What Grief Can Teach Us About Love

Grief is not all the pain it appears to be. Grief as I have come to know it, is also an extraordinary opportunity to experience and see close up the suffering from clinging in its most extreme form. This is my mother’s parting gift to me.

Yesterday, when I arrived, I found her sitting at her usual table in the back of the dining room. Remembering our intense connection from two weeks ago, I expected at least an acknowledgment, a gaze of recognition, a smile. I was met instead with a blank stare. I sat by her side and waited. “Bonjour Maman. C’ est Margot, ta fille.” She looked up, gave me a look, and closed her eyes again. Aides had laid out dinner in front of her, and I was to help her.  It took forty five minutes for her to get one serving of the French version of Ensure down. I followed the aides as they wheeled her back to her room, and I kept her company as she laid resting in bed. Giving her kisses, stroking her forehead, reaching out for her shriveled hand did not produce the usual joy in her. Rather, it became clear that she wanted to be left alone. She is withdrawing from the world, I thought, and she is letting me know.

My mother mostly wants to sleep, and sometimes drink a little, that’s all. No more music, no more engagement, no more closeness, no more food. This is in direct contrast to the mother I knew who loved singing so much, and eating well, and being hugged and cajoled. That version of her no longer exists, other than in my memories, thoughts about the past with no relevance to the present conditions. Turning inside, I get in touch with the pulling away and the hanging on from lingering grief. What we call love is first and foremost attachment. The more we feel love, the tighter the bond, and the more difficult it is to let go of the object of our love. My mother is letting me experience what I first learned in words from Ayya Khema. True love is purified from all attachment, and demands that we not burden the loved one with the imposition from our clinging. It also requires that we reconcile with the universal truth of impermanence, that all that is born must die. Last, we must accept the not-self nature of our existence. The only thing that matters at this moment is to give this person who I have been calling my mother, the space to die at her own pace. Anything short of that is due to cause suffering for both she and I.

We tend to make a big deal of death. Watching my mother gently fade away, I am struck by the simple physical nature of end of life, same way I felt when my daughters were born, only in reverse. We are born, we live, we die, that’s all, and with each transition, we are given to a bunch a physical processes, of entering, being in, and leaving the body. At some point, the body gets worn out and starts shutting down. In the case of Alzheimer’s as with my mom, the end phase stretches over many years, giving loved ones a chance to work with grief and clinging not just once, but numerous times. One thing I have learned from this process is the need to appreciate all that is given at any moment. It is so easy focusing on what no longer is, as opposed to what still is. Before my mother lost the ability to speak a month ago, I did not realize how much it mattered to me that she be able to talk and respond still, even within the limited range of her late stage Alzheimer's narrative.

Now, treasuring the times sitting at her side and feeling her spirit, still flickering, and her breath also. I know soon there will be no life left at all. 

Being With Speechlessness (Aphasia)

On Monday, my mother was singing to me her favorite tune La Java Bleue over the phone. On Tuesday, she had been robbed of her ability to speak by a stroke. Aphasia, the medical term to describe what happened to my mother, comes from the ancient Greek term for 'speechlessness'. It is associated with different types of neurological disorders, and comes in several forms. My mother suffers from expressive (non fluent) aphasia, meaning she knows what she wants to say, but is unable to get the words out. Such a sudden loss is traumatic and I have had to rely on both my practice and field knowledge to be as supportive as I could for my mother. I have also had to deal with my own grief of the mother I knew who sang and spoke to me. Yet another loss down the path of Alzheimer's and very old age . . . 

Most important is to acknowledge directly to the person, what has happened, and the likely emotions associated with the communication challenges that they are experiencing. When complicated with memory loss, the person may not understand what is happening to them, and may need to be reminded. With my mother, I have been telling her that she had a stroke, and is experiencing a temporary loss of speech. I want to keep her heart in a hopeful place, and there is indeed the possibility that she may respond to speech therapy.  I empathize with the extreme frustration she shows in her facial expressions whenever she is trying to talk, and I apologize for the times when I may not understand her. This is a step caregivers often forget in their communications with aphasic persons, particularly when the aphasia has been present for a long time. I also rely on the bank of previous spoken interactions with my mother, and all the topics I know she enjoyed then and is still likely to enjoy. Next time I visit, I may also try to see if I can encourage her to communicate through art, although that door may be closed given the state of her advanced dementia. For a person suffering from strict non fluent aphasia, and with limited to moderate or no dementia, writing and art making would be two logical outlets for self-expression. Last, is falling back on two most profound forms of communication, touch, and seeing. Gazing into my mother's eyes, I shared some of the most tender and loving moments we ever had together. It is quite something to realize that it took that much, for the two of us to get there. 

Many times during the past three weeks, I have rested on the foundation of my practice. Reading Ayya Khema, stopping often to connect with the breath, sitting every morning without fail, sharing in this blog with all my noble friends, and contemplating the teachings, particularly on suffering,  impermanence, not self, and the five remembrances. I have also been reflecting on my experiences of noble silence during retreats, and how such practice can help one prepare for the possibility of speechlessness both in oneself, and in others. 

