This is an excerpt from Jennifer\u2019s Berman\u2019s memoir-in-progress, \u201cWhat Is the Day For?\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

Chapter One: The Death People<\/p>\n

I<\/span>\u2019m walking down West End Avenue, not troubled by where I am going, but happy because spring is finally here, and soon I will see my mother. As I cross 82^{nd<\/sup> Street, I dig the crumpled scrap of paper where I\u2019ve scribbled the address out of my front jeans pocket. I\u2019m at the building twenty minutes early. My mother is always early too, but I have the feeling she\u2019s not here yet, and so I sit on the bench outside and watch for her and my sister.<\/p>\n}

I see someone way down the street, still just a speck, but I know it\u2019s my mom. My heart leaps!\u00a0 It\u2019s not easy to get to see my mother\u2014a bit like negotiating your way into the castle to see the Queen. She\u2019s always been fiercely independent, and more so since she got sick\u2014the opposite of what people expect from a Jewish mother, nudging her kids to call and visit. It\u2019s my sister and I who are always calling her, asking if we can come to the house, and offering to go with her to doctors. Every once in a while she\u2019ll surprise us by letting us come, and we drop everything to meet her.<\/p>\n

When she called and said she wanted Rachel and me to come with her to a meeting with a social worker at a place called \u201cDying with Dignity,\u201d I didn\u2019t ask questions. My mother doesn\u2019t like questions; I learned that as a girl. She likes clean and she likes order. She likes to iron. A question makes her face sour, like when I used to leave my toys out in my room. It\u2019s a burden that unsettles her, a mess she has to clean up.<\/p>\n

I, on the other hand, am a bit of a slob. My college roommate used to say that I always looked like I just rolled out of bed, but had had a good time. At 40, I\u2019m still very casual. I mostly wear jeans, and keep my hair long, letting the curls dry naturally and haphazardly, like an untended garden. I don\u2019t own a brush. I\u2019m always asking questions, thinking out loud, reading self-help books and Eastern philosophy, trying to understand things that can\u2019t be explained. With my mother, I know that unless we are having an especially good moment, unless she\u2019s extremely relaxed, I have to contain myself. She may answer, \u201cI don\u2019t know, Jen,\u201d a seemingly neutral statement to the untrained ear, but I hear the sigh of exasperation in her voice that warns, like thunder before rain, of the tension about to descend upon us, that could last\u2014especially if we are in a car\u2014the rest of the day.<\/p>\n

My mother is closer now. I stand up and wave my arms back and forth, but she doesn\u2019t see me yet. She looks like a movie star, dressed to the nines, and wearing full make-up, which is something she started to do when she got sick. Her hair has grown back from her last round of treatments. It\u2019s not the sleek, straight, auburn bob from her pre-cancer life. It comes in grey and curly and when it grows past her scalp she colors it brown. It\u2019s still short, which she\u2019s told me she thinks makes her look butch, but I think she looks athletic and chic. She compensates by playing up her eyes. I\u2019ve seen pictures of her when she was a young ballerina, with false lashes and eyeliner extending past her lids, and now her eyes look the same and her skin has a rosy glow. Whenever I see her I tell her how great she looks. And it\u2019s true. No one would guess she has cancer.<\/p>\n

We embrace. Her back feels boney. I admire her bright pink suit and ask, \u201cIs this the Harari<\/em>?\u201d She\u2019s told me about the Harari\u2014<\/em>a <\/em>very expensive outfit she bought when visiting her friend Berta in Beverly Hills.<\/p>\n

\u201cNoooo, I wore the \u201cHarr-rar-eee\u201d\u2014my mother over enunciates the word to mock her extravagance, \u201cto the opera last night.\u201d She bought herself a full season at The Met this year, also something she wouldn\u2019t have done before she got sick. She likes to get all dressed up and go by herself. She has also been wearing her best jewelry, as she says, \u201csaving nothing for good.\u201d<\/p>\n

My sister Rachel is running up the street towards us as quickly as she can in her strappy heels. As always, she is stylish and feminine, in a soft pink sweater set, gray slacks, and French manicure, but her eyes look glassy and tired. She hugs my mother, and then me, and we file into the heavily air-conditioned lobby where the doorman directs us to an old fashioned elevator. The attendant slides the metal gate closed and pulls the lever, bringing us upstairs.<\/p>\n

I had expected an office, but we are standing in the foyer of a quintessential pre-war Upper West Side apartment. Everything is big\u2014the open kitchen to one side of us, the living room with French doors leading out onto a planted terrace on the other, the exotic long-haired dog barking at us, and Judy the social worker herself\u2014tall and expansive with brown frizzy hair to her shoulders and a purple baggy linen suit. She shakes my mother\u2019s hand, while I bend down to pet the dog. I can tell my mother is nervous because she\u2019s talking to Judy in the singsong voice she uses when she\u2019s self-conscious with strangers. I go to her and she puts her arms around Rachel\u2019s and my shoulders. \u201cThese are my daughters.\u201d I love when she introduces me with the word \u201cdaughter.\u201d She always sounds so proud.<\/p>\n

