My mother is dying what should I do. How do you move on when your mom dies? Psychologists' advice

in the photo: my mother at 21 and 36 years old
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Required entry:

I am often asked about my mother (by e-mail or in contacts), they want to know at least some details about her, except that she was from Russia and gave birth to me in Moscow. I will say that she was a wonderful person and I, of course, would like to tell about her. I miss her very much and regret that I could not save her from the fraudulent doctor, because of which she launched her illness (more on that below). Of course, I am responsible for my words. I also spoke about my mother and her illness in 2012 in my article “I call for peace”, I quote:

“My father's name, like me, was Valentin (in Polish Walenty), and my mother was Alexandra. […] Very little is known about my mother's father or maternal grandfather. Basically, these are all scattered facts, one way or another indirectly confirming his belonging to the appearance of my mother (into the world). However, it is either difficult or not possible to confirm this, because in the birth certificate of my mother in the column "Father" there is a dash, which is easy to check through law enforcement agencies. Outwardly, my mother, according to my grandmother, is very similar to her father. My maternal grandfather had roots in Spain and had political asylum in the USSR because of his anti-fascist and anti-Franco activities. Being a Marxist, nevertheless, he adhered to Catholic traditions, but, apparently, only formally. He himself (my maternal grandfather) had another family in Spain, and due to the fact that it is very difficult to get a divorce from Catholics, he could not enter into an official marriage with my maternal grandmother. However, despite this, he participated in the upbringing of my mother, passing on her language skills and love for European culture, which greatly contributed to her future relationship with my Polish father, who traditionally professed Catholicism and had a purely Western thinking, mentality and the same beliefs. . I myself, as well as my late father, is a Catholic by religion (my father was a Pole from the city of Zakopane, with noble roots from Lodz). I know a lot about the ancestors of my Polish father, and therefore I try to talk mainly about Polish relatives on the side of my father, touching only superficially on the family on the side of my mother. Speaking about my mother, I will say that, having breast cancer (she died of cancer in April 2009), she sometimes asked me about Judaism, Buddhism and other religions, she was waiting for a miracle of healing, but the miracle did not happen. Shortly before her death, my mother converted to Orthodoxy, and until that time she had atheistic views, instilled in her by her parents. Her dying request was that after her death an Orthodox icon be placed in her coffin and buried in a pink Japanese kimono. Her dying request was granted." Extract from Art. "I call for peace"

I also mentioned the cause of my mother's death under the text of my poem “Mothers. Sad ", published back in 2010, which had more than a hundred reviews, as well as under the text of the poem "My Holy Mother" in the same 2010, which had more than three hundred comments. This proves that many authors knew about the causes of my mother's death. However, let's touch on another aspect.

People are interested in what exactly happened to my mother in order to understand the motivation of my actions. Reasonably. I want to say that I have nothing to hide, in fact, and those who carefully read my works and reviews, in any case, know that I survived the death of my mother in April 2009 due to a terrible disease called cancer. Shortly before her death, she converted to Orthodoxy (I, however, like my late father, am a Catholic by tradition, although I have socialist convictions and my own purely scientific view of the nature of the Creator, according to which the Creator, as a manifestation of the Highest Beginning in the spiritualized Universe, acts through the laws of nature through evolution ). It was her conscious choice as a strong-willed person. She was a wonderful mother and a courageous person. It is truth. The Kingdom of Heaven is her eternal.

