Welcome back yet again to The Journey! Last time we covered the events from the last few months of 2020 until the end of 2021. But, oh, what’s that? It’s 2022, isn’t it? And half the year is gone already you say? My, my, my, that’s right. Well if you either know me or have followed this blog since the beginning, you know I don’t stay still and I avoid half-measures. 2022 has been full of things. Good things, bad things, traumatic things, and every other sort of thing from in-between!
Originally, I had planned to give you a monthly break down all the way from January to July. Once I began writing January, though – and for reasons that will shortly become clear – I realized there simply wouldn’t be enough space for all of that. So this article effectively only covers January 2022.
I had also planned on providing a companion article to this one, a “People From The Journey” to give deeper insight into who is talked about here. That article is still in the works and I can’t find as satisfying of a way to complete it. It WILL come, but I really would like to move forward with the blog. So, for both myself and you all, I’ve decided to post just this recap and follow up with that probably sometime in September.
Let The Journey Continue!
January 2022
My dear mother, Diana Renee Cook, passed away on January 21st, 2022 at 8:35am.
A depressing start to the article, I know, but it’s honestly the only event that matters from that month. Probably for that year as well. Other things happened, but nothing – good or bad – could possibly compare. Let’s rewind a bit and lead up to that point, shall we?
So New Years happened, Kyle went home, and mom’s possibility of heart transplant is discussed so often and with such positivity that all of us – including mom – are filled with hope that with new beginnings will come a new beginning for her. Well, a few days into the year, my mother calls me saying with a tremble in her voice that we finally know what direction her life is going. Now, I can be a pretty positive guy and had often told her even before her medical issues that that’s the goal to focus on. If we know where we are going we can plan that path. My initial reaction was a positive one, invoking these sentiments. I was confronted by a panicked voice filled with fear on the verge of tears.
Everyone took this hard, clearly. And yet, we told ourselves, there was still time. We weren’t sure exactly how much, no, but we were assured there still was some. I also found myself in a rather awkward position. I had taken a job offer in South Korea and I had not yet told my mother. There were a lot of factors behind that, some of them involving being unsure when I’d be leaving, some of them waiting to hear about her prognosis, others related to the fact that the hospital she was in was insanely stringent on who could visit her (two, total, forever, on a list that was not allowed to change). So now I was backed into a corner. Do I still take the job? How do I tell her? Will I be able to return to the USA on short notice if she’s close to the end? When is the soonest I can get to the hospital to see her next and explain?
As it turned out, it wouldn’t take long for me to have the opportunity to see her. Even that event was complicated, however. On my way out the door to first deliver some groceries and then drive to Rochester where mom was in hospital, I had noticed my father’s voice being raspier then usual. It’s winter, we’d been outside exercising, sure, it might just be a cold. Or perhaps, given that he’d been spending so much time in a hospital to visit my mother, and the fact that Covid was still an issue at the time, it might be more serious.
I demand he take a covid test I bought him before I see her; no risk of making her situation worse. He agrees. I do my work, I drive out to the hospital, I call to ensure the test was negative and find out he hasn’t even taken it yet. Well at this point I’m already there and do not want my mother spending any more time alone, so I rush inside against my better judgement in order to see her.
The next four hours were the last time I would ever have a coherent conversation with my mother.
We start with pleasantries: me telling her how I’m doing, her getting some frustrations off her chest, etc. About 30 minutes into our conversations I get a text photo of dad’s covid test. The red “positive” line is a deep shade the color of blood. I make it priority to tell the staff about the result. They stealthily spring into action – no need to alarm mom or the other patient in the room – take blood for testing and start wearing smocks when coming into the room. Me and mom continue talking. The nurses begin moving the other patient out of the room, they communicate through a closed door. Mom begins to suspect something is up. I offer to go check. I know what’s happening but they confirm: she’s positive too. It’d be best if I leave immediately, they say.
Absolutely not. You call security if you have to, I’m not leaving my mother now.
