Cards by Proxy

I can see Mom’s eyelids twitching, so she can hear me. She’s in my office, which serves as a guest room, lying on a hospital bed, bent at the knees and hips. I suspect she’s ignoring me for her reason du jour. I know she’s not dead. At least not yet.

“Would you rather use the cards with flowers or the geometric shapes with Thank You imprinted on them?” I hold up each option as if she’s looking at them and say this as if she’s already agreed to write thank-you cards.

With eyes still closed, she replies, “Neither.”

“Okay, flowers it is since you love gardening.”

The hospice nurse had counseled me to give Mom as much agency as possible. First, I loathe that word. Agency. Second, if I don’t do something to bring closure–another word I could do without–I’ll never forgive me. I might forgive Mom but not me. I’ve tried forbearance and giving Mom choices. But what if I can’t abide by her choices? Where does that leave me, especially after she dies? It is as much about the living as it is the dying. At least this is how I justify presenting these two boxes of cards.

Mom’s eyes spring open and I’m startled every time she does this. I’ve become so used to a lack of eye contact, it’s unsettling to meet her gaze perhaps because I detect her pulling away, planning her departure. I don’t begrudge her departure; I do begrudge how she’s spending her last days.

“How about we send a card to your sister? You tell me what you want to say, and I’ll write it.”

Her eyes snap shut as quickly as they opened.

I sigh but not so loud that she can hear me. “You haven’t returned your sister’s calls for the past month. If you won’t speak with her, I’m sure she’d love to receive a card from you.” I want to add, “Before it’s too late,” but don’t need to invite guilt into the room.

Eyes still closed and twitching.

“Even if it doesn’t make you feel better, it’ll make your sister feel better.”

“I was always jealous of her,” Mom says. Her eyelids lift, and she glares at me to emphasize her point. “We were never close.”

“You’ve told me stories about you and your sister. You had good times.”

“And bad ones.” Her eyelids clamp shut. “I suppose, over time, we learned to tolerate each other.”

“If you were to write a thank you card to your sister, what would you say?”

“Nothing. I wouldn’t write a thank you card.”

“If not your sister, what about my dad? You were married for twenty years. There were good years.”

Her eyelids pop open and her voice is shrill. “Why would I write a thank-you card to my ex-husband?”

“I dunno. Maybe to give him peace? Let him know he mattered?” I place my hand on hers, which is shaking. I’m agitating her but I press on. “You both would benefit from appreciating your years together.”

“Benefit?”

“Yeah.” I shrug. “Okay, then. If not him, what about the hospice staff?”

“I’m not thanking that chaplain. Hovering and praying over me.” Her face contorts like she’s eaten something sour. “It’s cloying.”

I shrug again, aware of my repeated gesture and hope it isn’t annoying my mother. “If not him, why not the nurse and aid?”

Her eyelids half-close. “Maybe them.” She sighs and shifts her head away from me. “I’m tired. Just help me roll on my side and let me be.”

I guess I have my answer and I set the cards on a side table. I rest my hand on Mom’s until she’s finally snoring, barely audible; then I slip my hand away; rub and rotate my stiff shoulder after holding it in one position for too long; and take a seat in a more comfortable chair in the corner of the guest room.

I remove a floral card from its box and begin to write.

Dearest Auntie Gertie,

Mom is dictating her thoughts to me and I’m writing this card on her behalf.

My dear sister, it’s been too long since we’ve spoken and it’s time to get in touch before . . . well, you know. Cancer is winning, and despair is getting the better of me. I wish I was stronger like you. But I won’t let hopelessness win the whole race called life, which is why I’m writing to tell you how lucky I’ve been to have a sister. A sister that has called me often and asked how I’ve been. You’re a good listener, by the way. Better than me. A sister who, despite our squabbles, has loved me unconditionally. A sister, who despite my ignoring your calls, leaves messages again and again. You stubborn old ox.

Thank you for sending funny cards, which often remind me of memories we’ve collected over the years. Remember when we drove our children to Yosemite, camped overnight even though you hate camping, and ate mounds of pasta and as many s’mores as our stomachs could hold? That photo of my two children, your two, and me gathered around our campfire is propped on my bedside table to remind me of the good times. You took the photo, so you’re not included in the group but you’re always in my heart.

Gather your kids (tell them their Auntie Irene says they’re not too busy to take a few days off), drive them to Yosemite again, and ask someone else to take the photo. Your lovely smile should be preserved in a frame.

“Hello-o-o. Hello.”

I set down the card and pen, and lift out of the chair, step toward my mom, and place my hand on her skeletal shoulder. “I’m right here.”

Her sleep-clouded eyes search for mine. “I thought you’d left.”

“No, Mom. I’m sitting over there.” I point with my thumb. “Just relaxing in a more comfortable chair.” I lift her water cup and bend the straw toward her lips. “Thirsty?”

“Yes. Please.” Her lips move like a fish seeking food and lock onto the straw. After a few sips, her head falls back onto the pillow, her neck too weak to hold it up for more than a few seconds, and her eyes close.

I step back to the comfortable chair and finish Auntie Gertie’s card.

I will love you forever.

Eternally,

Irene

Before I can second guess what I’ve written or what I’m doing, I slot the card into its envelope, lick the seal, and run my fingers along the flap to secure it. I lift another card out of the box. The geometric one this time.

Dear Dad,

Mom is dictating her thoughts to me and I’m writing this card on her behalf.