Did I talk about what happened to my mother? Yes, he did, and if he did not tell right away, it was only because circumstances required it. For example, I also wrote about this in 2013, in my answer to one of the authors who wrote to me that this pain is close to him. I must say right away that when I wrote this answer to the author, I was in a hurry due to strong emotions and made a couple of typos and shortcomings. In my proposed publication of this review note, I corrected these shortcomings, but the text itself remained almost unchanged, because in a couple of places I used more suitable turns. So, here is the text of my response to the review:

How my mother died

Now I can talk about it, a lot has been ill. My mother liked to go to private doctors, she believed that doctors in state institutions did not treat well. And this is what happened ... My mother was in poor health. She went to different doctors, but nothing helped her, and they gave her conflicting diagnoses. Once she was at a doctor who somehow immediately gave her the “necessary” diagnosis, and the one that she assumed for herself, she did not consider that she had cancer. My mother didn’t even guess that this pseudo-doctor simply pulled out the necessary information from her through a series of psychological tricks and simply said what she needed, that is, what she wanted. She didn't even check to see if he had a medical license or if he was actually a doctor. She was treated by him for quite a long time. This "doctor" pulled a lot of money from her, he gave her some pills, they helped her, but greatly disturbed her sleep. It turned out that these were ordinary painkillers, sleeping pills and sedatives, which this pseudo-doctor simply packed in other jars with imported names. Do you understand what it's about? When my mother realized the trick, called this unfortunate doctor, and demanded his money back, he said that he had no idea what it was about. When she arrived at the apartment where he held a private reception, he was gone like a trace, and this apartment was rented out without a lease agreement at all. You know, they rent so often so as not to pay taxes. The man who rented the apartment to him lived in a different area, she was told by the neighbors where he was. When she found the owner of the apartment, he was insane, it turned out that he was an alcoholic, and he could not tell anything intelligible about the identity of the person to whom he rented the apartment. Then my mother's health deteriorated and she went to the examination. It turned out that she had breast cancer, which she strongly launched. If my mother had been diagnosed with cancer in time, she would probably be alive now. It turns out that my mother died because of a scoundrel who was a false doctor. I regret that I did not go to these receptions with my mother then, I would have known then what he looks like.
You know, I remember that my mother, when she was still alive, told me that this pseudo-doctor asked her a lot of unnecessary questions, for some reason was interested in her environment, personal life, etc. For some reason, now it seems to me that this “doctor "I liked to know everything about his victims, except that he took money from them, he liked to pull personal life stories out of them, just some kind of sadism ... I thought many times what motivated him? What was this person's motivation, besides the mercantile interest of easy money?
After the death of my mother, I took up volunteer work on the Internet, it distracted me from sad thoughts. I figured out various scammers, false doctors, sadists and pedophiles, and reported to law enforcement agencies. You can’t dig under some, they are so slippery that they don’t even initiate criminal cases against them. When I managed to kill some scoundrel far and for a long time, I was happy. The problem is that I couldn’t figure out any scammers by specificity, but basically did what the volunteers determined for me, that is, I wasn’t independent on the initiative, and I didn’t have enough experience at first, sometimes I made mistakes and even punctures, sometimes I did everything wrong, to be honest. It is actually very difficult to identify something serious, you need to study a lot and not do too much at your own discretion. Now I'm working with a new group, I like working with them, because I can take more initiative and now I have more experience, and I make less mistakes in my work. Maybe I can find the false doctor who is responsible for my mother's cancer. That's all. I don't have to prove anything to anyone, I tell it like it is. Thank you.

Anisa, good afternoon!

Condolences to your grief. Everything you describe is the state of any person in the process of mourning. Losing someone close to you is always painful, especially your mother. And even when the diagnosis is such that it would seem possible to prepare for the predicted outcome, it turns out that it is impossible to prepare for death. It is always a shock, always unexpected and always unbearably painful.

Very little time has passed to draw conclusions about what is normal and what is not. You need support during this difficult time. Mom is gone, but there are people who grieve with you. Do not withdraw into yourself, at first it is important to talk about what is happening to you and how your mother died. Each time the pain will subside, while you still do not quite believe that your mother is not next to you, awareness will come later.

The first relief usually comes after 9 days, then 40 days, half a year, a year. They say that this is due to certain energy levels that the soul of the deceased passes through and weakens his connection with the earthly world. No one knows for sure about this, but when faced with the death of loved ones, such hypotheses are very suitable and fall on the soul. If you allow yourself the belief that prayers can alleviate your condition and help the dead, go to church and order a magpie for the repose of the newly deceased. (this is how all the dead are called for 40 days), and order yourself a magpie for health. there is no need to worry that we do not know some church canons at this time, see everyone in the church shop.