They let me stay and I precede to explain to mom what’s going on. She took it very well. I think it’s important to note that she was entirely asymptomatic, with no signs whatsoever that she had COVID. She would, throughout the entirety of her testing positive in the next several days, never show any symptoms.
Honestly, I find this to be cosmically hilarious. Covid has ravaged the world for nigh on two years at this point. Mom is in the group of people most at risk of having adverse affects and complications should she catch the virus, even before going to the hospital. Her and dad’s entire lives during that time have been completely structured around avoiding any form of exposure to safeguard her health. Then, BAM, she gets the damn thing and there’s already so many things going wrong with her health that covid might as well be a fart in the wind. She would survive the ordeal unscathed as well.
We proceed to talk about my life and future. We discussed California and what went so wrong. Past girlfriends, the ones she liked, didn’t like, and why. The type of girl she hoped I would find even if she would never meet her. My goals in life, and how proud she was of all I had accomplished in My Journey. My plans to go to Korea, and the promise that nothing would prevent me from returning should her health rapidly decline – it was a major reason I had chosen this company over others.
Some of what I said while venting in the way only a son does to his mother clearly set off her anxiety, and ultimately the conversation would end with her saying “Whatever happens, I just want to know that you’ll be okay.” I grabbed her hand and promised that I would. I hugged her softly, yet firmly, and said goodbye. It seemed to me that at this point she had come, more or less, to the acceptance stage of grief over her own prognosis.
I don’t know how many of you reading this believe in fate or destiny, but to me, the circumstances leading up to these events – as well as the content of our conversations – stick in my mind as a pretty powerful candidate as to its existence.
True Quarantine and Isolation
So mom was moved to covid-isolation. What that meant was: no roommate, no visitors (at all), less PT, no package drop-offs, 10-days of monitoring and then reevaluation before “release” to another section of the hospital. She had access to the internet, and you can still see the way she reached out to the world via Facebook during her time in isolation. I was shocked at the time by just how chipper she came off in those first few messages.
It’s important to note that during the previous three months in hospital, what she would post on Facebook during that time was almost always concerning to those who read it, so much so that the family needed to often go around and comfort her while reassuring those who were reading the messages. But once her isolation began, there were daily updates as to what she was doing, asking after video calls, how she was feeling (pretty determined in a positive way), and what she thought of isolation.
“A long day mostly in the chair but I to stand and sit for PT, played Yahtzee and woke to long time HS friend Susan… Isolation sucks.”
The family at home was in much the same situation. I was displeased with how the covid-test situation played out so I started making demands of everyone in the house. Masks while inside, everyone confined to their rooms until a negative test came out, find and sign up for a covid test immediately (very difficult at that time), and talk to mom whenever you get the chance. No one was at fault for covid, I want to make that clear. There’s no better place to get it than in a hospital, and many of us in the house had jobs that took us out of the house. Luckily, no one else tested positive. I was particularly lucky, as those four hours I spent with mom we were both maskless. Entirely worth it to see each other’s faces in that time.
At the house, nothing happened for those 10 days. At the hospital… mom’s mood eventually deteriorated. She was a social person by her nature, and the previous three month’s of hospital visitation rules really grated at her. This was following the 2 years of house isolation from covid. And now, to my understanding, she was even further isolated from the 10th to the 17th. The only people who she saw were doctors or physical therapists, the only outside contact she had were from video calls and we all know from experience how that isn’t the same, she played Yahtzee (her favorite game) alone. As the days dragged on, her messages got shorter, with more errors and a greater depth of desperation. Her final Facebook status reads simply:
“Help me”
I am haunted, often, by the anguish of my imagination at work as it fantasizes how she must have felt during this time. Months in hospital, the machines that pierce your form whirring at all hours of the day, test after test you don’t understand but hope will lead you into the future, your body steadily deteriorating as you spend more and more time laying in bed with increased discomfort, all the while the system designed to heal you takes away the very thing that until this point is what you had always claimed was what sustained you throughout life: your loved ones.
