The High Cost of My Mother's Longevity
Death has its timetable, and it didn't sync with my mother's — so she lived past her personal expiration date and was ready to die for several years
On March 11, 2025, my mother would have turned 100 years old. I'm relieved she died before that milestone birthday. Harsh, I know, but she couldn't have endured that extra 13 months of life needed to become a centenarian.
"I've lived too long," she started saying in her 80s. I disagreed with her at first, but as her journey towards death became more arduous, I saw her point. If she had died at 93 or 94, she'd have avoided a lot of suffering.
In the 1970s, when I was growing up, my mother was known as a health nut. Neither she nor my father drove and they instead walked everywhere. Later, after my parents divorced and my mother moved back to the small town on the Sacramento Delta in Northern California where she grew up, she'd walk the fields for miles every day. I remember being embarrassed when I overheard my Girl Scout leader call my mom "Mrs. Nature Walk," but the name fit.
Until she was 95, my mother lived independently and was aging well. It was during that year when she fell hard onto the ground and went from being healthy to dying.
Any junk or diet food was forbidden in our house. When I was a teenager, she found my stash of Pepsi Light in my closet and gleefully poured it into the sink. She wanted nothing to do with anything she deemed as "chemical."
In her early 50s, my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. To treat it, she had a double mastectomy and radiation but refused to do chemo. It must have worked because she lived for another 40+ years. However, her healthy life choices didn't guarantee an easy, fast or enjoyable end stage.
Until she was 95, my mother lived independently and was aging well. It was during that year when she fell hard onto the ground and went from being healthy to dying. Her body began shutting down, piece by piece. Having round-the-clock care was mandatory, and her self-sufficient life was officially over.
We discussed building a tiny house for her in our backyard in Los Angeles, but it was late. My mother also had a phobia of being driven on the freeway — not only could she have not made the trip, but her phobia made going to the hospital or having any out-patient treatments (30 minutes away by freeway) out of the question.
Although my mother was confined to bed and couldn't bathe or feed herself, the only terminal illness she had was old age. Her hospice nurse was astounded at how my mother's blood pressure was that of a teenager and how strong her heart was.
Since she was no longer counting calories, she indulged in all the food she'd previously denied herself, especially lemon desserts.
At first, spending most of her time in bed wasn't so bad — she could read, watch Kay Francis movies, or look out her bedroom window at the shows the squirrels, birds and other animals put on for her entertainment.
Since she was no longer counting calories, she indulged in all the food she'd previously denied herself, especially lemon desserts. She discovered a new restaurant, McDonald's, which made their fries extra crispy the way she liked them. Family and friends visited her regularly, and although she was an agnostic, she enjoyed having spirited discussions with the hospice pastor.
A couple of times, she rallied and appeared to be doing much better, but after every upswing, her health would take a downward turn. Her fear of falling increased, and she refused to sit in a wheelchair — even if it meant limiting her world to one room.
Why Bother?
She'd lost her hearing in one ear after a diving accident when she was young. Now, she was quickly losing hearing in her other ear and refused to get hearing aids, so our daily phone calls stopped.
When she got cataracts, the surgery she had in her right eye went well, but she wouldn't have the procedure on the left. She thought she'd die soon, so why bother getting anything fixed? Every time a medical professional tried to prescribe some medication to help with her indigestion, moods or health issues, she fought them on it.
When my mother woke up from a nap, she was disappointed to still be alive.
The hospice nurse told me my mother was dealing with both mental illness and dementia. As her memory deteriorated, my mother's delusions and hallucinations took center stage. According to my mom, there were invisible bad people who kidnapped her at night, watched her from the backyard and threatened her with dangerous weapons from across the room.
No one was surprised when my mother started showing signs of Sundown Syndrome, waking up in the middle of the night, agitated, and confused when she couldn't simply get out of bed.
Because her throat narrowed, her food had to be ground before the caregiver could give it to her. Occasionally, my mother attempted to feed herself but usually missed her mouth and fed her cheek instead.
Ready to Die
When her pets started dying, her fight seemed to go with them. By the time she was 97, she was ready to die. Her interest in anything outside herself waned, and her time awake decreased. Before she'd been moody, now she only had one emotion: sorrow. I've never seen anyone look as sad as my mother did when she was sleeping.
Her skin was paper thin, and she developed bedsores, along with nerve and neuromuscular discomfort and tenderness, but she refused to admit she wasn't fine. However, when the caregivers and health aides moved her, the pain that crossed her face told a different story.
"I'm done with life," my mother told me. "I want it over."
Death has its timetable, and it didn't sync with my mother's, so she lived past her personal expiration date.
For me, after witnessing my mother's excruciating decline, longevity isn't as important as the quality of my life and enjoying it as I go along
Although The California End of Life Option Act went into effect on June 9, 2016, assisted suicide wasn't a choice my mother would make. Not only had her sister, Christine, died by suicide, so did my brother, Frederick. Once the patient has qualified, they're prescribed an aid-in-dying drug, and my mother wouldn't have taken it, just like the untouched bottles of morphine in my mother's house.
Home health care is extremely expensive, and we worried about my mother's finances. Would we have to sell her house and get her into assisted care? Moving dementia patients can cause transfer trauma, and a drastic change in their environment can result in negative shifts in their mental and physical well-being. And the one request my mother had was to die at home.
When my mother woke up from a nap, she was disappointed to still be alive. She no longer got any pleasure from her animals, nature or people. Her healthy lifestyle had delivered its promise of a long life, but not a painless journey to the end. It was excruciating to see my mother, a strong, independent woman, miserably waiting to die.
Finally, with her dog and cat at her side, my mother died in her sleep. It was exactly how she wanted her passing to be. I wonder if her agonizing last few months of active dying were a pre-payment for her peaceful end and if it had been worth it. For me, after witnessing my mother's excruciating decline, longevity isn't as important as the quality of my life and enjoying it as I go along.
