brain cancer in mid-November and was receiving hospice care at home. Brain swelling and seizures had affected her ability to move and communicate.
I didn’t know that night would be our last extended conversation—the last time she would be able to speak in full sentences, albeit short and slow ones.
After feeding her dinner in the inclined hospital bed in the living room of my parents’ apartment, my sister (Christine, though we call her Tine) and I played ‘50s music on Amazon Music and “danced” with her, each of us holding one of her hands.
When we celebrated my mom’s 80th birthday in Philadelphia, two years ago.
She hadn’t opened her eyes or spoken much that day, except during the brief times she was awake for food, water, and medication. She had lost the ability to move her right arm and right leg, and since she wasn’t speaking much, we started asking yes-or-no questions and instructing her to “squeeze my hand with your left hand if your answer is yes.”
Through those hand squeezes, we learned that she needed to have a bowel movement. Our night aide, Nalik, had just arrived, and the three of us tried to position a bedpan comfortably under her, but eventually switched to adult briefs. We closed the curtain between rooms to give my mom some privacy.
When we returned five minutes later, it was clear that she had something to say. My sister took her left hand and said, “Squeeze my hand if you need something.” She squeezed.
“What do you need?” we asked.
We all felt the stress of trying to figure out what she needed, and the weight of caring for someone who was likely dying. After a long pause, she finally whispered, “Ice cream.”
We started laughing. “I can’t believe how dramatic you made that!” I said. She was smiling at us.
My sister left to return home for the night, and Nalik stepped away while I fed my mom small spoonfuls of a Dairy Queen Buster Bar.
She was using her left hand as best she could to help guide the spoon I’d scooped from the bowl resting on her lap. During a moment between bites, she asked in a whisper, “Am I dying?”
I paused. “We’re not sure right now. You likely may be. Or right now may be the result of the latest seizure and then the extra medications you’re on to try to stop that from happening again. We don’t know, but we’re working to figure that out.”
I discerned a tiny nod of her head.
This conversation was incredibly difficult for me. But I knew telling her the truth was the best way I could honor her and how much she trusted me. My heart wrenched, and I wanted to cry. But it was so important to me to stay present, open, and calm. This was about her and not about me.
“Do you feel like you’re dying?” I asked.
“Hold on,” she whispered. I wasn’t sure what she was about to say, and I felt even more anxious and uncomfortable. But she didn’t say anything. She just started guiding the next spoonful of ice cream from the bowl to her mouth.
“Are you serious? Ice cream is more important right now?”
She started laughing. The first laughter I’d seen in two days, since I returned on a red-eye. Her laughter was gentle, since she could barely talk and had developed a hacking cough. But it was a laugh we were sharing.
“Well, ice cream IS one of the most important things in life, so I don’t blame you,” I said as I fed her the next spoonful.
After she finished her dessert, I remembered the hand lotion I’d bought for her over the weekend while leading a couples’ retreat at a lavender farm in New Mexico. I began massaging her left hand with the lavender lotion. She moaned with appreciation. About a minute in, she closed her fingers around my hand and whispered something.
“Did you just say, ‘I love you’?” I asked.
I saw that she had started crying.
“I love you too. So much. And because you taught me about love, appreciation, being positive, and loving relationships, I get to teach that to people around the world. Because you loved me so much, I now get to spread that love around the world.”
More tears fell down her face.
I told her about a new request to lead a couples’ retreat in Florida, and another retreat I’d just been booked for in Greece that summer. And how much of that was possible because of the love and support she’d given me.
I asked if she wanted me to lie next to her. I heard a faint “Yes,” and moved from where I was sitting at the foot of the bed to lie on my side between the hospital bed rails and her body, holding her right hand with my right hand and draping my right leg a bit over hers. I rested my forehead against the side of her head, and we just breathed together. I started massaging her right hand and paused when I heard her trying to say something.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Love,” she said.
“Yes. So much love,” I said. “And speaking of love, look at the Valentine’s decorations I put up earlier today around Tine’s flowers and flowers from friends.”
I gently helped her turn her head to the left to see the table against the wall. She opened her eyes and gasped when she saw the heart lights around the flowers and her ceramic tile that read “I love you more.”
She started to tear up again.
Just then, I heard my sister re-enter my parents’ apartment. She came into the living room to retrieve her forgotten phone that still had the ‘50s music playing. I said, “Perfect timing! I was just showing Mommy the lights and flowers. Isn’t it beautiful, Mommy?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
Tine came to the bedside next to me, leaning into both of us and scratching each of our heads. “We were just talking about love,” I told her. And I went on to tell her what I’d said about how Mommy was the reason I was doing the work I do and getting to help so many people.
My sister was moved and agreed. For a while, we were all quiet, still touching one another.
“Is there anything that you think is important to say to us right now?” I gently asked my mom.
There was silence for about 10 seconds as my mother tried to form the words. “I love you,” she said.
My sister started crying and said, “We love you so much, too. That’s why we’re here, and we want to be here. We love you so much.” I started crying too, and my mother had fresh tears on her face.
After a minute, we heard her trying to speak again.
“That’s enough,” she whispered.
“That’s enough crying?” I asked.
“Yes. No more crying,” she said.
My sister and I laughed, and I said, “OK, no more tears now.”
My sister left shortly after that. Honoring my mother’s wish for no more crying, I proceeded to describe to her in detail the other Valentine’s decorations I’d put up that day around her apartment and outside their door.
She whispered, “I’m glad you’re here.”
“I’m so glad I’m here, too. This is the only place I want to be,” I said.
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~Dr. Jenn Gunsaullus — Sociologist, Intimacy Speaker, Relationship Expert, & Author