You write that it is as if the tears have run out and you have ceased to feel grief. This is not so. It's just that our psyche is self-preserving and in moments of overload, which certainly is death, it blocks what can destroy us. In fact, if you cry all day long, you can shift your nervous system. After all, this is not required of you, and mother would probably be glad if you remained in working order. No one judges your grief by the number of tears shed. However, if they are, then you need it. It is advisable not to drive yourself into depression and tantrums. This is not conducive to your future life.

Normally, a year after the death of loved ones, a person returns to normal life, if the process is delayed, you need to pay attention to this and seek help. In your case, when very little time has passed, everything that happens to you is normal and in the next year everything in your life will be both the joy of life and tears of loss. Just if it becomes unbearable, look for help and support, whether it will be relatives or psychologists, you choose.

Karpova Lyudmila, psychologist, life crises, Skype consultations, Moscow

Good answer 1 bad answer 0

Harsh threads were already, like strings, stretched between the pegs, marking the beds for winter garlic. Several times already, my grandmother, my mother, managed to tell me that my hands are growing from the wrong place ... I myself have grandchildren, and my grandmother reigns in her garden and keeps me "in the wings." Indeed, I don’t do much gardening, usually organizing a landing of children and grandchildren to plant and harvest potatoes, and immense preparations of canned food for the winter. Here is a flower garden - my handiwork.

Grandmother suddenly sat down on a bench and somehow indifferently waved her hand:
- I'm tired of something, plant it yourself.
Maybe it's funny to someone, but I knew that, under no circumstances, no one was allowed to do, holy - holy, winter planting and sowing. My heart trembled with a bad feeling. And, when I began to plant garlic cloves, for the first time there was not a single reproach for my "negligence". Seeing how with a detached look she looked at the autumn, half-circled garden, at the still bright asters, a little caught by the first night frost, at the unharvested heads of late cabbage and, inappropriately, bright green celery, I realized that she would soon enter into our life something disturbing and ominous.

At night, the temperature rose to 40. In the morning, the doctor called called - "pneumonia". The deterioration increased with each passing hour. Hospital. Always sociable, she lay in the ward indifferent to the conversations and stories of women who often happen, as if specially reserved for the hospital or a neighbor in a train compartment. There was no improvement. A week later - the ill-fated ultrasound and an invitation to me in the office of the head of the department:

Liver cancer diagnosed. Get a referral to the Regional Diagnostic Center from your doctor in the clinic, where you must confirm the diagnosis in order to be able to receive a disability group and be registered as an oncological patient. I warn you, the pain will start very quickly. And we write you out, in view of the futility of being in our hospital.

The news of this spread in the ward immediately, the women whispered, only my poor mother was reassured by me that we were being discharged with a tendency to improve for home care. The long-standing habit of "forcing" won on the threshold of life. She asked me to bring her elegant lingerie and a black evening dress with lace. Gathering the last of her strength, she slowly dressed, as it seemed to her, under the assessing glances of elderly neighbors, but, in fact, glances full of sympathy, and, moving her legs heavily, she left the hospital. I only had enough strength to get home. At night, the temperature rose again to 40 and my patient, never complaining mother, began to moan at first, and then rush about and scream in pain. I have never heard such a cry from her, full of anguish and hopelessness.

Readers who have experienced a long or, let it be, a short period of departure from the life of their loved one, a patient with oncology, will understand me. The hearts of those who have to drink this cup will tremble. Unfortunately, our life here is arranged in such a way that, barely by the age of forty, children grow up, leave our hands and the fertile time comes to live “for ourselves”, our parents, who are over sixty, begin to get sick. And our children cannot get away from this share ...

