Holy Dirt

“Be careful with the words you release from your tongue. They cannot be put back.”

My mouth burning from a habanero-laced pistachio, I nodded politely but didn’t really listen.

The shaman was dispensing advice and selling chili peppers across a dusty street from the historic El Santuario de Chimayo. The dirt from this Catholic mission in New Mexico is believed to have healing powers.

My husband and I entered the church through old wooden doors flanked by twin belfry towers. Crutches from tiny to large leaned against the cool thick adobe walls. Smoke from a hundred votive candles darkened the ceiling, wafting hope and prayers to the sun-lit heavens. A low-ceilinged, stuffy sanctuary housed the mysterious dirt pit surrounded by wood carvings, flowers, and discarded medical devices.

Months later, back in the real world, the shaman’s words came back to haunt me.

A Fighter fights

Typical of our sandwich generation, bad news came by phone at an impossibly chaotic time. Both of my parents were hospitalized — one floor apart. Always the daughter and a doctor, I arranged child and patient care, then booked a flight. My parents’ physician happened to be one of my medical school classmates. It seemed best to assess their condition personally to better understand their care needs.

The air was crisp as I pulled the rental car into the hospital visitor parking lot. The sun was warm on my face as the first yellow daffodils peeped out of a late spring snowfall.

I decided to check on my dad first, who was admitted to the medical intensive care unit with a serious infection. When I inquired at the nurse’s station to see how he was doing, a dark-haired nurse responded.

“I took care of your dad last night,” she said. “Before you go in, I just want to warn you, he had a bad night.”

“What happened?” I asked, concern tightening my voice.

“He became agitated and combative. We needed to put him in restraints,” she replied.

My mind filled with static. Mild-mannered, witty Dad was tied down?

I hesitated as I entered the room, fearful of what I might find. There, among tossed sheets and wrinkled pajamas, lay my dad, frail and aging. Oxygen flowed to his nose creating a low, hissing sound. A large, multi-colored floral arrangement sat on his nightstand — the cloying fragrance of daylilies hanging in the air.

My chest tightened. I had never seen or even thought of him in this fragile, vulnerable state. Dad was a vigorous man conditioned by hard manual labor. He picked fields of tomatoes at seven years old, enlisted in World War II as a teen, and worked two grueling full-time jobs – aircraft propeller repair and farming — as an adult.

I kissed his forehead. His unfocused eyes made it clear he was still confused. I told him it was “Wendy, your daughter.” He turned his hollow face towards me. His eyes brightened, and he tried to reach a calloused hand out to me.

He couldn’t. His limbs were held tightly to the sheets by fuzzy restraints with shiny, silver buckles. A man that had used his hands all his life, now unable to. His brows furrowed in confusion as he tugged furtively.

“Dad, it’s okay.” The antiseptic hospital smell suddenly seemed overwhelming. “They just have some wristbands on you so that you don’t pull out your lines.” I took one of his pale hands in mine. Blood vessels drew chaotic patterns under his thinning skin.

My throat tightened as I swallowed my tears. With a hoarse voice, I talked to him about the kids, my flight, and the beautiful day outside. As we spoke, his cloudy mind began to clear, and it dawned on him that he had a dream.

He told me about a foxhole, and described shells whizzing by his head, dense smoke choking his throat. Fighting off enemy troops, he was back in World War II. Then, he chuckled weakly — he hadn’t even served in Europe. His tour of duty was Hawaii!

I leaned over, kissed him goodbye and called his doctor.

“Michael, tell me what’s going on?” I asked my old classmate. “He is really confused.”

“I think he sundowned (a term for confusion in the elderly, often occurring at night), which is not unusual for his age or his diagnosis,” he replied.

“You mean his infection?” I asked, slightly confused.

“Yes, that and his early Alzheimer’s,” he replied matter-of-factly.

The words hit like wind-blown pebbles. “Alzheimer’s? Dad?” I asked, shocked.

“You didn’t know?” he asked.

“No,” I replied. “Does my mother know?”

“Yes,” he answered. “Maybe a year or so. I talked with both of them in the office about it.”

As I walked up the stairs to the cardiac ICU, I tried to clear my thinking. Dad had Alzheimer’s. A year or more? Mom knew. Mom didn’t tell us?

A game of “Twenty Questions”

Time pressed heavily against me. In addition to mounting responsibilities at home, a frightening, undisclosed medical crisis was unfolding here with my dad.

Anger began to heat my body, replacing my shock.

Why hadn’t she told my sisters and me?

Getting to her room, I saw Mom lying in bed, looking pale and tired. She greeted me with a weak wave. Chest leads hooked to her frame tied her to the rhythmically beating heart monitor. Two IVs dripped clear fluids into her arm, the needle tip hidden under her tissue paper skin.

She tried to cover her mouth as a dry cough racked her chest.

I kissed the top of her head but my heart was hardening.

“How’s your father?” she asked. Her beautiful azure eyes looked reddened and sunken, and her graying hair was now thinned and shorn short. Her usual vitality and spark were gone.

“He’s not good, Mom,” I said, with a snappish tone I hadn’t used with her since high school. My lips were so tight in anger, a ventriloquist had more mouth movement.

“What’s wrong with him?” she asked weakly. A veil came over her eyes and she looked away. I knew she was holding something back.

I could feel fury building inside me.

“Mom, the doc said Dad had Alzheimer’s. How long has this been going on? Why haven’t you said something?” I asked in rapid succession. I leaned forward, staring her down like I was grilling a suspect for intel.

“You don’t know,” she said, pausing to cough weakly again. “You just don’t know everything that has gone on at home.” She raised a thinning, white-haired eyebrow. I thought she was being stubbornly coy.

I exploded. “I can’t believe you have fricking kept this from us!” I did not use the polite version of the word.

Some mild cursing was muttered around my childhood home — usually by my dad, and ironically, often when he was frustrated with Mom. However, being raised Catholic, the five daughters were forbidden to speak God’s name in vain, and we were never, ever to curse at our parents.

It was the Fourth Commandment: Honor Thy Mother and Thy Father. I suspected Mom felt God may have made a mistake in not ranking it as the First.

“Don’t talk to me like that!” she spat, her body recoiling into the stiff mattress. “I don’t deserve to be cursed at!” A spark of her spunk returned.

I was immediately remorseful. Still, she had information and was not letting go of it. This was not a game of “Twenty Questions.”

“It’s been going on for a couple of years,” she continued, now the words coming knife-like, her breath in short gasps. “I didn’t tell you girls because I wanted you to think of your dad as he was, not what he was going to become.”

This sunny, daffodil-filled day had turned into an unexpected storm.

“Mom, this is serious. I’m sorry I cursed, but he is in four-point restraints and nearly attacked a nurse. That’s what I walked into. And you clearly have been withholding information that we have a right to know.”

I glanced at my watch. “I have to get back home, and this mess all just landed on me.” I was regressing. Now I heard my pre-teen self in every word.

With a determined glare, she picked up the call button, pointed it in my direction and pressed it spitefully. Being in the ICU, the nurse responded quickly.

“Hey, Mrs. Hawke, what do you need?” she asked.

“My daughter is abusing me,” my mother said, eyes suddenly downcast, shoulders hastily dropped in resignation. Deadly calm settled over her face.

“I’m sorry?” the nurse asked. She looked at me. Lifting my eyebrows and glancing over at my mother, I shrugged my shoulders.

“Mrs. Hawke?”

“I need my daughter removed. She cursed at me, raised her voice.” Mom’s words trailed off, and she suddenly began fading in the bed.

My eyes caught the nurse’s. Time to register my defense.

“My dad is down in the med ICU. He is in 4-point restraints because he became combative last night. Apparently, he has dementia. She is not telling me what is going on. I have a plane to catch and would really like to understand what is happening before I leave.”

The nurse nodded, just the whisper of a smile on her lips.

“I see,” she said. “Mrs. Hawke, sounds like this has been an upsetting conversation. Can I get you some medication?”

“No!” Mom said, emphatically. She sat up abruptly, pointed her finger at me, and nearly shouted, “My daughter is being abusive to me! She needs to leave.”

It was a miracle. Mom resurrected.

An angel intervenes

The nurse smiled, readjusting Mom in bed and said gently, “I think you’re going to be all right. Maybe you and your daughter should talk this out. I’ll be right outside if you need me.”

As she turned to leave, she glanced at me and nodded knowingly.

Mom surrendered. Slumped back in the bed, she looked up from the flat hospital pillow, and quietly said, “I did the best I could.” Tears etched crooked lines onto that once youthful, sprite-like face.

Oh, Lord. Despite the histrionics and my righteous indignation, I made my mom cry. Every daughter’s worst nightmare and a one-way ticket to purgatory.

The sun tucked behind a cloud and the room grew gray. My shoulders raised in a big inhale as I forcibly pushed away my anger. Deep remorse took its place. Life had thrown my parents a devastating blow and I somehow left grace on my arriving flight.

It was so quiet I could hear the IV dripping.

She did the best she could. It wasn’t perfect. It didn’t need to be. She cared for the person who was her partner for over sixty years. And that man was slowly changing into a stranger. She wasn’t ready to turn this new narrative over to her daughters. Let us hold onto the father we knew as long as we could. Let her hold onto whatever she needed to face an uncertain future.

At that moment, I learned I needed to understand the difference between perfect outcomes and best efforts.

I couldn’t put back the angry words. But I could put the conversation in perspective. We both had a moment when we were not our finest selves. Imperfectly human.

Sinking into the worn bedside chair, I took her frail, bruised fingers into my manicured ones. Both hands had worked equally hard, just in different arenas. Kissing hers, I said, “I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t know what you were going through. It’s a lot.”

She didn’t really soften, still holding her hurt close to her heart. However, in the next hour, we tried to work through the problem. What she needed, what Dad needed. Who would tell my sisters.

I can count on two fingers the times in my adult life that I spoke so disrespectfully to my mom. This was one of them.

Forgiving trespasses

Our altercation has bothered me over the years. I’ve tried to figure out why.

Clearly, I had modeled an intergenerational lack of conflict resolution skills. That wasn’t it.

My mom hadn’t been honest with me about my dad’s diagnosis, however, I could understand that.

She could have talked to me once she understood that I knew my dad’s diagnosis. For whatever reason, she chose to make that conversation much more difficult. She did that sometimes.

What keeps coming back to me is that she never forgave me.

I apologized to her for being overly harsh. She frequently reminded me of my disrespect in subsequent years — it was clear she never forgot it. It should have been easy for her to say, “you were stressed and carrying a lot. You let that spill over to me. I understand. I forgive you.”

She never did.

So, what I’ve come to is that some stories don’t have tidy conclusions and elegant resolutions. Some stories are messy, like the lives we lead. Love is messy. And imperfect. But it’s still love.

“Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespassed against us.”

And we must forgive ourselves when we are not offered that grace from others.

It occurs to me now that my mom would believe this story to be disrespectful. And I would be due for another Saturday confession. I would say to my mom now: “I understand that words wound. And I wounded you. You taught me so much about love. Forgiveness is a gift that I willingly offer to you — and me.”

Years later, encircled by her daughters, all the hurt was left at the bedside. It was only love, imperfect as it is, that was between us as she took her last breath. We whispered, “We love you. Thank you, Mom.”

The holy dirt is working — not by erasing what happened, but healing what I carry forward.

 

 

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