In the beginning of this ordeal you are limited to only 2 people per visit though the list is four people long (with secret exceptions). The second location limits it to 1 person per visit, though up to three on the list (and some very special exceptions). The last hospital says 2 people total, the same length as their list – no exceptions. And in the end, as you struggle to come to terms with your fleeting mortality, you are allowed no visitors under any circumstances. How this must ravage your mental health.
After her final Facebook post everyone was alarmed and the majority of the day was spent trying to contact either mom or the hospital. The hospital was of no help in this regard. Constant run-arounds, excuses of shift change for never returning a call, attempt to placate us by saying they can see her just fine. There’s a lot more to the story as to our relationship with the desk staff at that hospital and how it wasn’t the healthiest, mostly due to mom consistently trying to use them as her message courier when unable to contact one of us family outside of the hospital, but that’s another story. After everyone trying all day to contact mom and getting nowhere, I decided to call her myself and by some miracle I was able to get through a video call when no one else had.
I started with basic “how are you” and “everyone wants to talk to you” messages with the most loving voice I could manage; I was just glad to get a hold of her. She was not doing well. She said so herself. Something about her ability to think clearly was… lacking. About 3 minutes into the conversation, she moved the phone to her ear, forgetting that we were on video call. Attempts to explain were not met well, and any time I was able to convince her the phone didn’t need to go next to her ear, it didn’t stay away for long. She looked tired, and she couldn’t sit still. I did all I could to simply follow where she brought me in our conversation – all that mattered to me was that she felt safe, comfortable, and cared for.
At one point she was able to prop the phone against the side of her bed as she was tired of holding it, and I understood, I wasn’t going to hang up or nag. I watched her stand up and lay back down so many times even I was tired, her anxiety like a specter savagely manipulating her strings and permeating through the screen. “Gotta move.” She would say in an exasperated panic you’d expect to hear from a toddler forced to confront the dark. And I would attempt to coach her into taking a seat, running through the breathing and meditation exercises she so loved to try with me before all of this started happening. It never lasted more than 30 seconds before the entire cycle would begin again.
Eventually, the phone fell into the space between the frame and the mattress. I tried to coax her into reaching the phone but all attempts were met with angry frustration and a lack of comprehension. So I stayed with her, and did my best to comfort her from where I was; I couldn’t see anything, but she heard me and I thought that was enough. At one point, after it was clear I could not placate her anxiety, I was reduced to telling her how much I and others loved her. I hoped perhaps that would reach her.
And then I heard a nurse come into the room. She asked, annoyed, “Why did you take your gown off?” Mom had no response, I’m not even sure she realized she’d done it; I’ve always imagined she felt like a child being spoken down to who knew she’d done wrong but wasn’t sure why. I was stunned. But I didn’t hang up, mom needed me. So, I waited for the nurse to go and I continued trying to convey everyone’s affection. She hadn’t given up on her cycle of standing and sitting but it did seem as though she was calming down.
In the middle of my attempt at comforting words I heard mom say “I’m going to sit on you.”
Confused, I asked her to clarify.
“I’m going to sit on you, okay?”
What could she mean? “Okay..?” I said.
“I’m sitting on you, I hope that’s okay.” She came back, and I was left speechless.
Because of where the phone had fallen, and the fact that my voice was emanating from within it, she had forgotten about our call and believed she was communicating with the bed itself. I didn’t know what to say. What are you supposed to say when your mother is in such a state that she thinks she’s talking to a bed?
“Hello?”
What does that imply for the rationale she’s using on a daily basis outside of this conversation?
“Can you hear me?”
Are you hurting her or helping her at this point if you try to continue that conversation?
“Hello..?”
So I hung up. At least at that point she had seemingly calmed down. Small comfort.