Edward, we spent our prime years together and raised two successful children, which is no small feat. I always appreciated that even though we disagreed on a lot of things, we agreed on how to raise our son and daughter. Particularly, after our divorce, you remained present in their lives––reliable and loving. It’s such a relief knowing that when I’m gone, you’ll be their anchor.

Next to my hospital bed is a photo you took of me and the children at the beach, which was our happiest place on earth. Promise me you’ll take them to the coast again (no matter how busy they say they are) and ask someone else to take the photo, so you’ll be in the image. The kids need photos of their dad, too.

Eternally grateful,

Irene

I slot the card into its envelope, lick the seal, and run my fingers along the flap. Then, hold the card to my chest like I’m hugging my dad who lives a few hours south of here. I need my anchor here with me, but Mom has refused visitors. Her ex-husband especially. It’s just me and the hospice staff. My brother lives a thousand miles away and will arrive next week. I hope he’s not too late.

Mom is snoring in earnest, and I’m relieved she’s sound asleep so I can step out and eat some lunch in the kitchen. As I wolf down my sandwich, I wonder who else should receive a thank you card. Mom’s friend, Allison? No. I’m pretty sure she died last year. Mom’s therapist? No. All she did was throw more medication at Mom’s issues and the two didn’t exactly have an emotional connection. Mom’s neighbors that always checked on her? I nod as I chew. I’ll need to ask Mom for more information before I write that card. Mom’s oncologist? Definitely. While chewing the last bite of my sandwich, I wash my hands and dry them on a paper towel instead of my usual dish towel. I don’t know why I bother with cleanliness as if I’m trying to prevent infection. By now, Mom is ready to die. Wants to die.

I can hear her snoring before I reach the room, so I enter quietly, take a seat, and pull a floral thank you card from the box. I don’t bother to tell this person that I’m writing the message on Mom’s behalf because he wouldn’t be able to differentiate between my mom’s and my handwriting.

Dear Dr. Altenweis,

I don’t know how you manage to be so kind and warm to all your patients given how busy you are and how stressful your job must be. You even remember my daughter’s name, which makes her feel welcome, like she belongs in your clinic as my support system.

You always have been truthful and have never candy coated my progress or lack of it. I wish we had met under different circumstances but since I needed cancer treatment, you were the best person for the job. During each appointment, I always felt like you were doing everything you could, that you researched options, and stayed current with medical advancements. You’re a true professional . . .

I hear the bed whir and then, “What are you doing?”

I look up from the card propped on a magazine and see Mom sitting up a little higher. I roll the magazine to hide the thank you card. The light is dim, and Mom isn’t wearing her glasses, so I can get away with what I’m about to say. “Nothing special. Just reading an article in Sunset.” I flip to the cover and add, “From 2021.”

A hint of a smile appears on her face, and she says, “They never go out of date.”

“You always kept at least two years’ worth around the house,” I say as I lift out of the chair to inspect my mom and watch as she winces. I check the clock and see that she’s due for pain meds. “Be right back.”

When I return with her dose of oxycodone, I ask, “What’s the name of your neighbor that always checked on you? I always liked her.”

“Meredith.” Mom takes a deep breath through her nose and lifts her chin like she’s trying to gulp in air. “Meredith and Edward Cummings . . . and their sweet boys.”

“You were fortunate to have such kind neighbors.” I place the syringe-like dispenser in Mom’s mouth and press the plunger. It’ll be a matter of minutes before she’s asleep again. “Did they just drop by or call?”

“Both. They’d drop off a portion of whatever they were having for dinner. Edward would offer to help climb on a stepstool or lift heavy things. Meredith would stop by and chat for a bit. It was generous of them to spare some time for an old lady.”

“Very generous.” I place my hand on her forearm. “I’m sure they liked having you as a neighbor. Your garden was immaculate, and you were very quiet.”

“One of their boys, probably five at the time, picked a handful of my dahlias. It was hard to be upset when he was plucking my lovely blooms for his mom. His mom deserved them, so I tried not to mind.”

I make a mental note to pick some flowers from Mom’s garden. I’ll drop off the Cumming’s flowers and thank-you card next week when my brother arrives, and I can get away for a few hours.

“I’m sure your garden makes people happy every day when they pass by,” I say as I smooth lotion into Mom’s hands.

“I sure hope so. We all need a little joy in life, don’t we?”

We both hear the doorbell ring. “That must be Kelly,” I say as I massage the rest of the lotion into my own hands.

“Who?” Mom says.

“Kelly. Your hospice aid,” I say from the hallway.

“Hello Mrs. Iverson,” Kelly says with a cheerful smile as she walks into the guest room.

Mom returns a smile. Of course, I’m glad she’s pleasant to people helping her but it’s hard to witness when scant joy is directed toward me, even if her smile is an act.

“How are we today?” Kelly asks.

I hate when people use “we,” but I like Kelly. I feel myself relax when she arrives twice a week. I need the help. “I just gave my mom her meds, so her bath won’t be too painful.” I step into the bathroom to gather towels and fill a basin with warm water and soap.

Kelly says to Mom, “Your daughter takes such good care of you, Mrs. Iverson.”

“I know,” Mom says to Kelly. “I’m so very grateful for her.” She sighs.

Forty-five minutes later, Kelly leaves, Mom is sound asleep, and I return to the comfortable chair. I re-read what I’ve written so far to Dr. Altenweis and continue the sentence that started with You’re a true professional . . .and, most importantly, a wonderful human being.

Eternally grateful,

Irene