Tag Archives: death

When Mama Was Dying

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There was a time – almost exactly nine years ago now – when I was terrified and felt like I was facing challenges impossible to overcome. Both my parents were in the hospital – Mom on one floor, Dad on the floor above her. I’d just learned that Mom was not going to be allowed to return to her retirement community apartment because they couldn’t provide the medical care she’d need. I had made calls to assisted living places and to offices that provided in-home nursing care and learned that the cost of my mom’s care – combined with care for Dad – would cost $15,000 or more a month. Their savings might buy them a couple months, but then I might need to get into my own retirement savings to care for them.

And beyond the money terror, I was feeling a deep grief. Mom was dying. My sweet mama was dying. No one would ever love me like Mom loved me, or know me as she had known me. I remember sobbing with hopelessness.

I talked with my husband about our options, and he supported me in my decision to have Mom brought to our home. He agreed to help me care for her. The social workers at the hospital were concerned for me – they kept asking me if this is what I really wanted to do, and I said yes. I didn’t know how we were going to do this – my husband and I were both working full-time then, and I wasn’t sure when we were going to actually be able to sleep. But I knew it was the right thing to do. I felt Love leading me to make this decision for Mom.

Mom was brought by ambulance to my home on President’s Day nine years ago. A hospice nurse from Hospice Northwest came to show Scott and me how to care for Mom. We weren’t sure how long we’d have with her – I think we were told she wasn’t expected to live more than six months – but… I picked up on the signs from the hospice nurse as she examined Mom that we probably didn’t have that long.

Mom and I spent the whole afternoon telling each other how much we loved each other. Mom – who’d always been one of the bravest people I’d ever known – was scared. I can’t remember any other time when I’d seen her scared. She asked me, “What happens when I die? Will I see you again?” And I told her that nothing could separate us from the love we have for each other. Love doesn’t die. I assured her we’d meet again. She nodded her head and seemed to accept my words as the truth. Later, as it got hard for her to speak, I asked her one more time if she loved me – I was greedy. And she looked at me with such intensity – her eyes on mine filled with love – and nodded her head. I will never forget that look in her eyes. I carry it with me still, and it reassures me.

That night I slept on the couch by her hospital bed. I had this beautiful dream full of butterflies and green fields and felt this sense of joy and peace and love brush by me. When I woke from this dream I realized Mom wasn’t struggling to breathe and I thought, “Oh, she’s okay. I don’t need to give her any medication right now.” And I closed my eyes to go back to sleep, and then I realized… I got out of bed and felt my mama, and she was cool. I went upstairs to tell Scott I thought she had passed, but I wasn’t sure. Scott came downstairs and felt her pulse, and said, “Moz is gone, Sweetie.”

The hospice nurse came and walked us through what we needed to do. I’ll always be grateful for our hospice nurses.

But now my thoughts turned to Dad – he was soon to be released from the hospital and I still didn’t know how we were going to give him the care he needed. He was 98 then and suffering from a kind of dementia – and I didn’t feel equipped with the skills to help him. I prayed. I prayed desperate prayers, and I went for a walk to try to find some peace. As I was walking, a rainbow suddenly arched over the field I was passing, and I felt Mom with me.

The social workers at the hospital asked me if I’d ever looked into adult family homes, and gave me a pamphlet with phone numbers. On the second call I felt I’d found the right place for Dad and when my brother and I stopped by to check it out we saw bird feeders and dogs and cats – and we knew Mom would have loved the woman who answered the door. Again, I felt Mom’s presence with us. We’d found the right place for Dad – and within his budget, too!

I learned something from that experience. The answers are always there – even when things seem impossible. I hadn’t known that adult family home even existed the day before – and now here it was! Just waiting for Dad! Love had this place waiting for him!

Dad lived another three years and the people in his adult family home became like family to us. They are still very dear to me.

And I still feel Mom and Dad with me. We’ve never been separated. Nothing can separate us from Love. We’re connected by Love, forever and ever. Amen.