The Beginning of the End
A few hours later at around 1 in the morning the house got a call from the nurses station and I picked up because most other people were asleep. “We’re looking at Diana’s numbers and… there’s a possibility she isn’t going to make it through the night. It could honestly go either way, but in my opinion it doesn’t look good.” Not a direct quote but rather a summation of words said after my repeated requests to clarify due to disbelief. The timing couldn’t be worse. At just about this time a blizzard was howling in our part of the world, and the idea of getting from our home city to the city mom was in hospital (normally a 1.5 hour trip) was only looking more complicated. I had to decide quickly.
So I sprang into action. Woke up dad, got him into the car. Woke up Brit, explained and told her to get into the car. Called Amber, told her to get ready as we were coming to grab her and drive off. Shoveled a little bit for a clear exit. And left.
That was a hell of a car ride. Someone was always trying to contact the nurses station as she’d told us to check in for updates given the weather situation. What a debacle that was, between three people and something like six numbers it still took us until we were halfway to Rochester to get through. The highway? Covered in snow. I think average speed was 20mph where the limit is 65? Lots of trucks. Lots of plows, but always suspiciously on the other side of the highway. Lots of tears and prayer as everyone feared what was waiting at the end.
Eventually, we did reach the hospital over the phone to news that mom’s numbers improved and we didn’t need to come in anymore – we still could, if we wanted to, but no need. They’d been calling the house apparently. We decided to turn around and go home halfway to our destination and at around 3am. While we were all tired, afraid, and exhausted I forced the conversation the entire family had in one way or another been ignoring for the last 3 months: Mom is going to die. Soon. Very soon, now. It’s time we come to terms with that and prepare.
I can’t recall anything of note happening on Monday, the 17th except perhaps Josie deciding to fly into Rochester from NYC. We didn’t hear anything from mom the entire day, which lead to some serious concern. No online messages, no clear communication from the front desk. Nothing.
Tuesday, the 18th, we set up a meeting with the hospital staff to discuss mom’s next step. Prior to that Sunday, there had been misguided attempts to see about bringing and caring for mom at home – after this event there was clearly no way that would be possible. But where was mom? What was she doing? Did she have her phone? Can we speak to her? Is she alive?
So we get on the call and what do we see? Mom. She’s sitting up in bed, hands shaking, trying to figure out how this conversation is going to go. I really wish I knew what her Monday had been like but I never will now. Anyway, it’s mom, her medical staff, all of the family, and some very close friends. The medical staff were at this point very in favor of moving her to palliative care where we could potentially visit her. One small – but fairly important caveat – was that the medication she was on in her current situation wouldn’t be allowed in palliative care. From mom’s point of view, this was what was keeping her alive as it acted “like jet fuel for [her] heart.” She still wanted to consider us bringing her home where we could be trained to administer that medication. Too dangerous. Everyone is on the side of palliative care. Defeated, but having expected it, she let it drop.
There were things we could do, however, said the doctors! Give her one last dose of the medication to perk her up before sending her off to the other section of the hospital where she would be comfortable. Either not remembering, not caring, or having not understood, she asked again if she could have the medication administered while in palliative care. After a short explanation of why the answer was no, she looked at the camera. With a shaky voice, in the same tone she had when telling me for the first time she wouldn’t be getting the heart transplant, she said:
“That’s what scares me so much.”
Those were the last words I ever heard my mother speak. This was the last time I would ever see her awake. The zoom call then cut off. I know that last sentence being the very last thing in the call isn’t exactly how it happened, as I know we all tried to comfort her by explaining we would be able to come and see her should she move and the decision was made to move her, but in my memories that was the progression of events. Mom is let down > Mom is scared > The zoom call is cut off. All immediately in succession. Knowing, logically, that that isn’t what happened does nothing to convince the scar on your heart to heal.
Okay, we rush to contact the hospital. Why the fuck did the call cut off? Why weren’t we immediately contacted some other way? What’s happening with mom? When can we come see her? Those types of questions. And you know what? I’m still astounded as to why they handled it the way they did. It was hours before we knew what exactly was going on and that was after relentlessly contacting the hospital.