Judy asks, \u201cWhich one of you is older?\u201d It\u2019s always hard for people to tell because Rachel and I are only two years apart and look nothing alike. Rachel has a wider face, small and delicate features, and blond hair, which she usually wears up in a bun. I\u2019m narrow and angular, like my father was. Growing up, I was always jealous of Rachel for being the pretty one, but she always wanted to be thin like me.<\/p>\n

The doorbell rings and the dog starts barking all over again. A man: bald, very well-dressed in a Brooks Brothers sort of way, mid-fifties, round wire-framed glasses, comes in and hugs my mother. I remember now that she\u2019d said a man came up to her after an A.A. meeting and told her about Judy, but I had no idea he\u2019d be joining us.<\/p>\n

My mother introduces John to Rachel and me, and the five of us stand in the hallway and chat\u2014about the dog (Judy tells us it\u2019s an Afghan Hound), the apartment (it was the terrace that sold her) and like all good New Yorkers, about whether we think real estate will go up or down.<\/p>\n

Then Judy says, \u201cLet\u2019s go inside.\u201d My sister and John go to use the bathroom before we start, and my mother and I follow Judy into the living room. Judy sits in a black leather recliner and rests her feet on the ottoman. I sit on a small couch, expecting my mother will sit next to me, but instead she sits on an antique wooden chair on the other side of the room. I ask, \u201cMom why don\u2019t you sit here with me? I think it\u2019s more comfortable.\u201d But she says, \u201cNo hon. I\u2019m fine. Her eyes well up with tears. Rachel sits next to Judy, takes her thick Filofax out of her purse, and opens to a section with notepaper. She has been taking notes whenever we go with my mother to medical appointments. Afterwards, she goes home and looks up the information on the Internet, and calls me with statistics on how long our mother is likely to survive. John slumps in a chair on the other side of Judy, draping his leg over the side, which I think is odd.<\/p>\n

Judy begins by asking, \u201cSo girls, what do you think of your mother\u2019s situation?\u201d This strikes me as cruel. Our mother has cancer in both lungs, her bones, and her brain. The chemo has stopped working and the laser surgery failed, so now she faces full brain radiation. It may shrink the tumors temporarily, but there is the risk she will lose her mind.<\/p>\n

I say, \u201cI don\u2019t know how to respond to that.\u201d We are all silent. The dog comes into the room and flops down by Judy\u2019s chair. Birds chirp on the terrace. Judy says, \u201cAll we do is provide information that\u2019s all over the Internet. It\u2019s perfectly legal.\u201d<\/p>\n

Again we are all quiet. I am lost. Then she says, almost casually, like we are chatting over tea, \u201cHave you been following the Terri Schiavo case? I read in The Times<\/em> that her parents may win the appeal.\u201d And like a light switched on I get it. \u201cDying with Dignity.\u201d\u00a0 I thought Judy was going to teach us how to help my mother die as comfortably as possible, but she must be broaching the subject of a DNR so my mother won\u2019t wind up like Terri Schiavo, kept alive by a machine.<\/p>\n

I say, \u201cWe want to support our mother in whatever she wants to do.\u201d<\/p>\n

Judy asks, \u201cSusan, what is your prognosis after the procedure?\u201d<\/p>\n

My mother clears her throat, \u201cI expect there will be a process of diminishing cognition.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThen you won\u2019t want to be having fancy conversations with doctors.\u201d Judy leans back in her chair. \u201cThere are directions for making gas machines on the Internet. But the best, and by far the simplest method is Secanol.\u201d<\/p>\n

Slowly I grasp what is happening and wonder why my mother didn\u2019t warn me.<\/p>\n

Rachel looks up from her notes and asks, \u201cWhat is Seconal?<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s a sleep medication. Pills. Susan, you should get prescriptions right away. There\u2019s a limit on how much a doctor can legally give you, so you will need three different scripts. You\u2019ll tell the doctors you\u2019re having trouble sleeping. They\u2019ll try to give you Ambien. You\u2019ll say you\u2019ve tried everything in the past and Secanol was the only thing that helped. They\u2019ll probably know what you\u2019re up to, but if they\u2019re sympathetic they\u2019ll cooperate. Are there three doctors you can ask?\u201d
\nA tear runs down my mother\u2019s cheek, but her voice is steady. \u201cI have a cousin who is a physician.\u201d Then she says to Rachel and me, \u201cI don\u2019t think Phyllis would do it.\u201d Phyllis is a pediatrician, my Aunt Lee\u2019s best friend from childhood. Lee was my mother\u2019s only sibling. She died unexpectedly one year ago, just after my mother\u2019s diagnosis, when undergoing a medical test. Lee had been experiencing shortness of breath and Phyllis had arranged for her see doctors at Columbia Presbyterian during a family visit. The test was considered routine. Lee was supposed to fly home to Santa Fe the next day.<\/p>\n

