Revisiting The End of Your Life Book Club

I just finished a book called The End of Your Life Book Club. It’s one of those “reads” that is a life changer, just like psychedelic drugs changed the way the world looked. The story revolved around a woman dying of metastatic pancreatic cancer and her adult son. During the course of her illness, they used their common love of books and reading as a vehicle to grow closer during the process that will ultimately separate them forever.

This is not a book about dying. It is a book about living and the barriers that keep us from connecting as human beings. It is a testament to the power of the written word to express what often cannot be said. It eulogizes a woman who knew no limits when it came to living. It reminded me of my mother, who turns 90 this October.

In the aftermath of the book’s epilogue, I asked myself how can I change and better utilize every moment I have left. One of my biggest complaints about life is: “Too many books, so little time.” There are ways to squeeze in more reading time with little effort and big rewards.

But my thoughts turned to my mom. Although we live over 500 miles apart, I can’t imagine my life without her. And it makes me sad to do so.  When I am down, unable to break a habit of decades, I call Mom just to hear her voice, to hear her wise take on world events, or to listen to her analysis of the latest trends in sports. I admit I bristle when she talks about the state of health care. There is no one more critical of the health care system than someone who works in it. But let me pick it apart. I want Mom to be a “good patient,” because I know the challenge of dealing with those who aren’t.

Like my paternal grand-mother, Mom reads and reads some more. I told her about a book called Apostles of Light. This year in the author’s obituary, I read the awards and accolades she received for it and put it on my “to be read” list. Mom said she’d look for it in her small town library. To our surprise, the library found a copy. Mom called and asked if I knew what it was about. I imagined the flashing yellow lights of a caution warning. Apostles of Light portrays the erosion of civil rights of the aging, fostered by changes in health, changes in mentation, and family dynamics. When I read it, I shame-facedly told Mom I never would have recommended it had I known the subject matter. “Why not? I think it is so apropos.”

My shame grew from my own way of thinking about Mom. I worried about her driving and believed her health fragile enough that she no longer should live alone. I wanted to go to her doctors’ appointments with her, although I know she doesn’t need me. I forgot her evident pride when she bought her first car “on my own” at the age of 84. The term “assisted-living” crossed my mind, but seemed incongruent with the woman who is my mother. My intellect, drive, and need to excel didn’t come from just my dad. I grew up the witness to a mom who mom worked, went back to school, raised a family, got two daughters through college, and survived the loss of a man she married when she was only seventeen. I watched her heal and dare to re-explore the  world of dating. I celebrated her remarriage.

And when she lost her second husband, her courage amazed me again when she recreated a life just for herself. She learned to live alone, a change most people emotionally might not have survived.

What does this have to do with The End of Your Life Book Club? In the book, the characters say what needs to be said, either through direct conversation or through their discussion of books. Religion, faith, family values, the dark and light sides of life, both fictional and real, all are shared, argued, discussed, dissected by the man and his mother. When his mother dies, despite the profound intimacy they shared prior to her death, the man revisits conversations and thinks about what else he might have said. But at the end of the memoir, the reader knows he has said all that is important.

Mom knows I love her. But I want to tell my mom how I see her. She was a rebel before it was politically correct. She married someone who did not meet with everyone’s approval. She raised girls to be doers and thinkers and competitors before Title IX and the push to support women’s sports. She set the bar of expectations high, so high, I never felt I got there. But simply by trying, I went so many places. No matter how I drifted, she stood, the lighthouse in my sea of sadness and confusion. Just by being she helped me find my way.

Courage. Strength. Resilience. Determination. Intelligence. Indefatigable. Mom.

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