We later found out that by dinner she had been moved to her palliative care room, had had her last shot of the “jet fuel” drug, and was available to be visited as she listened to The Sound Of Music soundtrack that night. We were all allowed to go and see her, and some of us would have even been allowed to stay over night. Josie was mere miles away and could have gone. I’d have driven immediately to visit her if I’d known. None of us were told. Considering that night would have been one last chance to talk with my mother and assure her everything would be fine, I have not forgiven the hospital for being as uncommunicative as they were.
Wednesday the 19th was when I was able to knowingly set out. Drove over in the morning to pick up Josie and visit mom for, what we thought, would be an opportunity to talk with her and maybe write down her memoirs or glean any of the life advice she wanted to impart but never thought she’d have a clock to race against in sharing.
I was in charge of making the list of visitors and figuring out a schedule for when would be best for them to go. I’d begun before leaving, after contacting people from all over, as far as Texas. Only three people allowed at a time in the room with her, so it had to be tight while giving everyone ample time to talk with her. Two old friends of mom and dad’s from way back were the first two in that morning, which was fine. We were told they’d entered with one of her favorite songs playing to throw a small party and brighten her mood. We were heading into, what I had thought, would be at least a week of tearful goodbyes filled with understanding, love, and final memories of important conversations.
Josie and I entered the room and mom looked to be asleep. We spent the next 40 minutes whispering, not wanting to potentially wake her. A doctor walked in at full volume asking who we were and how mom was doing. We both looked to mom and asked if we needed to worry about her being disturbed from her rest. “She probably won’t wake up again. Her medication is meant to keep her like this. She can hear you, so you should talk to her, but don’t expect a response.” Again, not a direct quote but the gist of our conversation. We had not ever been told this would be the state she would be in.
I respect doctors and nurses for what they do, but being a blunt person who prefers direct and clear messaging, I can’t stand the soft language they prioritize when a situation as serious as end of life is on the table. Tell me to my face she is dying. Don’t tell me she’ll “be comfortable,” tell me she’ll effectively be unconscious. Don’t tell me “you have some time left,” tell me she won’t make it through the week. I understand changing answers based on new information, but nearly all of us walked into a situation we didn’t comprehend because we were not spoken to directly.
That day was spent talking to mom, telling her our plans, sorting out how visitation would work, and trying to get straight answers from a doctor who’s job it was to not give them. Our Aunt Paula arrived maybe an hour after we did and took on the mantle of responsibility of walking her nieces and nephews through what was happening and how to deal with it. We all took a hit when our grandmother – and her mother – passed away; some of us will even tell you that’s what began mom’s very slow decline. Her experience with the trauma was invaluable in helping many of us process at the time. Catching up with her and exploring those dark questions while not giving up on continuing the responsibilities of our lives was vital for many of us.
Exhaustion, Snow, and Bureaucracy
But my journey, no matter how sad, would not be mine without some kind of insanely bizarre anecdote that pushes the limits of belief in my common sense and sanity. You see, Thursday the 20th I actually had an appointment scheduled at 11am in NYC for my South Korean visa. I’ll speak more about the craziness that was everything leading up to South Korea in another article, but this is a pretty important event considering how it went down. Originally, the plan had been to drive down and stay with Josie for a night before driving back. Well, then mom nearly died that Sunday and Josie left NYC. And then mom moved to palliative care where the estimates on her remaining time lessened each time we asked after them. A leisurely drive down to The City was no longer an option, time was of the essence.
I left the hospital in Rochester around 7pm I think? Drove back to Syracuse and got there between 8 and 9pm. Cleaned up and tried to go to bed. There was a lot on my mind so that didn’t happen for some time. Woke up at 3am, forced myself out of bed, hoped into the car, drove to the gas station for required caffeine and snacks, and headed off. By best estimates, I’d get to NYC around 8:30am. This doesn’t factor stops I might make and I wanted to ensure I got there with time to spare to find a parking spot, get to the embassy, prepare documents, and make the appointment on time.
