La Recoleta, Buenos Aires

The day before I got on the plane to Buenos Aires, my mother told me she was ready to die. It was the afternoon of Monday, October 7th. I remember the date specifically because it happened to be my husband's birthday. On that rainy Pacific Northwest afternoon at the adult family home, she leaned forward in her wheelchair and said in her quavery voice, "I have something surprising to tell you..." She said it with a smile, like a special friend was coming to visit soon. I leaned forward, eager to hear her news.

"I am ready to die by death with dignity."

As her speech was so faint and tremulous, I made her repeat it three times. I simply could not believe that I had heard her correctly. It was not something I could ever have imagined my very Catholic mother would say. In the past when her hospice nurse had broached the topic, gingerly mentioning it before the window of possibility closed, my mother had been vehemently opposed.

Once I got beyond the shock and I was sure that I had heard her correctly, we cried together, huge wracking sobs at the unfairness of it all.

My plane was scheduled to depart at 9:00 am.

"Go, there's no rush. We can deal with it when you get back," she said.

"I can stay. We need to talk about this more."

"No…go. Nothing will change by the time you return."

I slept very little that night. Do I go? Do I stay? The tickets were booked. This was a work trip not a vacation, and my help was needed. Our wonderful hospice nurse was off that rainy Monday, but by 6:00 am she had texted me back. We were on the phone, tears of grief and indecision falling even as the uber arrived to take us to the airport.

"Just go," she said. "Go… I'll get the process started while you’re away." So, against my better judgement, I went.

On our layover in Atlanta, I called my daughter. "Grandma, has decided she is ready to die by death with dignity," I told her to shocked silence. We wept together as I stared out at the waiting airplanes. Although her grandmother had been failing and suffering for years, the imminent loss of her suddenly seemed very real.

Should I get on the plane to Argentina, or should I just come home? I wore circles into the airport pile trying to decide. I got on the plane… and then I grieved silently for the bulk of the ten-hour fight, immediately regretting my decision. I knew I had made the wrong choice. Time was too precious now. I should be there with her, not flying to some strange country thousands of miles from my beloved mother. We needed every remaining minute together.

For the first few days, whenever I wasn't needed, I texted with our hospice nurse. She had initiated the death with dignity process. With colleagues in the backseat, I spoke with her on the phone as we drove through the streets of Buenos Aires. They tried not to listen to this should-be-private conversation. We watched the buildings of a foreign city go by as I helped to plan my mother's death.

Three days into the trip, I couldn't take it anymore, I booked my ticket home. On my final afternoon in Argentina, we took a few hours alone and found ourselves at La Recoleta Cemetery in the heart of the city. In Spanish, "recoleta" means peaceful or secluded or quiet. It is certainly fitting for this hauntingly lovely burial ground. La Recoleta is consistently ranked as one of the top ten most beautiful cemeteries in the world. Originally designed in 1822, the site contains 4691 vaults, 94 of which are protected as national historic monuments. Eva Perón rests here, her mausoleum modest but continually covered in flowers and letters of adoration and gratitude.

How loved many of the inhabitants were. While some mausoleums had fallen into disrepair, many continued to be well-tended, with clean cloths draping alters and fresh flowers placed in stone vases, evidence that love was still alive, or at least that there were living relatives left to tend to the dead. Many mausoleums contained multiple caskets; entire families enshrined in a single resting place. Often the tombs were excavated far beneath the street. Looking in you could see generations at rest together, some with child-sized coffins, photos of loved ones visible with faded faces still evident.

While we walked through the graveyard, marveling at the remarkable tribute to death, I received a text from my cousin. Her sister was dying at the age of 40, leaving two young girls and an ocean of sadness. Could I rally our extended family to send photos for her looming memorial? I sat on bench and wept openly, as she cried from 7000 miles away. So much loss, so much grief. I wondered how many tears had been shed over the centuries on this very spot. How many other sisters and daughters had wrapped their dead and placed them lovingly in these forever homes of stone while their hearts shattered. 

I got on the plane the next morning and cried my way back to my mother.

My cousin died in December, the brain tumor finally taking her to heaven but leaving her daughters motherless. My own mother followed close behind in January. While she was approved for death with dignity and the meds were ordered and sitting at the ready, she blessedly died naturally, as she dearly wished. In the end, she did not have to break with her faith in order to be free of her pain.

La Recoleta will always remind me of hard choices, of grieving and waiting, and the frantic need to hold tight to those we love. Time felt particularly fleeting and precious that day, as I wept among the silence of the dead. I flew home as quickly as I could, but not fast enough to save the precious hours together that had already been lost.

At the age of 70, my wonderful and vibrant mother began to notice changes. First her handwriting became smaller and less legible, and then the stiffness started in her left arm. Although her symptoms were initially attributed to Parkinson’s, her diagnosis was subsequently revised to Multiple System Atrophy (MSA), a rare and rapidly progressing neurodegenerative condition. MSA is a very hard road. By the end, she was almost entirely paralyzed and she could barely speak. I did not leave her again after this trip and, blessedly, I was by her side when she passed.

If you are caring for a loved one with a progressive condition, be gentle with yourself. Watching someone you love die slowly before your eyes is one of life’s greatest heartbreaks. Be sure to take breaks and to reach out for support when you need it.

Warmly,
Danielle