Last Night I Learned Liz Passed On

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June 1:
Last night I learned my friend Liz passed on Friday. I’d just sent her a card the week before. I hope she got it. When I think of Liz, the first thing I picture is the laughter in her eyes. Liz knew how to laugh, and she knew how to make me laugh. She actually appears in a couple of my books. Here’s an excerpt from The Madcap Christian Scientist: All Things New:

Last year I served another term as first reader at the local Christian Science church. For those of you who aren’t familiar with Christian Science church services, the first reader puts together the readings and conducts the mid-week testimony meetings, and, together with the second reader, presents the weekly lesson-sermon on Sundays…

…I could not have asked to have a better partner on the podium. Liz served as second reader last year, and she is a joy – fun, smart, great sense of humor – and she’s a really classy dresser, too (which sort of balances out my own “dang!-what-do-I-have-to-wear-that’s-clean?” look).

Most Sundays Liz beat me to church, and had already put the hymn numbers up for me, had her second reader stuff laid out on the podium, and was looking classy and put-together when I came bursting through the door.

But there was one Sunday when I actually beat her by about ten minutes! I was feeling pretty smug about it, too. “Liz! I got here before you this morning! Aren’t you proud of me?”

“Yes,” Liz said, “I’m very proud of you. Every day I pray, ‘God, please help Karen get her shit together this week’ and I’m so glad to see my prayers worked.”

Ohmygosh. The laughter just burst from me – I was laughing so hard I bent up double and had to wipe the tears from my face. I had a hard time keeping a straight face during the service that day. I still get a grin on my face when I think about Liz’s response to me.

Liz is exactly the kind of person I’d like to see reading from every Christian Science podium.

(From The Madcap Christian Scientist: All Things New)

***

And here’s a dialogue between Liz and another friend, Karen Ann, when I posted a sale that Google was having on me a couple of years ago (I’ll attach the photo of “the sale” in the comments below):

Elizabeth E. Fisher
I’ll have 2. And can I get those gift wrapped?

Karen Ann
You’re giving them away???

Elizabeth E. Fisher
Karen Ann actually, I’m going to raffle them off!😄

Karen Ann
Wow! You’ll be able to retire to like a desert trailer park or something! Wish I’d thought of that!!!.

Elizabeth E. Fisher
Raffle tickets are $1.00 a piece or 4 for $5.00. How many do you want? Desert trailer parks aren’t cheap!

Karen Ann
I’ll take two at the 4/$5 rate. That’s $2.37 I think.

Elizabeth E. Fisher
Depends on whether you are paying in bitcoin or greenbacks.

A World Shaken

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a world shaken
and six more lives taken
(“May we be blessed
by their memory.”)
the world seems
to be hemorrhaging
what gives it meaning
and beauty
for some misguided duty
to kill all who don’t have
the same beliefs
as the ones who hold the guns
when will war be done?

– Karen Molenaar Terrell

A Holy and Beautiful Thing

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On this day six years ago – and it was a Monday then, too – my mom was brought by ambulance to our home to begin hospice. We weren’t sure how much time we had left with Mom. I wasn’t sure how we were going to make this work – Scott and I were still working full-time then and we planned on taking turns caring for Mom, but we hadn’t, exactly, figured out when we were going to sleep. We just threw ourselves into this and trusted that it would all work out. We didn’t want Mom to be brought from the hospital to an institution where she’d be surrounded by strangers. We wanted her here with us. It felt right.

Mom and I spent the day telling each other how much we loved each other. At one point she became very tired – too tired to talk – but I was greedy and asked her, once again, if she loved me. Her eyes fastened on me and the look she gave me was pure love- I still see that look in her eyes at times when I need to remember her love.

I went to bed at 9:00 to sleep for a few hours while Scott took the first shift. I’d just fallen asleep when Scott came up to the bedroom to tell me that Mom wanted to talk to me.

I came downstairs and saw Mom sitting up from the hospital bed with a grin on her face. She looked all excited, like she was going to a party or something. I explained to her that I was going to sleep for a little bit, but that I’d come down to be with her at midnight. I told her she wasn’t going to be alone. One of us was going to be with her all the time. She grinned and said, “Okay!”

When I came down at midnight, Moz was sleeping. I gave her some medication when I first came down and some more an hour and half later. I stretched out on the couch next to Mom’s hospital bed to rest a little. About 3:00 in the morning I had this beautiful dream of green fields and rolling hills and butterflies – my dream was full of joy. And I felt something brush by me – touch me – and I felt love and peace as this presence brushed by me.