Nothing is ever that simple. Shortly before hitting New Jersey I was really feeling the effects of sleep deprivation and absolutely needed to take a breather. So I stopped at a rest stop – one I typically stop at anyway – and decided to take an hour nap. I woke up with my set alarm and what do I see outside? Snow. No big deal, I figured, I’d driven in snow. Yeah, but I’ve never driven in the Tri-state Area during rush hour with snow.
It wasn’t just any snow, it was thick and slushy. Shoulder to shoulder on a 6-lane highway where everyone else is in a “I need to get to work” mentality and drives at relative speeds as we all construct grooves in the mush that threatens to freeze is not fun. Especially on a total of four hours of sleep. Those were the conditions the entire way through New Jersey. The moment I reach the other side of the Lincoln Tunnel it effectively clears up. Still rainy, but at least I didn’t feel threatened with being driven off the road as I take another off-ramp on The Turnpike. Unforgettable.
Arrived in Midtown where construction caused my route to redirect multiple times. Eventually found a parking garage where I paid $60 for 90 minutes of parking, ran into the embassy, struggled through the process where the instructions were unclear and I only progressed because of the kindness of native Korean speakers taking pity on the white guy, had lovely chats with the security guard lady who wasn’t taking a single ounce of shit, and left. I didn’t even grab a coffee on my way out, I just had to get back.
Did I mention I needed to drive back to Rochester and pick up my brother and his family at the airport to get them to the Hospital? I drove from Syracuse, down to NYC, and immediately turned around once my appointment was finished so I could get to Rochester. On four hours of sleep.
Not only that, but the moment I got back to New Jersey my windshield wiper fluid hose broke – but only on the driver’s side. I spent an hour trying to fix it to no avail. This meant stopping every thirty minutes or so to manually dump fluid onto my side of the car and wipe it off so I could see; because you know, it was sunny and clear now, but the road was full of salty, dirty snow the semis were regularly kicking up. It was a grueling trip back. Oh yeah, and one of my headlights went out. By the time I was between Syracuse and Rochester again, I was working off nothing but fumes. Genuinely thought I’d end up going off the road. But I made it!
The Hewitts and I missed each other, and the little ones – who greeted me by starting a snowball war – doubly so. It took 20 to 30 minutes for us to figure out seating in the car. I begged Jon to drive and he quickly agreed despite being out of practice driving in snow, and we headed to the hospital. We had 40 minutes until visitation was finished at that point, so we figured we were in a rush. Something told us it was vital they get in to see mom, though there was no real tension in the air.
Surrounded By Love, Wind in the Sails
We arrive at the hospital and rush to the front desk to announce – with 30 minutes left – that Diana Cook has five new visitors who want to see her. Threw the staff through a small loop to hear that, but after explaining the familial connection they made arrangements. Even said all five of the Hewitts could go in at the same time which wasn’t supposed to be the case. I was tired but still wanted to see mom before the day was over. So I let the out-of-towners go up first.
Jon and Coryn came down quickly explaining the man in charge of guest registry had no intention of letting all five of them in at the same time. So Christa, Anya, and Skylar went up together and would shortly thereafter switch with the boys. As I understand it, their meetings were tender and loving with a few tears as mom remained effectively unconscious. Christa swore, however, that hearing her grandchildren’s voices caused mom to stir in some way; I fully believe it.
Once all the Hewitts were finished, Josie and I went up one last time for the night. First thing I did was check her breathing. Something the doctors had told us would happen shortly before the end would be her breathing would get noticeably faster and take on even more of a gasping nature. She had been gasping, in a way, since we first saw her here in palliative care, but we were told it was simply a side effect of medication meant to calm her down.
