I did not realize that her speech had now left her, though I suspected a stroke. I asked her if she were in pain and she shook her head, and then if she wanted me to call Dana and she nodded. We got him fairly quickly, and while we were waiting I was in and out and realized she couldn’t speak. She motioned for pencil and paper and we brought it and she wrote something—words not in logical sequence—which terrified me because I thought her mind had gone—which it had not. (The stroke which deprives you of speech often deprives you of the power to find words—although you understand what is said to you.)
Then Dana came and she put out both arms to him—in a moving gesture. He made some tests, asked her questions she could answer with nod or shake of head, spoke calmly and reassuringly to her, and called the neurologist who had seen her before. While we were talking in her little room and before the neurologist came, Gertrude came running in and said that Mother was recovering her speech and had said she was hungry! Dana said it was an extremely good sign that she had recovered so quickly. Then the neurologist came and made tests. She seemed completely recovered—took some soup. Dana prescribed “your favorite medicine, Betty, rest in bed.” And she shook her fist at him gaily. We then left her to rest. I was in and out of Mother’s room all Saturday when she was not resting—and a good part of the evening. I do not remember when we talked but we said everything. The blessed miracle of that, I shall never get over.
She said of course she thought she was dying as she lay there waiting. She wasn’t afraid of death but she didn’t want to frighten us. She thought, “How frightened they will be when they come in and find me.” She said how much communication meant to her—she never realized. She wanted to say “I love you” and she couldn’t. And I said, “Oh, Mother. But I know that. I knew you were thinking that, I felt it. I wanted to say it too. I wanted to sit right there and hold your hand all the time but I didn’t want to tire you.”
She spoke about her not wanting to be a burden to us. That was the only thing she feared. And I answered, “A burden? Heavens. I wasn’t thinking of that. Suppose you were a burden—haven’t you given enough to others all your life so that you could be a burden a little now?”
I tried to get a concert on the radio for her, but we managed to get the college quiz bowl, with Smith girls answering questions. “You don’t want this, do you Mother?” “Oh yes I do!” And she listened to it all eagerly. When I came in to say good night to her, she was still reading. She turned and first gave an inarticulate sound—which chilled me with fear again. Then spoke naturally.
I went back to the New Wing. I was waked at 2:30 by the bell (just like with Elisabeth’s death so many years ago) by Gertrude to say Mother had lost her voice again. I came right over and put my arms around her and said, “Oh Mother, remember the man Dana told us about who lost his voice for twenty minutes every day?” I called Dana (got Mary—alas). He said it was bad. Of course, but there was really nothing that could be done immediately. Sleep would be the best thing.
That long half night—four long hours—I stayed in the room watching every movement, listening to her breathing, helping her to turn, helping her to the bathroom. (She had to put her bedroom slippers on each time! What a sense of form!) I lay on the sofa (not on the bed) where, propped up, I could see her.
I thought, of course, she was dying. I felt completely fused with a sense of knowing what to do or what not to do. I moved completely instinctively with Mother, feeling—for once—that I knew better than anyone what she wanted, what she was feeling. I could interpret every gesture, every look. I felt, too, that I was in the room with death, or with dying, but it did not frighten me nor did I feel inadequate. Nor was it strange. It was familiar, like childbirth. It had a rhythm of its own. I could go with it. This is not strange—this is not new—this is not frightening. Perhaps she feels this way too?
One moved to help her instinctively, without hesitation. Action and feeling were one: no thought, no hesitation (to wash her face, to get her cracked ice, to move her, to say something comforting). Fused to certainty by a new emotion—or a new intensity of emotion. Love, I suppose. I had thought birth had taught me all there was to know about love, but death teaches more still.
With this I entered into a long pilgrimage that it is hard to go back over now, as if I had traveled through many different countries. Each day a different country, sometimes several to a day. All strange, all new, all different, and once you have left the borders of one and gone into the next it is hard to remember the last one. The landscape, the events, the customs, even the language has left you. And the time—each country has its own clocks—its own time.
The next day was a nightmare of doctors—consultations—new techniques—routine established. This was Sunday. It began early—Dana at eight (I was still in my nightgown & wrapper). Then Dr. Viccar, the neurologist—Dr. Roberts, who was to be Mother’s physician—the nurses—the hospital bed—the nasal tube for feeding, etc. Mother was perfectly aware & I felt I couldn’t leave her side for a moment. I felt no one could interpret her but me. And, in fact, that was true. Whenever I was out of the room Gertrude came for me & said she wanted me. Again, it was like the night, in the sense of being so fused that actions came instantaneously & rightly—without hesitation—even the right words came—when I came up after lunch to find the men setting up a hospital bed & Mother sitting on Daddy’s bed with the nurse & Gertrude holding her up, I ran & put my arms around her & said, “Oh poor Mother—the hospital bed—but it’s better than going to the hospital.” And she managed a smile & a nod. And the nurses and the feeding tube—which horrified me—& I pleaded with Dana about it & he agreed that if it bothered her we would not go ahead “but let nature take its course.” But Dr. R. was so skillful & so slow & the tube so fine that it didn’t bother her. Dana & I were there & Dana kept asking her & she shook her head when he said, “Does this bother you, Betty?”
