Fedore Writer

“I worry that you re-injured your shoulder moving the mattress,” our mom recently said, while she was in Hospice care in my sister’s and my home.

“I wrenched it a little, but it’s okay.” I said this with a pragmatic shrug. While sitting next to our mom, I explained my perspective that pain is inevitable and often temporary. I always feel better by stretching, strengthening, icing, heating, resting, accepting, meditating, or all of the above. “All things within our control.”

Six weeks ago, after a few weeks in our care, Hospice provided our mom with an inflatable mattress. To change the mattress, our dad, Frank; my sister, Karen; and the certified nurse’s aide raised our mom a few feet above her bed using a sheet like a hammock. I pulled the mattress out from under our mom, pivoted to set it aside, and hoisted the inflated mattress under our elevated mom.

I continued to describe to our mom the mattress-transfer plan that my sister and I devised. “Hospice told us we could call the fire department to help with the heavy lifting, but we didn’t want to use emergency resources. Plus, it would have been hard to coordinate the delivery of the mattress and fire fighters.”

I sensed my explanation was swaying our mom. From the day she arrived in our home, she worried about the toll on my sister and me. We consistently assured her that taking care of her was a privilege, a process we wanted to experience with her, even if it was mentally and physically challenging.

This conversation with our mom is an example of that privilege. Before Hospice, I hadn’t fully articulated my philosophy towards pain but had just lived it. Speaking it out loud strengthened my resolve. Our mom said, “I wish I had learned that instead of taking a pill.”

I sat stunned for a moment. I wondered how often a doctor gave our mom a pill instead of a strategy. I reflected on times when I wanted to just take a pill instead of having to work hard. I said, “I certainly don’t think it’s an either-or thing. I take glucosamine daily. And occasionally ibuprofen and Tylenol to reduce inflammation or pain when things flare up. But exercise – movement – and the power of the mind helps the most.”

When we’ve talked about her pain in the past, I’ve said this to our mom: “We’re going to feel pain sitting on the couch or we’re going to feel pain moving. Choose movement. Of course, movement that our bodies allow us to do safely with professionals guiding us. Not moving? That causes us pain as well.”

The same week as our mattress transfer, I heard a feature on NPR describing how meditation helps manage pain, especially for ardent meditation practitioners. Months ago, my sister and I watched a documentary titled, If You’re Not in the Obits, Eat Breakfast, which highlights famous people that have lived fully into their nineties. These resilient people confirmed what I’ve been exploring for decades and still hoping to master. “Keep moving,” many of them said. In addition, Buddhists believe that life is suffering. I’m not saying that we should adopt one religion over another. But I am saying this belief is liberating! Believing this helps me accept instead of expecting pain to miraculously go away.

From our mom’s experience, I’ve cemented my belief that overmedicating suffering will likely leave us feeling like we can’t help ourselves through something that is hard.

(Our mom, who died on July 4^th, graciously gave me permission to write about our experience.)