I stepped up next to mom and put my hand on her forehead and stroked her hair. Holding back tears in the same way I do now, I proceeded to tell her everything I could about my day, and all of the people who wished they could have seen her today but couldn’t. While her eyes never opened and her body never moved, her eyebrows reacted to everything I would say. As I explained about my adventures in the last 24 hours, her eyebrows moved between surprise and concern. As I explained to her that the entire village she had spent my life working hard to improve – either through her work with the newspaper, or through the school board, or volunteering, or simply by having been such a wonderfully kind and sociable person to anyone she met – had been sending their love for the last three months and in greater frequency the last three days, her eyes relaxed. Those who could not visit had been sending messages to read out loud to her, so I read a few of them from people in life she’d touched and explained that the love she gave out in life was now coming in 10 fold.
I also kissed her on the forehead and told her how lucky I had been to have her as a mother. I could not have asked for anyone better to help me grow into the man I am today. That I loved her and, no matter what, I always would. I promised to come visit again tomorrow, and left.
It was the last time I ever saw my mother.
On our way out, I asked Josie whether she thought mom’s breathing was different. Something about it didn’t seem the same to me as the last time I saw her. In her opinion, there was no difference. So I left it at that.
Downstairs we all regrouped and made plans for tomorrow. Josie would bring her friend with donuts and coffee for everyone in tow. Uncle Mike would arrive that night and get in to see his sister. Another old friend would arrive late in the night and would need picking up. Her best friend was in town and, having visited her that day, would do so again tomorrow before heading home. We took an hour to set out plans before departing. The Hewitts would go off to a house they’d rented, and I would go stay at a hotel that also acted as student dorms for a local college. Jon would pick me up in the morning and we would all meet up again.
Dad and Paula would spend the night. I was initially offered one of the two spots for overnight guests, Dad saying he wouldn’t mind staying elsewhere for the night; a suggestion I refused to accept. I was not going to separate my parents this close to the end.
Paula also offered to let me stay. However, the night before, Josie and dad had spent the night and mom allegedly woke up briefly, very agitated. She’d asked whether Paula had been there (remember, she could hear our voices) and I figured I would like to allow Paula to be there should such a thing happen again. I would have liked to be there should she wake up again, but I thought it more important her husband and sister be close that night; I could always stay over the next night.
Thursday the 20th of January mom had had a full day of visitors. Her husband stayed with her most of the day. Her sister came in and out when she had the chance. Her best friend of 30 or 40 years had been there and showed her the memories they’d forged together in their long history. All three of her daughters had come that day to see her. Her son had braved snowstorms, NYC, and 14 hours of driving just to see her at the end of the day. The son she had always been conflicted about giving up flew 1200 miles to see her, and he’d brought his family. Her grandchildren, whom she’d always doted on and took every opportunity to see or express her love for, got in just as visitation hours were ending; we’d all been saying, in one way or another, that they were who she was holding out for. After three months of dwindling visitation, and slowly having had her family barred from coming to see her, the day could not have been more full of love and family for her short of a miracle.
My dear mother, Diana Renee Cook, passed away on January 21st, 2022 at 8:35am.
The Aftermath
Immediately after I started writing this article, the importance of those first three weeks of 2022 became undeniable. Partially because of everything that happened, partially because of how much so many people around the situation were not privy to, and partially because of the grief that lingers in my heart. I hadn’t planned on this article being therapeutic when I started writing, but it certainly morphed into just that. A much needed form of writing therapy.
I also hadn’t planned on this article taking so long to write. Well, it’s been quite an emotional experience and, at least on my word document, this thing is 10-and-a-half full pages long. I’ve only ever been able to write a page or two before the weight of my loss crushes the sorrow in my heart and it cascades in the form of tears. There was editing, there is the other article I’m still working on, just a lot went into preparing this. My job doesn’t give me the amount of free time outside of designated working hours that I’d hoped it would, and so I’ve only been able to work on this sparingly.
