Thoughts on Death (again...)

My boyfriend, Dana's, mother died three days ago. Darlyne had just turned 84 years old. We brought her up from Rochester, MN eight months ago, when she became too lonely living alone. Her husband of thirty-four years had passed away the preceding February. Darlyne tried to continue living on her own in their Rochester townhouse, but six months later, she found herself unendurably lonely, and was amenable to moving up to the Twin Cities to be near Dana and his sister, Lynann. We found a retirement community for her, where she could live independently in her own apartment, with her dog, Corky the Yorkie, and where she could smoke cigarettes. At 83, she was too old to quit. We were hoping she would make friends with the other residents, join in some group activities, use the transportation to the mall, movies, and museums, and resume a busy and active social life. Unfortunately, this was not to be. She was bound by her cigarette addiction to be near her apartment, where she could smoke. She would go down to the lobby area, to chat and read the paper, but she would have to return to her unit for a smoke before too long. She routinely went up to bed at 5 pm, at which time she would enjoy an enormous glass of brandy with a little milk on top. The alcohol helped her sleep, she said. At first, she agreed to go out for meals with Dana or Lynann. They took her to nice restaurants, but she preferred Perkins or Denny's. She always insisted on paying. After one visit to the art museum, she politely declined any further offers to visit cultural destinations, much to Dana's chagrin.
He went to visit her every single day, for either breakfast or lunch, sometimes for both. Eventually, she preferred to eat all her meals in the dining room at her Residential Community. She felt more comfortable in familiar surroundings. Her processing skills were declining rapidly; she was easily overwhelmed, and did not like to show her bewilderment. Dana could tell, however, that she couldn't follow conversations and was easily confused.
She had blood in her urine, so we finally persuaded her to go to the doctor. She was terribly anxious about going to the doctor, partly because she was terrified that they would put her in the hospital, where she couldn't smoke or drink. When the young doctor entered the examining room, she asked, "So, Mrs. King, why are you here today?" Dana's mom answered, "Well, I get very depressed. I'm old and I lost my husband, and I just get very down." I was utterly blindsided by her response; maybe she forgot about the blood in her urine, or maybe she just said the first thing that came to mind, or maybe, just maybe, she felt that depression WAS her biggest problem... I still don't know. I explained to the doctor that she had had blood in her urine and, when tests revealed a bladder infection, the doctor put her on Cipro. I suggested she throw in an anti-depressant, and Darlyne agreed, but I'm not sure she really understood.
After she went home, she started taking the Cipro, and it gave her terrible diarrhea. Two days later, she was so weak and dehydrated, she either fainted or had a seizure, and was taken to the hospital. Once admitted, Darlyne refused to eat, refused to walk or even sit up, and simply gave up. Dana told her she would have to go a nursing facility when she was discharged; he was fighting to keep admitted, until they knew exactly what her health issues were and had her under control. Two days later, he spent the morning with her, but soon after he left, she simply died.
He has been experiencing the same mixed emotions I did. He was relieved she didn't have prolonged suffering. He was grief-stricken to lose her. In a way, though, he felt he had already lost her, because she wasn't the person she had been, age having taken its toll. He found it impossible to conceive of the fact that she was dead. He was grateful he had the eight months of daily visits, to reconnect with her. He felt regret that she hadn't tried harder to keep living, tried to renew an active life, quit drinking, maybe even quit smoking. Yet he also felt defensive about her right to choose to live the way she wanted to, having lived to 84... Mixed emotions, some conflicting, some not. Watching him, I was struck by how similar we are, in that neither of us show a great deal of emotion, even if we feel it. We are so used to exercising reason and logic, so accustomed to controlling our emotions, that we sometimes wonder if we are cold-blooded. We feel guilty that we are not incapacitated by grief, that we are able to continue to operate in a perfectly calm and organized fashion, despite losing our MOTHER!!! It was comforting to me to see Dana react in a way similar to my reaction, because I know well how much he loves/loved his mother, how special and unique was their relationship, and how great a loss he feels. He is not cold-blooded; he is merely handling her death in his own individual way.
At her funeral service, he told a story: When Dana was 8 or 9 years old, he and a friend were walking home after a day of outdoor play when they passed through a backyard containing a pigeon coop. The pigeons were beautiful, white birds and they did tricks, rolling over and so forth. Suddenly, Dana really wanted a pigeon of his own... so he took one. When he got home, he built it a coop and put it in the back yard. He told his mother he found the pigeon under a bridge. Soon, his conscience began to trouble him. Finally, he couldn't endure his guiltiness and confessed to his mother that he had stolen the pigeon. She asked him if he remembered where he had stolen it, if he knew where the house was located. He nodded. At the time, they didn't have a car, and the house was about two miles away. Dana's mother told him to put the bird in a box and, together, they set out walking to return the pigeon. When they arrived at the scene of the crime, Dana went up to the door alone, while his mom waited by the mailbox. He rang the bell and a man answered the door. Dana told the man what he had done, apologized and returned the pigeon. A little boy came up behind the man; it turned out that the pigeon was his pet and he was overjoyed to have it back! Afterward, Dana and his mother walked home together. They stopped for a burger and a coke. She never mentioned the pigeon, lectured him, or scolded him. It was enough that she knew HE knew his behavior had been wrong. Dana started crying while he told this story. He said his mother always knew when more words were unnecessary. She made him do the right thing, but she supported him when he did.
I admire the fact that Dana could think of an anecdote that so beautifully illustrated his thoughts and feelings about his mother. When my mother died, I couldn't distill my thoughts and feelings about her down to any single story or description. I couldn't express to others the scope of my mother's character, her personality, my memories or anything! I was utterly overwhelmed by the enormity of her life. I ended up reading something my cousin had written about HER memories of my mother. I wish I could have done better!