Saying Goodbye

It is now clear that my mother is dying, and a new phase has started. The nurse said it could be a matter of days, weeks, or months. The good news is she is now back home, in the comfort of her room. She recognized me when I arrived today, and is now lying in bed with her eyes closed, her breathing irregular and labored. I am planning to return to the US the day after tomorrow. This may be the last time I see her.

I draw comfort from the love that flowed so freely between us during the last few days. I was able to receive her love, in all its purity, and I know she got the same from me. It has been like falling in love all over again, an experience that blew my heart open wide, and that I will cherish forever.

Now, comes my part in allowing her to let go. Not insisting that she eat or drink, not smothering her with touch that is now painful to her, not burdening her with mental clinging. Sitting by her side, I go to my body, and find the breath, moving through much heaviness. The grief in my heart is for me to have only, and not share with her. Sitting by her side, I pay close attention to her breathing, and I practice receiving it gently into my own breath. The same way she birthed me, now I am helping her slip away.

Not Her Keeper

These days spent at the hospital with my mother are so intense. Yesterday, I looked into her eyes, several times, and we locked in, and I smiled and I reminded her it was me, and she smiled back, to tell me her happiness. She liked it when I played her favorite tunes, songs she used to sing all the time before her stroke. And she surprised me when she reached out for a magazine. I found myself starting to hope. 

Then came the dinner tray, and she did not make it past the first spoonful of the green puree. Same with the yogurt, and the applesauce. I asked the nurse, and she could not give me any reassurance. Yes, it could mean the end is near, or not. 

Today, I arrived to find her lying in bed and hooked up to a monitor, eyes closed and seemingly in pain with a frozen frown on her face. I was told her heart had gone to 150 in the morning and she was under close watch again. She did not acknowledge my presence. Her roommate was screaming for her children to come and take her. I thought, how incredibly stressful this must be for my mother to be subjected to so much. And I realized there was nothing to do, other than sit by her side, hold her hand, and remind her often that I was there with her. 

Ayya Khema says this about love: 

My attachment and my fear can only have a negative influence on my love. My children do not belong to me; they belong to themselves. I'm not their keeper, any more than they are my keepers. We are linked to each other, but not bound to each other - that is a huge difference. 

~ from I Give You My Life ~ 

Ayya Khema is referring to her children, but the same goes with our parents. I have been watching grief take hold in my body, a very physical sensation akin to being torn apart, literally. The stronger the bond, the more painful the parting, and there is certainly no stronger tie than between mother and child. It goes both ways. I am grateful for the practice to point me in the right direction. I am to feel the grief, fully, and relax around it, giving it space, and guarding the mind from adding more. My mother needs me to be at peace, and free from the anxiety of anticipated loss.

A Lesson in Love

Sitting by my mother’s bed at the hospital, my heart is filled with emotions. Mostly love, and deep grief from a new threshold passed over a few days ago. My mother‘s stroke has left her unable to speak. Monday morning, she and I had been singing together La Java Bleue over the phone. When I saw her yesterday for the first time since her stroke, she recognized me instantly and smiled, with one tear out of the corner of her right eye. It hit me right there, the immensity of her love, and of my love back to her. The nurse said it was the first time they had seen her open both eyes since she got admitted Tuesday night. There is no telling whether she will speak or move her right leg again. She makes grunting noises when I put the phone on her ear and my brother speaks to her.

Sitting by my mother’s bed, my mind takes me to hard places, mostly memories of when I rejected her   love, and I was not there for her. Of course, I thought had reasons every time. I dismissed her as too anxious, too dependent, and wanting to live her unlived life through me . . . I wished for her to be other than she could be, less depressed, happier, less demanding of my love and my brother’s love. I moved far away, five thousand miles, to live ‘my own life’. This is what the mind does whenever it is intent on closing the heart. There were also the times, more recent, during the beginning of her Alzheimer’s when the illness exacerbated those traits of hers, and I did not know then the real cause, and I reacted unkindly. There is no rewind button on life. Instead, one is left with the karmic consequences of past misdeeds and missed opportunities to love.

Sitting by my mother’s bed, listening to the monitor’s beeping sounds and the commotion in the hallway, I take refuge in practice, and decide to turn the guilt that besieges me, into a teacher of love. No need to keep adding more misery, this time self-directed. Guilt, rightly understood, is a call to move forward with the heart wide open, and with mindfulness. Using the sting of regret as a constant reminder to guard from the mind’s deceiving ways. Dwelling in love, at this moment, first for my mother, and also myself, I feel a shift, an immense gratitude for this one more gift from her. And I review all the gifts she bestowed on me starting with the gift of life itself.

May she be at peace, and at ease during this transition.

May I also be at peace, and at ease.

And may this serves to help you love better, more often.