In between these terrible technical things I would sit with her & hold her hand & sometimes she would put her arm up to wrap around me & draw me down to her—her face distorted with emotion & I would say, “I know. I know, Darling—we said it all yesterday—we said it all. All the important things can’t be said anyway—they just get across.”
And sometimes—“Yes—I know you are thinking about your body—but we who are trying to help you don’t see your body—we just see you.”
I told her I would call Con & tell her what the doctors had told me, “that complete recovery was entirely possible.”
But sometimes when we helped her up she would shake her head wearily—& I felt sure she was saying, “Don’t bother with me—I am dying—Don’t bother—I don’t want to live halfway.”
A long harrowing day—I got Con. Dana had said, “If she goes quickly there won’t be time for her to get here & if it stabilizes there is no hurry.”
Telling Con was hard—thinking about telling her even broke me down. It is seeing it with new eyes that is so difficult. I had already been through that the first night & the first day. I couldn’t go back to the country where it wasn’t so.
Con decided to come—Margot—Charles—got to work & got her a seat on the worst night of the year—Thanksgiving Sunday night. The last time he did this was for Mother catching a plane to get to Elisabeth, dying in Pasadena.
I told Mother that Dana had advised Con it wasn’t necessary to come but that she was coming anyway. Her face puckered with anguish & joy—& mine too.
I did not try to hide anything this day—my tears & my words came freely—in front of Mother. I think it was right. It gave her a sense of closeness—of communication—of love.
Monday morning Con came—Margot went to meet her at the airport (“Tell her to look at her hands, Margot, they speak—they are like faces”). Her face is a little distorted with the adhesive tape holding the tube. But actually one sees none of this when one is with her constantly. One sees her. It is like caring for a tiny newborn baby—all gestures—all moments are illumined with lo
ve—all service is illumined with love—no matter how insignificant or menial. There is no menial task—there is no ugliness—no dégoût.* All is illumined by love—as with the newborn baby, so also with the dying.
When Con came in & came to the bed—Mother put both arms around her & they rocked in each other’s arms—Mother moaning with joy & anguish. Con saying, “I know—I know, Darling—I’m here.” All of us crying.
I am so glad—so glad she could express that.
Even the nurse said—“But it’s wonderful to hear a response like that.”
And then we were in another country again. She has become increasingly withdrawn—with restless periods. How I have tried to interpret these. Was it merely—as Dana said—physical reactions—half automatic—or as I felt—a last unhappiness & concern lest we stop our lives for her? Were her waving gestures trying to tell us to go on with our lives? At any rate, I knew she deeply wished this & feared to burden us. So I kept saying to her, “Con is going to be with Saran* this weekend—tomorrow I am going home to Darien—I’ll be back.”
A last effort to ease her mind. She has been easier since then, so perhaps some of it got through. And in this new country I realize the nurses can interpret her gestures better than I. They are sensitive & loving—& now they know her they are aware & sensitive to every breath & movement.
It makes it easier to go on with my life, which was unthinkable ten days ago. The most difficult decisions drop like fruit when they are ripe.
… The devotion of all the household—moving still to her breath & her rhythm—a great procession of loving people moving with her. C.’s touching desire to help (the difficulty of any man in this atmosphere—like a maternity ward—in which only doctors can help really). His very real help in talking to J.P.M.† on what I call (& dread) “the Empire.” Everyone has brought their gift—their special gift to show their love.
January 2nd, 1955
Dearest Barbara and Jon,
We thought of you so much at Christmas and I meant to write you about it—not that you need or expect a letter but only that it is a joy to share it with you.
We had a really happy Christmas, though we missed you very much after last year. I came back from Englewood rather late Christmas Eve afternoon and we set to on decorating: tree, window, crèche, etc. We had made the wreaths on Wednesday. I had picked out a deformed Christmas tree in the rain one day (wasp-waisted!). But by cutting off the bottom and adding artificial limbs to the middle, we managed to make a perfect shape! Land and Anne lighted and decorated the tree. Scott made a fire. Reeve lit the red candles everywhere. I unwrapped and set up the old crèche on the windowsill. I also put the rest of the Christmas tree’s lopped-off branches in the picture window, interspersed with red berry branches and some whitened birch twigs and the Mexican tin angel in front. (I suspended all this from the window sill to make sure it didn’t topple over!) Uncle Dwight watched while the messy room took shape. Ole Man River* hung wreaths and suspended the gilded angel exactly where it should float on the manger.
Then we got out Janey’s books of carols and had Bible verses and singing and poems in front of the fire. And Reeve played “Silent Night” on the piano (treble, to sound like bells!) and Anne played an old carol. The crèche looked very magical this year and we all thought of our (your) baby to come! And Reeve remarked pensively: “I wish Jesus had never grown up!”
The children all had presents from Grandma Bee—she had thought ahead so far. And I saw one for the baby she had planned months ahead, for you, the last time I was in Englewood. I felt very close to her, closer perhaps in these vivid thoughts of hers for our happiness than from where one sits in the room with her now in Englewood.
