At the End

AFTER WATCHING MY wife bake a loaf of wheat bread, I thought I’d try making my mother’s cornbread. Luckily, I kept her recipe, along with those for some of her other delicious dishes.

My mother’s recipes can bring back cherished memories—like the time I visited my parents when they still had their dog. Brandy would always greet me when I walked in the front door. She’d jump up and down knowing I would give her a treat. Not this time. I found her in the kitchen, sitting in front of the oven, waiting patiently for my mother to take out the cornbread. Brandy loved it as much as I did.

My mother never attended college, but she was sharp as a tack and had good common sense. I’d still seek her advice when she was in her 90s.

I remember when a contractor gave me a quote for some work I wanted done on my condo. She advised me not to accept the first offer. “The initial quote is going to be high because they’re expecting you to make a counteroffer,” she warned me.

When I was her caregiver, I would tell my friends that I sometimes thought she was watching over me, instead of me watching over her.

The tough part about being a caregiver for a senior is you’re responsible for someone who’s at a stage in life that's inherently difficult. The days leading up to my mother’s death caught me flat-footed. I wish I’d been better prepared.

My parents never had a letter of last instruction. But my dad told me about their investments, so I knew about their finances. I also knew they had a cemetery plot big enough for both of them. They bought it in 1995 for $10,245. But they asked me to try to sell it because they decided they wanted to be cremated.

Pacific View Memorial Park wouldn’t buy it back, though an employee told me the plot was now worth about $30,000. Unfortunately, it was early 2009 and the economy was in bad shape. There wasn't a market for burial plots. We decided to keep it and put my parents’ ashes there.

During my father’s long battle with lymphoma cancer, one of our biggest concerns was making sure the cost of his care didn’t deplete my parents’ savings to the point where it would jeopardize my mother’s financial security. As a result, we never used a caregiving service.

When my father started hospice care in 2012, my sister, brother-in-law and I took turns helping my mother care for him. We kept his bed in the living room where he’d be close to us. My brother-in-law or I would sleep on the couch, so there was always someone with him.

Hospice provided everything we needed, including a bed and morphine for pain. They also sent someone periodically to bathe and shave my dad, and even brush his teeth. A nurse would occasionally show up to check his vital signs and make sure we had everything we needed to keep him as comfortable as possible.

This around-the-clock care lasted for three months. Since my father was a veteran of World War II, the federal government provided a marker for his grave. We cremated his body and placed it in their cemetery plot.

In October 2019, my 96-year-old mother had a serious heart attack. The doctor told me there wasn’t much that could be done for her. I was advised to prepare her for hospice care. My sister and I decided it would be best if my mother didn’t know her life was coming to an end. She had seen what my father went through and it weighed heavily on her. We knew she was afraid that she might suffer like my father did.

I made arrangements for a caregiving service. At the time, the hourly rate was $27 an hour. My mother's savings consisted of $325,000 in highly liquid assets.

The hospital discharged her and sent my mom to a rehabilitation facility that I’d picked out. I waited for her to arrive by ambulance. I couldn’t believe how talkative and energetic she was when she arrived. She talked about going home tomorrow, and moved her legs back and forth in bed. She wasn’t the same person in the hospital, where she’d been quiet and listless.

It was too good to be true. My mother only lived nine more hours. She died peacefully in her sleep. I’ve been told when people are nearing death, they sometimes get this last burst of energy before they pass away. That’s what my mother must have experienced.

When I received the bad news about my mother’s death, it was 1:30 a.m. The head nurse told me I had only a few hours to remove her body. It was the state law.

I wasn’t prepared for this. I hadn’t made the necessary arrangements. I guess I was in denial. I called Pacific View, where my parents had their burial plot. Luckily, they had someone on call 24 hours a day.

I drove to the rehab facility, so I could be there before they took her away. There was a sheet draped over her. I rubbed her hair that was sticking out. Then the nurse helped me take off her wedding ring, which I gave to my sister.

After my father’s death, I wished I had asked my mother this question: Do you want to know when your time is coming to an end? I often thought I should have told my mother that the end was near. Maybe she had a last-minute request or would have confided in me about something that was on her mind. I sometimes think I denied her the opportunity to end her life on her own terms.

My sister said, “We were just trying to protect her.”

Dennis Friedman retired from Boeing Satellite Systems after a 30-year career in manufacturing. Born in Ohio, Dennis is a California transplant with a bachelor's degree in history and an MBA. A self-described "humble investor," he likes reading historical novels and about personal finance. Follow Dennis on X @DMFrie and check out his earlier articles.

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