There is also the fact that I’m a different person now than who I was when I started writing this over a month ago – literally the day I posted the last article. Everyone says the loss of a parent is the loss of something significant, and, duh, of course it is. For me, however, it was the end cap to a truly shit-tastic year.
I started 2021 moving back to the USA after loosing my Masters/Chinese Language Scholarship. I putzed around, lost on my path, until I decided to pursue a relationship on the other side of the country that I had subconsciously put a lot of faith in. Moved across the country for that, tried to restart my life over the summer, and had every single relationship I had there (the summation of my state-side support group) damaged, some irrevocably so. Was offered work in China and spent around $600 to see that work out only to have it fall through (the second time that year, actually). Drove back to my parents, defeated. Within a month, mom would go to the hospital, and she wouldn’t come out again. I begged those friendships I still had faith in who knew her as a second mother to come and see her, to come see me and comfort me because, honestly, I needed it. They did not.
In the end, after a year of struggle, I lost the person who in life had always been the first and most effective person to pick me up in a hug with the most tender words possible, dust me off, and convince me to keep moving forward, despite the hardship. I lost my mother. In a way, I lost my faith.
Philosophically, I’m a person who believes every single human is defined by their faith. No, I don’t mean anything to do with God. I do happen to think this part of me comes strongly from my mother, who always had faith in her god and Christianity. Part of me thinks this is genetic, as Jon and his family are also pretty down with JC and everything he’s about. Regardless, I think everyone has faith in something. Some people have faith in God, some in their government, others in their community, and for the vast majority of us: in ourselves. There are things we believe in, even if we don’t think of it in that way.
For me, I’d always had faith in a simple idea: Things will work out.
There is a song by one of my favorite bands, Streetlight Manifesto, called “If Only For Memories.” I’ll come out and say I’m not sure there exists a song that better encapsulates who I am as a person or my history as that song right there. I can’t listen to the song without being flooded with emotions and memories of my experiences in life. One line from the song rings through my mind, always, at the worst times in my life. “And I believe that every broken bone is meant to be. When it heals it will be stronger than it was before.” When I suffer devastation, it – as well as various other music – plays in my head, and brings me great comfort for the future. Things will work out.
I found that, once mom passed, and I took stock of all the devastating mishaps that had afflicted my year previous, there was no music. There was no comfort. There was no faith. I simply didn’t believe things would work out for me anymore.
It’s largely been that way for all of 2022. Mom passing was just the catalyst. So when I began writing this article, I was in a rather dark place, and totally devoid of hope for my future. The faith in my most core idea about the world, about life, had shattered and with it so too did my faith in all things I once had it for. Friendships I’d had since Elementary School. Some of my family. My hobbies. My dreams and skill of being a writer. The basic goodness in people. Myself. A person without faith is a person without control, without hope, and without a future. It is a sad existence to linger in.
I can say, thankfully, that in some small ways, those damaged parts of myself are finally beginning to heal. My present job has not made it easy, and I promise (for the third time?) to tell you all about it at some point, but now is not the time. I also cannot say for sure that that faith in the future, that things will work out, has been restored. Its too soon to tell. But in myself? Perhaps. In the idea that I have control and can construct my own destiny, despite the set backs? Perhaps.
In Our Hearts Forever
Mom herself had a favorite quote when it came to death. I first encountered it when my grandmother, her mother, passed away. The quote hung in her house for years next to a picture of Barbara Rhodes. “The light of a distant star continues to reach the earth long after the star itself is gone. In the same way, the light and love your loved one gave will continue to shine in many hearts.” I have not always been particularly fond of this quote, as I don’t think it accurately conveys the gravitas someone leaving an imprint in your life can have despite trying its best. None-the-less, there is something to it.
Mom may be gone, no longer able to provide that hug or those tender loving words. But perhaps her imprint on me remains. Perhaps the will to pick myself up, dust off, and be convinced to move forward in order to reforge that faith still exists. And perhaps it came, ultimately, from her.