I am going back tomorrow. They do not believe she can live much longer. I really think we will feel closer to her when she has died. Now she seems so far away and separated by sick-room details, but after death I think we will have a vivid sense again of her spirit, her quality, and the whole perspective of her life.
Waiting for death is so much like waiting for birth. Perhaps it is another kind of birth. I keep thinking of you—each day. I envy CAL the possibility of seeing you perhaps this week. He will give you what news there is. (Scott has learned to drive the Crosley and backs it round and round the circle.) I gave Land a moo-oo horn for the Crosley. I felt it was appropriate. Sigee got balls with bells in them. Land and Anne made a flying trip to Florida to visit Uncle. Just back, very rosy. We have had our regular Sunday supper together, Reeve making blueberry cake. It ended in a water fight, I fear. Now all are in bed, I also. Much love to you three and to Janey if she is there.
—Mother
January 20th, 1955
Dearest Barbara and Jon,
I wanted to say over the telephone last night: Has she fingernails? What color hair? If any? Just exactly when was she born? Who does she look like? What do her hands look like? Long fingers? Big feet? Eyes wide apart? Etc. But all I could say was “It’s wonderful” and “Is she all right?” and “Is Barbara all right?” over and over again.
However it was wonderful to hear your voices very reassuringly and very real. What a girl Barbara is! Don’t overdo it. There should be no one in your world but the baby and her father (her father!!!) and Janey. That is enough. It is a universe—a whole new universe.
How wonderful to have it come over the horizon at just the moment when another universe is departing. I keep repeating the prayer of St. Augustine: “I behold how some things pass away that others may replace them, but Thou dost never depart, O God, my Father, supremely good. Beauty of all things beautiful, to Thee will I entrust whatsoever I have received from Thee, and so I shall lose nothing.”
I wrote your father immediately. I wanted to telephone or cable but I had no idea where he was. The only way I could have got a message to him immediately was to telephone Juan Trippe’s office at Pan American and have it sent over the ticker-tape to every station in the world! I had discussed this with CAL before he left and he thought that would be (for publicity reasons, I think) a bad idea. But he may get the news sooner than we think.
I feel sad not to share this great joy with Grandma Bee. I went right in to her bedside after the children telephoned me. I said: “Darling, you have a great-grandchild. Jon and Barbara have a baby girl!” There is no response now but I shall say it to her again. Anyway, I feel she knows in some way—is a part of our joy—even though we can’t see it. Her first child was a girl, too, so she knew the joy and comfort of the oldest being a girl.
I am now in Englewood and plan to go back to Darien tomorrow. I do not expect Grandma Bee to live much longer than this week. She is however very peaceful—not in pain. I will feel grief when she goes, but not regret. She has had—has lived—a magnificent life, fully and richly and courageously. And I cannot but feel triumphant about it. She has had almost no old age—no illness until now—or infirmities.
I am so grateful that you came to Maine for that weekend. It made her very happy. And you were a part of her life. And we can all remember it all our lives.
I think of you all the time. Love to Janey.
Mother
P.S. I have just been in to Grandma Bee again. She was more alert and I told her about your wonderful news. There was certainly a response.
So I am hoping that she heard and understood me. It made me happy and perhaps brought happiness to her.*
Next Day Hill†
February 15th, 1955
Dear Barbara,
I find it appalling that I have not written you and yet I have thought of you so much every day. It is only that—in very different ways—we are both going through periods in which there is not one extra instant to oneself—and for you not an extra ounce of strength, sleep, energy, etc. It must all go to the baby.
I lay awake in bed early this morning remembering what it was like having a tiny baby and wondering if I could do something or say something to help the weariness of that period. You are an extraordinarily strong per
son, physically and spiritually. You have already been through, gallantly and triumphantly, the hardest and greatest experience of a woman’s life. But now, these first weeks and months, one does have a let-down. Or rather, one has to struggle against the long pull of perpetual weariness and sleepiness. You say the baby is very hungry. This I interpret as meaning that she wakes you often for scheduled and unscheduled meals! This means that you never get quite enough sleep, that you seem to have no time at all between feedings, that there isn’t time or strength for anything else but feeding that baby! (Not even time to brush one’s teeth.)
I used to feel so strange—very oversensitive (to joy as well as difficulty), as if one layer of skin has been peeled off. Also curiously dull—couldn’t read (even if there had been time!) or listen to people’s conversation. It all seemed unreal and I was too sleepy and only felt alive and myself and real when I was nursing the baby. (And this was a kind of reality and aliveness that linked me to the whole world better than letters or speech.) I feel sure this is the way it is meant to be, and one should give in to it and live in a very small circle for a while.
Do take all the help you can get. Remember you’re climbing back to normal. You won’t always feel tired. This is a special period for special help if you need it.
I am writing before breakfast in the bathroom. Con has just waked and I must go to breakfast. We have worked hard these weeks starting to dissolve and distribute possessions. (Oh dear!) I find it hard work and very unreal and very removed from mother and my feelings about her. But I am hoping I will get these back when it is over.