STUMPTOWNBLOGGER: April 2020

Well, I guess it wasn’t meant to be. I apologize for the cryptic message on Monday announcing a Facebook time-out, but I had no choice.

This picture was taken on my mom’s 97th birthday last month in Danville, CA. I was en route to Mexico, so I made a pit-stop there to share in the celebration. Lisa drove down on her own. I’ve been holding out hope that both of my parents would live long enough to witness the dawn of a new, Democratic Administration, but I guess it wasn’t meant to be.

Neither of my parents have ever had any major health issues. No cancer, no stroke, no bypass, nothing like that. Just the usual bumps and scrapes. Between the two of them, they’ve chalked up 197.5 years of happy, healthy living. But my mother has been struggling for the past 4-5 years with major back and leg pain. So much so, that she’s been wheelchair bound for the past 2 years. Her heart, kidneys, liver, brain, digestion, lungs, EVERYTHING... they’re all functioning per the instruction manual. But her expiration date has come.

Her caregivers and my dad decided to call in hospice just over two weeks ago, so she’s been in the glide path ever since. Lisa drove down on Saturday to visit with her grandma one last time. Once she reported back to me the state of affairs, I decided to hightail my heiny down there too, with MAJOR resistance from friends who warned me against being out on the road during the pandemic. But I ignored them. No way I’m gonna fly right now, so I drove. Ten hours straight-through.

(Funny sidebar story: as I was headed south on Interstate 5 near Redding Ca, my phone rang. It was Lisa. “Dad, you’re near Redding, aren’t you? I just saw your car in the southbound lane!” She was headed back north to Oregon, and by happenstance, spotted me going the other way!)

What follows might sound cold to some of you, but it was actually very tender for all involved. At no time did I ever get choked up or weep. It was rather beautiful. My mother’s hospice bed is set up in their living room. It’s bright and airy, with big picture windows so that she can watch the house finches and squirrels battle it out for the seed my dad feeds them. They designed that room themselves, back in 1954-55. Every so often, she’d lift her arm and point to a squirrel on the tree outside the window.

A little family history is in order. Back in 1940, my dad's buddy, Norman, introduced his cousin Bernice to him at some soirée. He was 21, had just graduated from Northwestern University, she was just seventeen (you know what I mean 🎶), a high school Senior. He didn’t ask her out until 1945, at which time she was 22 (good move, dad). And they tied the knot in 1946. So while they’ve been married *nearly* 74 years, they’ve actually known each other for 80 years. EIGHTY YEARS!

But no one lives forever. And my mom’s time has come. When I got to Danville on Monday afternoon, she was very weak and listless. She was sleeping most of the day, but had moments of lucidity. During the 60 hours I was there, I could see the changes. At one point, I asked her if she was afraid of dying. She furrowed her brow and shook her head from sided to side. I said “That’s good. Because I know what being dead is like. And so do you.” She opened her eyes and looked at me. I said “It’s exactly like how it was before you were born. And was that really so bad?” That elicited a smile. But it was NOTHING like the smile she flashed when Lisa used FaceTime later that night. She lit up like a Roman candle, reached out to the iPad, and waved at her. Lisa is everyone’s favorite Lindner.

By yesterday morning, she had weakened considerably. I got her to open her eyes once or twice, but that’s about it. Finally, I put my finger in her hand and said “Mom, if you can hear me, grip my finger.” And she did.

I have some obligations back here in Portland this weekend, so I left California at 5:00 am today for the long, boring drive back. Her overnight caregiver was sitting beside her, checking her vitals. I first went in to wake my dad to tell him goodbye, then I went back into the living room. I took her hand. I said “Mom, I have to leave now. This is the last time we’ll see each other. I just want to tell you how much I love you, and to thank you for everything you did for me... [seats at UC Berkeley to see JFK when I was 9, the trip around the world when I was 10, tickets to see the Beatles when I was 13, the Doors, Monterey Pop, Altamont, letting dad think I was just high on pot when you knew it was LSD, etc., as well as just being a damned good mother].

But there was no reaction. I again put my index finger in her tiny little hand and said “Mom, if you can still hear me, give me a squeeze.” And there it was. Ever so feeble, but unmistakable. Through the pain, and the morphine, she was still hearing and registering. I kissed her lightly on the forehead and said “You can let go whenever you’re ready. Go gently into that good night.” And I left.

I got back to Portland about an hour ago and called my dad for an update. She’s totally unresponsive now. I think I got in just under the wire. She probably only has a few hours left to live.

I love my parents as much as anyone loves theirs. This was a beautiful, peaceful visit. Even though it was the last time I’ll ever see my mother, I won’t grieve her death. I will celebrate her life, instead. For 40 years, she grew exotic orchids in her greenhouse, she even has some named after her. (One of the members in her orchid guild was non other than Perry Mason himself, Raymond Burr). She worked with the brilliant Dr. Marian Diamond for some 20-25 years doing research on the human brain. She was admired by everyone who met her, lived a loooong, happy, healthy life with her toy-boy of 75 years, and is going out in style... in no pain, on her own schedule, surrounded by family, friends, house finches and squirrels.

Throughout *my* life, as I’m sure is the case with all of you, are decisions that I’ve wished I could do over again. And I’ve got a TON of those. But as of today, I now have 3 major decisions that I’ll never, EVER regret making: 1) resisting the Vietnam War, 2) resisting getting married, and 3) ignoring the “advice” from friends and family to remain here during my mother’s final hours, out of fear of the coronavirus. Being there for her was by FAR the best thing I’ve ever done.

Rest In Peace, mom. You’re the best.