He and my mom never married, but they were together for 35 years, and he was a welcome sober soul at boozy family gatherings. At one point, he had to stop drinking to save his liver, and for a while, he went to meetings. We had sobriety in common until he started to drink socially again. He continued to be an ally after he went against medical advice.
Mom was not supportive of sobriety. Even less so as her dementia progressed. In the end she was drinking a lot of wine, and it became clear why temperance movements referred to the demon, alcohol. My favorite 14th century monk wrote when evil takes human form, some quality of that body betrays the demonic intention. If that’s true, the self-referred evil for mom was “nurse.”
She had a toxic over-confidence in her past profession. Under her care, it was rare for her partner to see a doctor. She told him to “tough it out” and bragged that she “upped the dosage” on pain meds that, ultimately, masked inoperable cancers and muddied diagnostics when he went for a consult. It was frustrating the day he described the inconclusive results. He couldn’t assess his pain through the fog of medication.
That same morning the three of us met for a walk, and he’d tripped and fallen up a curb. I wondered then about his sudden weakness, because he’d always been strong. It was the last time I saw the two of them before his collapse on a too-late trip to the emergency room. Ten long days of oncologists asking, “How does this even happen?”
On discharge, he planned to do chemo. Maybe if he’d begun the treatment while hospitalized, it could have given us another six months – but no more. And he hated the days he was an inpatient. He wanted to go home.
The nurse oversaw his homecare. Like when I asked if he wanted to listen to music, and he said “Yes” but she shook her head, and smirked because she’d won that game for good. It was relatively mild as bullying goes, but I didn’t stand up to her. I felt desperate and helpless about his pain, and guilty when I let him see my distress. I tried to be strong to the point of dispassion. Although it’s vain to imagine my strength mattered. My nerves were shot, but it wasn’t about me. Except, I was losing my ally.
“Your mother did a good job.” Those were his last words to me.On one visit, he shared that he was having some “crazy dreams” from all the medications. I should have asked more about them. It seemed he had more to say. As I was leaving, I took his hand and said, “We’ll see you soon” – and his eyes opened wide as if he’d assigned a deeper meaning to the words.
That was before my own crazy dream.
I didn’t immediately recognize the young figure that surprised me at a bus stop (so often it’s a bus or train stop in dreams – the modern-world theme for spiritual leveling up). He looked happy to see me. A 20-ish-year-old him that I never knew, 40 pounds lighter, grinning slyly with no beard. I first thought it was a cousin of mine, and then wondered about another lifelong friend, but this presence was younger.
I later understood that it must have been him because who else would it be in those last sad days? It gave me comfort we might recognize each other if we met again in time, and during my next visit I asked, “Is there anything I should know?”
He was tired and on morphine, and replied, “No … I don’t think so.” Then he looked me in the eyes again, and said, “Your mother did a good job.” Those were his last words to me.
***
As I re-read my journal entry from the winter morning he died, written before mom called to tell me he was gone, I still believed he would live a few weeks; even though I’d already let go of hope for the long term because bladder and liver cancers are a horror.
There’s a widely accepted emphasis on reconciling unresolved issues before death, but it seems kinder not to impose that process on someone who’s very ill. I leave things unsaid in far less painful situations. Growing up, the love in my family was consistently conditional, and resolutions were temporary. I learned to detach and conceal when I was hurt which made me reconsider the words, “Your mother did a good job.” He knew I would share them with her. They hid his suffering, and in the end, the nurse wouldn’t know how much she hurt him. That’s how I would have handled it, anyway (see Adult Child of Alcoholic). Only … his words seemed unconditional.
If he was playing a game, he might have won the final round. Mom told me it felt like he got her back. That he knew he was ill and chose to hide the symptoms from her. I didn’t ask why she imagined retaliation. She did ask if I was sad that he didn’t leave me anything.
It was a thoughtless remark, but I hadn’t expected an inheritance, and in fact, I was deeply grateful to him. When I saw his lifeless body curled in the lounge chair and smoothed the hair from his uplifted face, my thought was he looked like Jesus (!) which I quickly rationalized: It’s because he’s so thin.
Sounds unhinged, but it felt real in the moment, and the vision of beauty in death lingered through Lent. Every time I saw a statue or painted figure in that position (which happens during those six weeks), I was reminded of him. He seemed sainted for taking care of her – or was the correct term martyred? It takes two to make a hurtful relationship, and he absorbed the madness that I avoided by meeting them for breakfast and early walks when she was sober and not sundowning. I suspect the deathbed vision was partly a result of my guilty conscience. Strong emotions showed him transfigured. It was him, and he was more.
Easter is all about transfiguration and how it takes time for friends to recognize the risen. As when Mark and Luke meet that stranger on the road to Emmaus but didn’t realize who it is until dinner. It’s a nice idea that we’ll know each other if we meet again in the light – if not right away. To imagine there’s meaning in our dream spirits and waking visions.
Still, the only certain takeaway was my gratitude for his caring. Without it, mom’s drinking and dementia quickly progressed. Now she’s (mostly) sober and in assisted living, and she hasn’t mentioned the nurse since the move. We’re getting reacquainted on her better days, which helps me accept my ally’s last words were heartfelt after all.
Send your 1st Person story to phoenix@thephoenixspirit.com. We will respond if there is interest in publishing it in a future issue. Thank you.
Last Updated on March 30, 2025