Ten months later, my grandmother died. Phyllis took the limousine with us from the funeral to the burial site. While we were in the car waiting for the rabbi, my mother asked Phyllis what she thought about hospice care. Phyllis said she was against it because often the nurses can\u2019t get enough morphine. And there could be a delay with finding a doctor to pronounce the patient dead. The family could get stuck with a corpse in the house for days.<\/p>\n

My mother, who is a realtor in the Hamptons where she lives, said that another drawback is when there\u2019s a death in the house the property value goes down. I wanted to tell my mother that Rachel and I didn\u2019t care about the value of the house, and that Grandpa Jack, my paternal grandfather, had hospice care at home without any problems. But I knew my mother would resent my interfering. She saw Phyllis as the expert, and would think I was being a know-it-all, trying to tell her what to do.<\/p>\n

After a moment, my mother looks at Judy and says, \u201cYes, I think I\u2019ll be able to get three prescriptions.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cGood. There should one other person involved. Susan, do you have a friend you can ask to help?\u201d<\/p>\n

My mother thinks out loud, \u201cNot Whitney, she\u2019s Catholic. Eileen. She lives across the street from me. She\u2019s the one I\u2019ve asked to tell me when my judgment starts to go. I don\u2019t want the girls to have to do that.\u201d<\/p>\n

Judy starts to say how important it is that we not tell anyone else, when she\u2019s interrupted by a blast of motorcycle engines outside. She waits for them to pass, but they just keep coming. I think it must be a group of Hells Angels. Judy jumps up, goes to the window, and mimes a machine gun in her hands, \u201cEh\u2014eh\u2014eh\u2014eh\u2014eh. Don\u2019t you just want to shoot \u2018em?\u201d<\/p>\n

John, who hasn\u2019t said a word this whole time, laughs manically, and my sister and I lock eyes. I know we\u2019re thinking the same thing. She says it later, as soon as we get to talk, \u201cThose people love death!\u201d It is then that we coin Judy and John \u201cthe death people.\u201d<\/p>\n

When the motorcycles pass, Judy explains the procedure for administering the drugs.\u00a0 My mother must ask for them on three different occasions. The third time Rachel or I will need to crush the pills into a glass of water.<\/p>\n

\u201cCan\u2019t I just swallow them?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, there will be too many pills, hundreds. Susan, where do you plan to be?\u201d<\/p>\n

I don\u2019t know what she means, but my mother says, \u201cA hospital in New York. It will be easiest for the girls.\u201d<\/p>\n

I think it is Judy being there, knowing my mother won\u2019t blow up at me in front of her, that gives me the nerve to speak up, \u201cMom, we don\u2019t care about what\u2019s easiest for us. I know Phyllis said that there are problems with hospice getting enough pain medication, but Grandpa Jack had hospice care in the house and it was fine.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ve worked with hospice for many years, Susan. As long as the nurses order the morphine on time there will be plenty, and it will be a lot easier to give you the Secanol at home. They don\u2019t do autopsies on hospice patients.\u201d<\/p>\n

My mother turns to Judy, \u201cI want to protect my daughters.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBut it doesn\u2019t work, Mom. It\u2019s like when you didn\u2019t let Rachel and me come to the hospital before Lee died because you said you didn\u2019t want us to see her like that, just staring out into space. It just makes it worse.\u201d<\/p>\n

Judy says, \u201cGood for you!\u201d like she\u2019s our family therapist, which for the moment she is. She asks, \u201cSusan, where are you most comfortable?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIn my home. Definitely.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMom, I\u2019m not trying to tell you what to do. I\u2019m just saying I think you should stay at home, because that\u2019s what I\u2019d want for myself.\u201d<\/p>\n

My mother gets up, walks over to the couch, and sits beside me. I rest my hand on the back of the couch behind her. It\u2019s very delicate with my mother. I don\u2019t know how she\u2019ll react if I put my arm around her, if it will be too much. I stay like that, almost touching her, until we leave.<\/p>\n

The next day I get a voice-mail, \u201cSweetheart, I would want to know you, I would love you, even if you weren\u2019t my daughter. I\u2019m so grateful you were there.\u201d<\/p>\n

I save that message on my answering machine for a very long time.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Like a light switched on, I get it. \u201cDying with Dignity.\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[3],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-632","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-memoirs"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/632","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=632"}],"version-history":[{"count":6,"href":"https:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/632\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2939,"href":"https:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/632\/revisions\/2939"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=632"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=632"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=632"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}