My father died of cancer a long time ago and, like the apple of her eye, my mother kept in her first aid kit two promedol tablets left over from those bitter years. One of them allowed us to survive until the morning, when I rushed back to the department from where we were discharged yesterday.

The attending physician met coldly:
- You are not my patients now, please go to the clinic, make an appointment with a therapist.

At the clinic's reception desk, I was told that the therapist would not be there until the end of the week, she was at the draft board at the military registration and enlistment office. The chief physician was at a meeting in the Administration. The deputy chief physician, a luxurious woman whom I found, opening the doors of all the offices in a panic, trying to get help, said indifferently: "Try taking analgin first, and over time you will be prescribed stronger drugs." I wanted to kill her!

I couldn't return home empty-handed. Pharmacy! They'll understand!
I explain the situation, I take out an extract from the hospital department, which no one has looked at yet. I ask for a strong painkiller. The pharmacist sympathetically and sensibly inspires me that they won’t give me anything without a prescription, but they won’t give me anything with a prescription either, because their pharmacy does not have a LICENSE (I don’t remember why) to sell potent drugs.

What to do! It seemed to me that, being so confident and reasonable, suddenly finding myself between the inhuman pain of my mother and the services of medicine, I was starting to go crazy. So! Calmly! I'll start from the very beginning! Recipe! Need a recipe!

I'm going to the military office. I have never been in this building in my life. Security won't let you through. Tears roll down from my grief and impotence. They call the boss. Reluctantly, they open the door. I run down the corridor, looking for a medical commission. The corridor is filled with eighteen-year-old boys - conscripts. How healthy they are! How they laugh merrily! Does anyone else have fun in this world!

Office of the medical commission. Please call a therapist. A woman in her forties, extremely indignant - I tear her away from work. The time is eleven. I'm afraid to even think that now at home. The mother was left with her schoolgirl granddaughter. My daughter, for whom I have all hope, will return from a business trip only in the evening. I explain the situation, please help.

It's not my prerogative. An ENT doctor deals with oncological patients part-time in our polyclinic. My job is to guide her. But, you see, I'm busy!
Sobbing, ready to kneel before her.
- Well, well, - she took pity, - I will write a note, she will accept you.

Back to the clinic! Third floor! Turn! Lord, what a big and terrible queue of hopeless patients with a mortal seal on their foreheads! What was it like going up to the third floor. And for them - the doctor is only part-time!

At the door is an old man - living relics, in felt boots slapped through the mud, in a fragile hat, his entire chest in orders. I go in with him. He strides heavily, leaving wet footprints on the office floor, and collapses into a chair. While he is recovering, I put a note from the therapist and an extract from the hospital on the table.

An elderly doctor, in round glasses, wearily, without surprise, looks up at me. I ask you to prescribe drugs before the patient at least has a temperature drop and, perhaps, it will be possible to deliver her to the Regional Diagnostic Center in order to obtain permission for the use of drugs for pain relief.

She carefully reads the extract and suddenly says something almost sacred to me - in addition to drugs, there are non-narcotic potent drugs, for example, tramadol, and she will now write it out for me according to a special prescription, which will need to be signed by the Chief Physician, put a seal from someone else, but you can buy medicine only in the pharmacies of our Regional Center, located at a distance of about 70 km from us, and only in the pharmacy that serves our district. She will give the address and hope that the medicine will be available.

I get the cherished recipe, I run to the Main. He has just returned from a meeting, exchanging opinions with his deputy. She looks at me questioningly.
- I explained to you in the morning - let's start with analgin!

The head physician looks at the papers, raises his eyes at me, my tortured appearance seems to inspire sympathy:
- Is the pain unbearable?
- Yes!!!
He signs, calls the administrator with a seal with a button (I don’t have to look!), She puts a seal on the recipe right in the office. I'm flying home.