I woke up then. Mom wasn’t struggling to breathe and I thought, “Oh, I don’t need to give her any medication.” I started to go back to sleep and then… I realized. I got up and felt her and she was starting to feel cool. I went upstairs and got Scott and told him I thought Moz had passed. But I wasn’t sure. There’s such a thin veil between this life and whatever comes after. Scott came down and felt her pulse and told me, “Moz is gone, Sweetie.”

We called hospice, and a nurse came out and talked us through what happened next. I’ll be forever grateful to Hospice of the Northwest for their help through this process.

Moz’s passing was one of the most holy and beautiful things I’ve ever experienced. I’m so grateful that we brought her into our home that last day.
-Karen Molenaar Terrell

(Pictured below: Mom and Einstein.)

Moz and Einstein.

Little by Little

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“Old age” comes little by little, I think –
little surrenders of who we are
to the experts and authorities,
to convenience and comfort –
someone tells us we need to stay out
of the sun, to eat only certain foods,
to travel only at the right times
and to the right places,
and to wash our hands after every
handshake and human touch –
and we listen and obey.

And so we spend our days in “preventative”
exams – counting the pills into our trays –
hoping to increase the number of our days.
And little by little we relinquish
the small pleasures that make life
meaningful –  the joy of adventure,
noon-time lunch  with our faces turned
towards the sun,  whipped cream on
our cocoa, shaking hands  with new friends,
and listening to our own hearts to create lives
worth living.

And we lose our lives in a fear of death.
– Karen Molenaar Terrell
(Originally published January 8, 2017)

I Hear You

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Sometimes there just aren’t words.
But I’ll try.

I hear you.
I feel the pain you’re feeling
and want to fold you into a fierce hug
and absorb the pain into my own body
and relieve you of it.

I hear you.
I feel the joy you’re feeling
and want to dance and spin with you
under the stars until we drop together
from happy exhaustion.

I hear you.
I hear your weeping.
I hear your laughter.
I hear the music of your heart.
And I want you to know
you’re not alone in any of it.

We’re all in this symphony of life
together.
– Karen Molenaar Terrell

(Originally published in September 2021.)

Karen in her twirly dress.

Not What’s Past, Nor What I May Dread

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not what’s now, nor what’s ahead –
not what’s past, nor what I may dread –
not what I’ve gained or what I’ve shed;
nor what’s living or what’s dead;
neither the foot, nor the head;
neither what follows, nor what led;
neither what’s read, or said –
alpha or zed –
separates me
from the All that is Good
and mine to claim
-Karen Molenaar Terrell

(This is a piece of another poem that I re-worked to turn into something new.)

Life Is Bigger Than These Forms We See

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“O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?”
– I Corinthians 15

There was some police action on the beach the day we arrived. We walked by the crime tape, the team of investigators, the canopy over the scene. I stopped to ask another woman walking on the beach if she knew what was going on. Valerie said she’d seen a couple in the parking lot earlier who’d looked shaken and she wondered if they’d found something. She was pretty sure there was a body under the canopy. She noted that the crime tape had already been up a few hours so it had to be something pretty serious. The winds had been high the night before and she wondered if maybe a body had come in on the surf. A man named Billy stopped to chat with Valerie and my husband and me. He wondered what was going on, too.

My husband and I continued on our walk, looking for agates, watching the antics of the seagulls as they chased each other around for food, enjoying the sunshine and the salty air. Every now and then, though, I’d look back at the crime canopy and wonder.

Billy rejoined me a while later to tell me that a friend had confirmed a body had been found in the sand. Billy said that the night before he’d passed a man on the beach who looked distressed and lost – the man seemed a little “off” to him – but he’d shrugged it off and continued on his walk. He wondered now if this body belonged to the man he’d seen the night before, and if it had been a suicide. For a moment neither of us spoke, each thinking our own thoughts. Then we wished each other well – told each other to stay safe – and parted ways.

Later the local news confirmed that the body of a man in his thirties had been found partially buried in the sand. I went into my mother-of-sons place then. I grieved for the man and his family. I prayed and tried to reach my thoughts out to the man – letting him know he was loved, whoever he was – that he wasn’t alone. I wished him peace. And, eventually, with the help of the ocean and the seagulls and the kites and the ever-tumbling waves, I found my own peace.

