The hidden gift of slow death
What I learned in my mom’s demise from ALS.
Slow death is excruciating. ALS took my mom over the course of five years. I wouldn’t wish that kind of passing on anyone.
However, there was a silver lining. My mom and I got to say things to each other we never would have—and I listened like I never had.
The most memorable time for me was when she was cooking her last supper. Not the last supper she could eat, but the last supper she could cook. My father and I sat opposite her, our barstools giving us a front-row view. As she caramelized a hefty pile of onions, her gnarled hands stirring the pan, the aroma of earthiness permeated the air. As the onions sizzled, I vented to her about one of my son's irresponsible behavior, using his college fund to fuel his partying. I shared my desire to really lay into him for his actions.
“Be careful.” she said sharply.
I sucked in my words, taken aback by her abrupt response.
“I know you need to say some things but don’t alienate him. Dads hold great power over their sons—more than they realize.”
“Well, I can’t believe he’s doing this and I want to give him a piece of my mind.”
“I know that, but just watch how you are with him, wait until you’re not angry. He will spend his whole life trying to win your respect. Don’t make him fight for it harder than he needs to.”
This was not like my mom to be this forceful; it was not like her to lay things out like this. Over twenty years of my parenting she’d hardly uttered ten words of advice on child raising.
But now things were different. I think she knew her time was short; she knew these could be some of her last words to me.
She added celery and garlic to the mound, making my olfactory glands dance. Then came two Costco-sized cans of clams into the sticky mound, creating an earthy, salty aroma.
“But he doesn’t deserve my respect right now.” I said under my breath.
“Stop.” She said again, the skin on her face sagging in the late afternoon Arizona sun, her blue eyes aflame. “Don’t do it. Don’t force him to fight for it.”
I pursed my lips. What could I say to this woman with a message on her heart? This was my mom, laying out one of her last wishes.
“Okay, okay, I will. I’ll do it mom.”
The mound of umami cooled and she poured it into a Vita-Mix blender, added oyster sauce, and whirled it into the finest clam chowder Arizona has ever seen.
Her words lingered with me when I got home and that son ended up wasting all his college money. They lingered with me when my other two sons struggled with substance abuse. They lingered with me when I wanted to launch on my sons and say mean things and cut cords and lash out because I was going crazy inside.
But I didn’t. Olga Kitzwoergerer’s words guided me as a dad through the toughest times with my boys. I didn’t sever relationships; I didn’t say things I regret; I didn’t embarrass myself too badly.
And guess what? That son who wasted his money, ended up paying for college on his own dime—and getting way more out of it. And those other two boys went through hell but landed on their feet. Now they have wives and children and careers of their own.
Later that night of her last supper, we went to the Mesquite Grill to enjoy dinner with two other couples. She had me carry in two yogurt containers of clam chowder for each of them. Later, as we walked across the parking lot to head home, under a firework blast of Arizona stars, I wrapped the crook of my elbow around my mom’s neck and squeezed. Her shoulders were so thin now, her neck so fragile; she was wasting away in front of me.
I whispered in her ear, “Mom, I’m the luckiest guy in the world to have been raised by you.”
She dropped her head.
“Mom, seriously, I’m so lucky.”
She pulled away and stumbled.
My dad grabbed my elbow and said, “Son, she can’t handle it. It’s the ALS. They can’t handle their emotions.”
We climbed in the car and said not one word on the way home. As we zoomed down the highway, I knew this part of her life was almost over. Soon, no more words would come from my mom’s mouth.
But I got to hear her true heart. I got to hear what mattered to her. She got to tell me the kind of dad she wanted me to be and I got to listen like I never had.
Dying slowly made that possible.