Mom is thrashing about. The temperature is under forty and the pain resumes. The granddaughter, a seventh-grader, is trying to give water, straighten the blanket, hoping that salvation has come if I have returned.
But I concentratedly take out, with the greatest precautions, fearing to drop, the last tiny tablet of promedol, I give it to my mother to take, I wait a few minutes until calm comes and I leave for the city.

It's drizzling, it's getting colder, and the freezing road turns into a skating rink. It gets dark early. Oh what a road it was! It's hard to find the right pharmacy. Five o'clock in the evening.

I hold out the recipe - yes, there is! We have the right medicine! The girl leaves with the recipe somewhere out the door and suddenly returns preoccupied:
We can't give you medicine. The recipe is incorrect. And if the test and it will be revealed? We will lose the LICENSE! My legs buckled. Not figuratively, but literally. Again this terrible and magical word - LICENSE. I sank onto the couch. What to do! What to do!

It was already completely dark outside. I felt like I had lost my way. I didn't know where to go. Tears filled my eyes. A well-dressed woman paused at the lighted porch.
- What happened, help you?
- The mother has cancer, screaming, they refused medicine here.
- Around the corner, go one block - there is a commercial pharmacy. They will help! Yes, rather, they, in my opinion, work until six.
Without returning to the car, I run, risking breaking my leg. Open! I hold out the prescription, and they sell me (!) Medicine, a package - 5 ampoules. And they offer two more drugs. Thanks, I'm buying this. I go to the exit, I swear, like a shot in the back, I'm afraid that they will call out, having found an error in the prescription, and take away the medicine. But - passed!

I return home at 9 pm. My daughter, who has arrived, is bustling around her mother. They are waiting for me with all their might. An injection and our grandmother falls asleep. I take a breath, completely exhausted. I have two days left, until the precious medicine lasts.

The condition of my sick mother was so terrifying that it was impossible to even think about taking her to the Diagnostic Center. But you can't do without drugs for a long time. How to be?! I find the telephone number of this institution in the intercity directory.

Reception department. They listen to me and the request to make a conclusion in absentia, according to the documents that I am ready to bring them myself tomorrow, is answered with a categorical refusal.

Is it still possible to carry? She will die dearly.

Do you think we need your grandmother to die here on the table under x-rays?

And, having heard how a desperate pause hung, they “consoled”:
Your mother won't last long. You read the extract to me and I’m 82 years old ... I think you’ll get by with tra m a d o l o m. Negotiate with your oncologist ...

In the morning at the door of our oncologist I was the first. And everything happened again. Three more times we got our grandmother our opportunity not for life - for a WORTHY DEATH. Thanks to this pharmacy. Only now my daughter was doing it.

Mom died 15 days later. On that last day, immediately after another injection, she asked to get her, an unbeliever, who had never prayed, from her purse with documents an icon of the Virgin, a tiny one, it is not known where and when she bought it. She held it in her hand and didn't let go.

Sit down, she asked. Do not Cry! I will rise, I am strong! I saw our father in a dream today. Young. Do you remember his blue shirt? Here, in this shirt, cheerful, without a jacket, it's hot, it's summer, we're going somewhere quickly with him. I seem to be lagging behind, and he turns around and waves his hand - “faster, catch up!” . Good sleep, girl! I'm going to fix it!
So, with a swatch in her hand, she dozed off. Fell asleep. And... didn't wake up anymore.

Photo from the Internet

Summer. Four o'clock in the morning. Oxford. I staggered around the house on the hill that adjoined the psychiatric hospital, a cigarette in one hand and a cocktail in the other. After leaving school, he could not find a job, so he left Newcastle and became a volunteer. I have worked with people suffering from mental illness.

The air was filled with the scent of grass and trees. I was 19, I was drunk and I felt immortal. I had already packed my bags, said goodbye to my colleagues and was ready to go to a new city. I felt that I was alive and growing. I finally got over my teenage loneliness. When I went to bed to sleep for a few hours before leaving, my mother was dying in a hospital on the same street where I spent my childhood.