A few days later, as we got ready to leave, a rainbow arched across the sky. There’d been a rainbow after my mom’s passing, and a rainbow after my dad’s passing, too. I idly wondered who might be manifesting THIS rainbow. And then I thought of the man whose body had been found the day we arrived. And I knew he was alright.

Life is so much bigger than these forms we see –
so much bigger than body-hieroglyphs of “you” and “me.”
Death has no power to end our Life – Life fills all space –
exists beyond form and time and place.
I feel my loved ones ever-near –
both those who have “passed” and those who are still “here.”
Death can’t destroy the love we feel,
and nothing can stop the healing of what needs to be healed.
-Karen Molenaar Terrell

(Photo of rainbow by Karen Molenaar Terrell.)

Rainbow in Lincoln City, Oregon

Five Years Ago…

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Five years ago today we brought Moz into our home. The nurturers from hospice came in and showed us how to care for Mom. Moz and I spent the afternoon telling each other how much we loved each other. At the end of the day it became hard for Moz to speak, but I was greedy. I needed to hear it one more time. “You love me, don’t you?” And I’ll never forget the expression in Moz’s eyes as they locked onto mine and poured her love into me. I knew exactly what she was saying to me with her eyes: “You KNOW I love you!”

No one loved me like Moz loved me.

Early the next morning, as I lay sleeping on the couch next to her bed, she passed on. I could feel her brush by me in my sleep – it was this beautiful, joyful dream – full of peace and joy and love.

Since Then

It’s been almost five years since then,
but it feels like yesterday that you left,
brushed by me as I slept, on your way
to the other side of infinity.
There are still days when I think I should
pick up the phone and give you a call.
But I know I don’t really need a phone
to talk with you. I feel you with me –
here and now.
The sons are both married now; and Dad
has gone – joined you on the other side
of infinity; I’m retired, sort of; and we have
a new president. Everything has changed
and nothing has changed since then.
I feel your love. You must feel mine.
-Karen Molenaar Terrell, from Since Then

The Brush of Angel Wings

The end was like the beginning –
the oxygen machine breathing,
making the sound of the womb,
a soothing rhythm in the room
as she slept on the bed next to me.
All is quiet, but for the pumping
of O through her mask. In my dreams
I feel the light brush of angel wings
and fear is replaced by freedom
and limitless joy that comes
through an opened heavenly portal.
I open my eyes to see the battle
over and done. She has won.
I rise and stand on holy ground.
-Karen Molenaar Terrell, from The Brush of Angel Wings

Moz

“…individual good derived from God, the infinite All-in-all, may flow from the departed to mortals…”
– Mary Baker Eddy, Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures

Messages from Jill

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My beautiful friend and former teaching colleague, Jill Bailey, passed yesterday. This morning I’ve been going through our FB messages to each other, soaking up her wisdom and kindness, and I found messages she’d sent me just after my mom passed – messages about the process of grieving. But… it felt like these messages were fresh and brand new – like she’d just sent them to me – like she was sending me inspiration and wisdom to help me through mourning HER passing.

Today is also the second anniversary of my dad’s death. Finding Jill’s messages this morning couldn’t have come at a better time.

I want to share Jill’s wisdom with everyone who is mourning her today.

Jill wrote:
“…Karen, my dad told me shortly after my mom died that he believed that the most important word from Psalm 23 was THROUGH. This scripture can be recited by many…The Lord make me lie down in green pastures, etc. The word THROUGH is only in the chapter once. People picture lying down in green pastures and God walking alongside them through the valley of death, etc..They see themselves THERE. But my dad said go THROUGH it. It is the only way to truly process and heal (get through it) the death of someone you love dearly. He was correct. We can’t shut it out, forget or not deal. The waves of grief crash and we have to dive through…”

And in another message, Jill wrote:
“…this grief we go through tends to be solo and honestly no one can truly feel or understand its intensity (at times)…I am sorry that you are going through all the tough stuff that death leaves for the living. I know, I know people say, ‘everyone goes through it.’ It doesn’t help to hear those words. It just truly amazes me that so many people deal with this grief day to day without acknowledgement. And I guess I want to do that – acknowledge you and what is happening!…This is a very hard time. (As I state the obvious.) Please know you are hugged and understood. Jill”