***Mom - The Fifth Commandment

Written by Allan J. Hamilton, MD, FACS

Real loss never hits until it gets personal. Till it’s someone you love. Till you feel it. Up until then you’re just talking about it but you’re not living it.

Two weeks ago my eighty-three year old mother started complaining of chest pain. We gave her ...Written by Allan J. Hamilton, MD, FACS

Real loss never hits until it gets personal. Till it’s someone you love. Till you feel it. Up until then you’re just talking about it but you’re not living it.

Two weeks ago my eighty-three year old mother started complaining of chest pain. We gave her an aspirin (like the Bayer commercials tell us to do) and rushed her into the hospital. She was having a major hear attack. A stent was placed to open up one of her coronary arteries and it looked like everything would resolve quickly and peacefully. But the next day my mother suffered a cardiac arrest—in front of her granddaughter and myself. I watched this surreal event unfold. My last living parent was there fading away under repeated, crushing chest compressions. My daughter’s only remaining grandparent. They rushed my mother down to cardiac surgery. For days, she was on a ventilator. But she somehow seemed to be holding her own, rallying. I wasn’t willing to give up yet if she wasn’t.

While Mom was unconscious in the ICU, I had to go over to her apartment to pick up her Westie terrier, Molly—her trusted companion-- who had been staying with a neighbor. Now, if Mom was going to survive, her recovery would be at least a few weeks, so Molly needed a real home. It was then, as I loaded Molly into my car to bring her to stay with me, that it all hit me. If Molly had to stay with me permanently, it would mean I had lost my Mom forever and with her all the history, all the family stories, and all the connections to our relatives who she loved. Mom survived. Fortunately, her faculties were unaffected by the massive physiogical assault she had to endure during her recovery. I realized that I had been a priceless gift—a second chance to hear my mother tell me all about her grandparents living through World War II and immigrating to America sixty years ago. I was given a wonderful opportunity to capture her heritage—and mine too.

Now Mom is recuperating with me. I’ve had to ask to cut back on my schedule at work. I help cook her meals and make her bed, and help her to the bathroom—all the things she once did for me. It feels good to be able to take care of her, to show her how grateful I feel for all she did for me throughout her life. I find hard to remember what it felt like when I was a teenager who never wanted anything to do with her and couldn’t wait to get out of the house. That scenario doesn’t even seem possible from where I stand today.

When Mom feels perky, we sit down with a tape recorder and I just ask her to tell me all the stories she can remember from her life. We try to stick to a very vague chronological order. In the last week we managed to get from 1926 to 1933. Mom’s heart has proven it’s strong so we will hopefully make our way through the decades of her history, get it all down, then transcribed so my kids will have access to it. In the meantime, it feels good to listen to her. To hear her tell me about the fun she had as a child. How my grandfather could make her laugh with his antics. How she first saw fireworks above the Eiffel Tower.

The fifth commandment embodies a new meaning for me: Honor thy father and thy mother. It feels right to honor her in this way. What a blessing to be given the opportunity to do it right, because the death of a parent leaves its final imprint on our hearts, at the core of our own creation and development, and, finally, upon the legacy we leave behind as parents ourselves.