The next morning I woke up to a knock on the door. I was called to a pay phone. Dad called. He said that mom was dead.

I knew she had cancer. She waited until the end of the Christmas holidays and told us about the tumor in her breast. She went through chemotherapy. We laughed at the weird wig she got from the healthcare system. She cried in bed because she couldn't cook, clean, or set the table for Sunday dinner. I visited her in the hospital. In the room with her were two elderly women, I think their names were Dot and Elsie. I brought lollipops for dry mouth, wet wipes and fruit. But I still left home, and my sick mother was crying at the station. I was young and did not believe that she could die.

In part, I remained 19 years old. I remained an insecure half-child, half-adult

The day before her death, dad called and said that she would have to go to the hospital again: they found metastases in her. She was delirious, it seemed to her that I was sitting on the bed next to her. I wanted to continue to live as before, I tried to move forward quickly. But in part, he remained 19 years old. I remained an insecure half-child, half-adult.

I didn't even say goodbye to her. I thought these were stupid rituals. But denial did not protect me, but, on the contrary, trapped me. For a long time I thought she was hiding somewhere deep inside of me. I could look in the mirror and see her in the shape of her eyes or the shape of her lips. Sometimes I almost became her: I cooked dinner and washed the floors, I was annoyed that no one appreciates this, I was worried, waiting for friends from night parties.

I don't remember the date of her death, and I can't remember no matter how hard I try. For many years I felt stuck and unable to move forward. I wasn't sure there was a safe place where I could go back and be myself. From time to time, when faced with difficulties, I feel small, vulnerable, in need of a mother's hugs, but my adult part understands that they will not be.

I miss you but I will let you die again, this time for good

Mom would say I'm backing her into a corner with questions she doesn't know the answer to. When she died, she was not much older than I am now. She was my link to our family's past: all my grandfathers and great-grandfathers died long before I was born. All the answers to the questions I wanted to ask died with her. It hurts me that my adult part will never meet my mother, reunite with her. The story we started together will have no end, only a sudden stop.

I spent three weeks in Newcastle, and then I got on a train and went south to a new job. Carried away the loss that was locked in me.

And only now, almost 20 years later, I realized that you, mother, will never return. I miss you, but I will let you die again, this time for good. I finally learned how to comfort a teenager who lost you half a lifetime ago, and I'm trying to tell him what you would say: "I love you, no matter what."

1. Today, April 22, my mother died. Breast and lung cancer. I found it after a couple of hours. For the last six years, she had been ill with kidneys and pressure, was on the verge of death several times, until cancer began. A year, and she burned out the candles. But I really wanted to live. And that hurts the most. From Hope in the eyes until the last day. And also from the realization that she was suffering. Pain, groans, gradual refusal of food, then water, impotence, then lack of consciousness and a logical end. It is sad and painful that she will not see and hold her grandson in her arms, who will be born in a few months, that she will no longer grumble at her father, will not cook her favorite dish. Mom, know that I love you, very much! And I miss you madly. And thank you for everything. Sleep well.

2. She was always so cheerful and cheerful. The disease quickly took you away. How can I live on without you, my dear little one.

3.
6.03.16
I went to Mommy with gifts I didn’t see her for 3 months I wanted to tell how my pregnancy is going
So that together we congratulate our older brother on his birthday
I came and sat down to drink tea when suddenly a friend comes in and tells me that my mother is no more;;;;;
Never thought I would know
I still can't come to my senses
It hurts so much;;;;;;;
May the Earth rest in peace to you my dear;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;

4. My beloved mother died ((help me. ((
if your happiness depends on others (no one needs it - you are unhappy), then this is an indicator of development and only, I’ll tell you a secret) in the world, few people need anyone, and even more so on a gratuitous basis, which is why it hurts so much to part with your mother, but since this happened nothing you can do it, look for ways, develop, only through the development of the level you can find happiness, good luck.

My mother is dying what should I do. How do you move on when your mom dies? Psychologists' advice

Other articles in the literary diary: