On the last day of the year, many take to their journals or social media to summarize the events of the past 365 days or set their goals and wishes for the year ahead. I’m no different, as I’ve posted my thoughts on December 31st for many years now. Though I rarely stay up for the countdown, it’s hard not to get caught up in the hope of something new and exciting that promises to start the very next day.
But now, I live with a totally different countdown. It’s not filled with excitement or party planning. Yet, I try my best to search for a shred of positivity woven with strands of gratitude, knowledge, personal growth and love.
I’m eternally grateful for the weeks that I was able to spend with Colton before it was his day to leave. I had six weeks to show him that my love, loyalty and dedication was something he could count on when he needed me the most. I humbly recognize that I am an exception to the rule and that most bereaved mothers would give anything, literally anything, to have that much time with their sons before they passed.
My countdown starts on November 30th and ends on January 15th. Every year as December approaches I can feel the anxiety increasing as the memories begin to flood my heart and mind once again. The first two weeks were spent in the hospital, where they were still trying to pump him full of antibiotics to ease an infection in his chest. I listened to the frustration, anger, and sometimes terror creep into his voice as he soldiered through test after test, and I watched in horror as the vomiting and weight loss began to transform him into someone other than my beautiful son. I remember he very quickly got to the point where he no longer wanted all of the additional blood work and antibiotics ( oh how he hated needles!) and just wanted to be kept comfortable. He quickly became resigned to the fact that he didn’t have much time.
When he was feeling clear headed, he would go over his to-do list. He wanted to sell his truck, to make sure his bills were all paid, and that he was able to give some of his prized possessions to his nearest and dearest friends. He wanted to ensure that his young spouse was taken care of to the best of his ability. As painful as it was to watch this, I now look back with great pride at his maturity and sense of responsibility during this most difficult of times.
The second two weeks were spent at his home, as the hospital thought that his pain could be managed with the assortment of medications that he was on. If a visual is needed, imagine bottles of medications covering nearly half of the kitchen island, that each had to be administered at the correct time with the correct dosage. A formidable task to be sure, yet it was taken in stride. Looking back, I found this two week period to be the most stressful for him, and it turn, for all of us. Everything became much harder to deal with. As stretched as our health care system is, they had done a remarkable job of taking care of the round the clock duties of caring for a palliative patient. It just wasn’t as easy to do this in a home setting. Yes, we bought a lift chair. We had the bedside table on wheels, the hospital bed, the drugs, whatever he needed. But the fact was, at least in my mind, that the level of care and respect for his condition was not the same. Extended family started to arrive, and of course would gravitate to the house to see him, and I know he felt obligated to visit with them when he could. Long passed the point where he perhaps should’ve said that he needed his rest. Things that I remember during this time were that when he felt up to it, all he wanted to do were the simple, ordinary things of life. He would get up and shuffle around the living room in his bare feet, toes cracking, and push the swiffer around to pick up the dog hair. Of course, we were there to do this task as well as all the rest of them, but he did it anyways. There was a time or two when I recall that he felt good enough to go to the dog park and watch them run around. There was a new Star Wars movie out at the time and he was determined to see it. We did actually get him to the theater and he sat next to me and made it all the way through, only to be devastated to realize that the next day, he couldn’t remember the movie at all. It was also during this time that I could watch the decline taking its toll, and I stood as a silent witness as the Cancer chipped away at him. The last time I remember him in a normal restaurant setting was on December 30th, his step brother’s birthday dinner. I remember this outing as a gift, because he was in decent spirits and was able to eat a good meal.
The last two weeks of my countdown take place in Hospice. I remember thinking that this would be the worst possible time but actually, it turned out to be something completely different. A unique, special, spiritual, devastating, enlightening, tragic, soul crushing time filled with beautiful horrible moments.
During the time in Hospice my countdown included a visit from one of Colton’s very best friends, Jesse, his wife and their New Year’s baby, a son that they named Ezra Colton, for my son. They brought him to meet Colton and I’ll never forget watching my son holding his little namesake with such a look of love and wonder on his face. There was a front page article in the local paper because of the New Year’s day birth, and the story was also about him being named for Colton and what Colton was going through. There was a lot of activity leading up to this time. A pub night silent auction fundraiser was held, a gofundme was set up online, and radio spots spoke of his fight along with news of a concert to be held by the metal band that he had been the voice for during the last six years before the Cancer took that from him as well.
Still, I remember the last two weeks as Colton taking back some of the decisions for himself regarding his time left, his treatment, and how he wanted to say goodbye. I remember shaking my head in disbelief when he told me that he put a call out on Facebook to all of the friends he went to school with to drop by to see him and they did. They came in groups, they came before or after work, they came to hang out with him in the evenings. They played guitar and sang for him. They sat around and took pictures and told stories and made him smile. For that I am and will forever remain grateful. Family took turns making meals in the kitchen there, and people would gather. Eventually, we limited the visitors so that he could keep his strength up and so we could have a little more much needed time with him. During this time, my husband and I were given a parent’s room for the remainder of the time so that we could be there with him, and to give our host family a much needed break. Even though we were in the same building though, not all of the conversations that were whirling around in my head were able to be had. So many missed conversations. Hindsight is a cruel companion, when it constantly reminds you of what you could have or should have or what you now wished you had said. It has made a backpack of these things over the last four years for me to carry, and the weight of it increases each year. As I write and let some of it out, I seem to compile more of it to add to the pile. I now simply try and find comfort in the fact that I was there to hold his hand, that he knew how much he was loved, and that he was of sound mind to do this on his own terms and in a way that made us all so very proud of him.
The final week of the countdown contains a lot of things that I find I cannot write about yet. As if the simple task of my fingers moving on the keyboard will somehow drastically change something. Surely nothing can change it, right? I know on the deepest level that nothing can change the course of events as they took place. They are etched in my memory, carved into the walls of my heart like ancient writings that describe lost civilizations and stories of great victories and losses of times long past. One day I’ll have to let it out, those last few precious moments.
Four days before Colton left, he had opted for sedation. His wish was for medical assistance to quicken his death, but he would’ve had to been transported to hospital, and this was not what he had wanted. So, he opted for sedation. This gave him the opportunity, and us the final gift from him, of his being able to say his goodbyes. He was able to walk up to each one of us, give a hug, tell us I love you. I will never forget that moment for the rest of my days. We had obtained a copy of the Star Wars movie that he couldn’t remember seeing, and we all sat with him and watched as he was given his meds and fell asleep., surrounded by those who love him beyond measure.
The last three days of my countdown felt like both an eternity and a split second of time running concurrently. The first long night I refused to sleep at all, holding his hand and listening to the snores and sleep sounds and observing the night routine of the hospice team. Time to think. Time to think. Time to think of all of the missed conversations. Time to wonder. Did I say I loved him enough? Does he know? I figured he could still hear me so I would say it again. We had made a pact, he and I, that he would make sure I was there when it was time to go. Would he be able to keep it?
On the evening of the 15th, my countdown ended as I went to his room from the kitchen to say goodnight. I saw beads of sweat on his upper lip and his forehead. He’d been struggling to stay. I ran to get a cold wet cloth to wipe his face. I heard his breathing change. He kept his promise. He hung on until I was by his side.
I couldn’t have asked for anything more.
As I finish this blog on this, the last day of December, 2021, I still have a couple of weeks left in my countdown. As the rest of you count down to the new year tonight, here is my wish for you and the new year: let go of everything that you can, the doubt, the bias, the blame, because all that you can take with you ….is love.