I need to write about Mom, but man, it is hard. Emotion is flowing as I type. It is hard to let the tears flow. To feel so raw again. It is final, at least here on earth. I know in my head that I will see her again in paradise, but we humans are tangible creatures, aren’t we? I can still hear her laugh and the way she said my name. I can still feel her hugs. Her short, black curly hair was admired by many for being natural.
Diana Lynn was her name. Born as a fraternal twin with Dennis, Mom was a silent competitor. She was the youngest of 10 siblings; six of those were brothers. She had a fighting spirit about her; a skill that was imbedded. This skill came out in her work inside and outside of the home, at playing games and even the end of her life, fighting for every heartbeat. The hospice nurse stated, “She is a fighter, isn’t she?” Yes. Yes, she was.
She was a working mom throughout most of my childhood; at first third shift and then first shift. She encouraged my brother and I to play outside. Mom was a supporter of any event my brother and I participated in, from sports to band to drama. If we were performing in any way, she was there and that continued with her grandkids.
Gardening was something she knew from growing up and continued throughout adulthood. Fresh tomato sandwiches and hot radishes were her favorite. Mom was amazing in the kitchen, from creating something out of nothing to the taste of the outcome. Her prizes were pies of any kind, yeast rolls, cowboy cookies and scalloped corn. Her potato and taco salads were also on the list. Popcorn balls, peanut brittle and Chex mix were the Christmas staples.
She couldn’t wait for grandkids! My husband and I had three kiddos before my brother had his two; then our final two came. All in with grandkids. She would travel a lot to my brother’s to spend quality time in Wisconsin. During her last two years of life, our two oldest both turned 16 and she had them each drive her to Wisconsin; knowing she didn’t have the strength to drive but having the spit fire to see her grandkids before she passed.
She loved the Lord and grew her personal relationship with Him later in life. When we were living with her temporarily, she would sit at the table with the kids and I as we did our Bible study. She learned how to seek Him and to ask questions. To hear His voice as her Shepherd. She grew to love the Lord.
Nine years after Dad passed it was my mom’s turn. I was definitely too young to lose a mom, but then I think I would always be too young. What mom means now compared to when I was little… To when I was a teenager. When I was married. When I first became a mom. And now as I married off my first kiddo, I miss having my mom. To talk things through. For her to encourage me. To pray with me. To fill in around the house without me asking. To play games with my younger two when I am needed elsewhere. This is how is started…
It was April 2019. Our daughter was getting baptized and Mom came to church to witness, but she sat in the back of the church. She always sat with us when she visited our church; we sit near the front. After the church service, she was super weak and left without visiting anyone. We stopped by her house on the way home. She looked yellow…she confessed she hadn’t eaten much lately. Please call the doctor mom I pleaded. She called and they asked her to go to the Emergency Room. So, I took her to Grand Rapids to Butterworth Hospital. She had some testing and they admitted her. Yep…Pancreatic Cancer.
The next two years were a whirlwind for me. I was homeschooling five kiddos. A wife. Sports. Building a pole barn (we thought we would put an apartment in it for Mom). Involved in church and with a different ministry outside of church…looking back I didn’t have very good boundaries. Mom wanted to be independent as long as possible, which I don’t blame her. She sometimes felt like a burden on me, but I didn’t feel that way. She was my mom and I would do anything for her. I wanted to assist her in living independently, but that meant a lot of trust. Trust in her and in God. Reminding her to use the wheelchair ramp and not the stairs to go outside. Use Dad’s walker both inside and outside the house. To carry her cellphone with her outside. She would try and grocery shop but most of the time her grocery bags would remain in her trunk until we could bring them in. She didn’t like losing independence. She didn’t like it when she ran out of strength in front of people. Our family would carry in pellets and refill the stove during the cold months. We would mow her lawn, take care of the leaves and shovel the snow. Even take Molly, her dog, on walks.
Taking her to infusion treatments, I had to witness others ringing the bell of victory over cancer while the rest of us would lower our shoulders in defeat; just buying time. Her oncologist and I didn’t really get along. I was her advocate and he didn’t like me asking questions. But I went with my notes in hand, waiting to ask the hard questions. These appointments were scheduled before infusion in case anything needed adjusting. She had a great infusion nurse. Very caring and paid attention to detail; what worked for Mom and what didn’t. We didn’t like it when she was gone. The waiting room was uncomfortable. People staring but not staring. Paperwork EVERY time we went in. Mom would sometimes just hand it over to me to fill out, “Put whatever.” She was not in the mood. Nothing changed or if it did it was worse. She felt defeated.
One time she had a reaction. WOW! She was seeing spiders crawl all over her and the nurse. Her voice became Minnie Mouse and she couldn’t move her extremities. But then she had to pee, quickly. We didn’t want her to have an accident but she couldn’t walk. The nurse and I were running around trying to find a wheelchair, placing her in the wheelchair, trying to find an open restroom, helping her get situated…that was an adventure.
The nurses always had Mom weigh in; they did not want her losing any more weight. Well one particular time she didn’t want to be reprimanded so she purposely chose to wear her boots, wool socks and a heavy sweater. She probably would have had hand weights in her pockets if she knew she would get away with it. But I am sure the nurses knew. They have been around the block. But I still giggle at the idea she was trying to pull.
I remember one Sunday I chose to be with her in the hospital instead of church. When I arrived, she was in a dark place. Depression was present. Loneliness and fear lingered. She hadn’t slept. Mind wandering. Grieving at the loss of the “nevers” to come as she explained. So, I immediately found a YouTube channel with piano hymns to play; to fill the room with His Truth. She fell asleep to the Holy Spirit filling the room and I watched her. I silently cried and I prayed and thought how am I going to do life without her?
Whenever I updated my mother-in-law, we often told each other, “One day at a time.” There is actually a song and she would sing it to me. She also found a bracelet with that saying and purchased it for me. Blessing.
A year after diagnosis she had the Whipple procedure performed…during the state lockdown due to pandemic. I was able to stay in the waiting room, away from people. The surgeon came and spoke to me. Everything went well. She was placed in ICU. “Plan on coming back in a week to pick her up”…okay. During the week she would facetime us with her iPad…from the ICU!! After that one week, she went from ICU to going home. I stayed with her at home for another week making sure she was safe being independent. Well…an infection grew after I came home…in the incision…which was a vertical line on her abdomen about 8 inches long. It was red, oozing and painful. So, I drove her to the surgeon’s office. I had to stay in my car in the parking ramp while she was seen due to lockdown. The surgeon called me on the phone and said she had an infection so he removed all the stitches and I was in charge of draining and packing the would…until it healed…WHAT??!! He continued to give me instructions over the phone…I stopped him. “I am truly sorry, but if you require me to do this, I need to physically see the example.” They were hesitant because it was not protocol with lockdown that I go into the office…I was finally let in.
I was “this close” to vomiting when they showed me what to do. Disgusting. Twice a day I had to drain and pack the incision…until it healed…which now is from the inside out, unlike stiches which is outside in. Since she was living independently, that meant making two trips every day to her house, amongst my other responsibilities. Oh, and by the way, there are nerve endings that are exposed and that I accidentally touched; Mom would levitate off the bed whenever that happened. The song “Goodness of God” was popular at that time and I would blare the music after I prepped the area, had supplies ready, then attempting to drain and pack the infected incision. But we did it…Mom lying patiently on the edge of the bed while I did my thing.
I had a dream. She dies; full of cancer. Seriously. Another one of my parents? My husband and I moved all our personal items upstairs into one of the bedrooms. Our daughter still had her own room, but now the four boys had to share a room while my husband and I shared the third bedroom upstairs. Mom moved into our bedroom which was downstairs.
Oh, and the hair. Twice. Twice I had to shave it. The first time I shaved her head we were together with my family and my brother’s family. We were outside on the back porch overlooking the riverbank. There was laughter because of the crazy hairdos we were making and I cut some of the grandkids hair at the same time. All the family was surrounded. The second time I had to shave her head it was final. Awful. Silence. Just mom and me. I collected the hair before she could see it on the kitchen floor. We both went to separate bathrooms. Both cried silently. Alone. Separate. Must keep strong for the other. Her mom passed away at the age of 69 on Palm Sunday. She passed away at the age of 69 on Easter Sunday. Will I make it past 69?
Towards the end of life, she had a paracentesis placed. This was access to her abdomen so I could drain the fluid. Fluid would build up and put pressure on her abdomen. I could literally watch her abdomen deflate while the fluid was collected in a bag that I would drain down the sink. Then one day there was hardly any fluid collecting in the bag. I called the hospice nurse. All she said was, “You have done a great job with your mom.” What does that mean? She wouldn’t give me a direct answer…so that meant she was at the end…sigh…
There are so many snippets about Mom that I probably could write a book about her. Stories she told about growing up. More stories about those two years. Sunday night popcorn for dinner because she always made huge meal for lunch after church…pot roast with potatoes and vegetable. Her birthmark is in the same place and same design as our daughter’s birthmark…only that could be His creativity.
The legacy she left me was one of Jesus, family and hope. “It’s never too late,” she repeated. That was what she wanted the message to be at her funeral. It’s never too late to accept Jesus as your Savior and live for Him.
Love you, Mom.
I am ONE story,
~ Kristy
2 Peter 3:15 NLT (New Living Translation)
15 And remember, our Lord’s patience gives people time to be saved. This is what our beloved brother Paul also wrote to you with the wisdom God gave him—