by Kate Hurley
Presents
During my mom’s last days, one of the hardest things was feeling like I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t have much experience with death and I was terrified of doing something wrong, somehow letting my mom down in this very last chance I had to do right by her. Luckily, exactly when I needed it, I got one great piece of advice from a dear friend: Just be present. We were talking on the phone while I walked my dog in a field by the hospital. I remember hanging up the phone and sitting for a while under a tree, watching the dog sniff around while that advice resonated in my mind: Be present. For the rest of the time in the hospital, whenever I felt unsure or panicked, I could see a neon sign in my brain flashing those two words: Be present. Be present. Be present. I don’t know what it meant for my Mom, but for me the chance to be present through the whole process, right down to her very last breath and smile, was a truly great gift.
Maybe that’s why, when it came time to decide what to say for the memorial service, I got to thinking of all the presents we gave each other over the years. Most of them have long since been lost or tossed or regifted, but there were so many that quite a few are still with me. A few examples follow.
In the category of presents I loved and probably helped set me on my life path; also in the category of presents that reveal a somewhat shaky grasp of basic livestock biology on my mom’s part: Sheepy-Beepy (given when I was one or two) and The Story of Kate and Fluffy, a book she wrote for me when I was three. Not knowing much about sheep biology, the story of Kate and Fluffy features Fluffy “molting” her baby fleece before running away up Inoshishi Mountain wearing her new adult wool, all grown up and ready to take care of herself.
In the alarming category of presents which, on the one hand helped define and celebrate who I am, but on the other hand, contained the word es-ee-ex along with the implication that this was an activity my mother participated in: the story of my conception. What more can I say. Most people’s moms probably don’t write this stuff down. My mom wasn’t most people’s mom.
In the category of presents that fostered a deluded sense of spelling: K is for Cake (written around 1995). This book lists words starting with K and also containing K, such as “oinkment”, “persnickety” and “the f— word”. It also provides definitions such as “Key: a small pesky object given to leaving for parts unknown” and “Knish, Potato: (Never to be confused with Knish, Kasha.) A divine morsel invented by Nathan’s of Coney Island and served at the best weddings, Bar Mitzvahs, and Thunder Trading Companies[1]. Contains a secret sourdough-ish ingredient that makes the potatoes grey-green, stiff and yet rubbery, and incredibly delicious. Excellent accompanied by a cheap mustard.”
In the closely related category of presents that fostered delusions about language, this lovely scroll (originally a gift to my mom from her ex-co-mother-in-law, the mother of my brother’s ex-wife), with accompanying card offering suggestions for fibs I could tell about its meaning. I’m still not sure myself what it really says. Something about bushy eyebrows, reportedly.
In the rather petite category of presents with genuine practical value: Katie’s Kookbook (also see above re: presents that fostered a deluded sense of spelling), made for my 18th or 21st birthday. Featuring artful advice such as:
- “Combine with smooth, deft strokes”
- “Squoosh marge into flour”
And
Also in this vaguely practical category, The Handi-girl Goddess Book o’ Household Tips. This was accompanied by each of the items referenced: Alka-Seltzer (unclog your drain), Quaker Oats (rub in your hair in lieu of shampoo), Philips Milk of Magnesia (give yourself a facial), a can of Coke (remove grease stains), a box of Bounce fabric softener sheets (repels mosquitoes, cleans cat hair, AND removes burnt food from pots and pans), Dawn Dish-soap (kills garden insects – this actually works), and a jar of Miracle Whip (removes tar from your car, makes a great chocolate cake). Some of these I actually tried and others I just pretended to try for my mom’s amusement. I wish I’d made the Miracle Whip chocolate cake but at the time I was too grossed out by the idea. I never really struggled with removing tar from my car – I guess I don’t live in that kind of neighborhood – and I finally discarded the Miracle Whip when I moved a couple of years ago. At this point the only thing I have left of all the Handi-girl household items is this box of bounce sheets. I guess that makes it holy. Should I make a shrine for it?
In the unfortunate category of presents which my dog partially ate: photo of Judy visiting the sheep farm at UC Davis, in a frame formerly with wool border affixed with double sided sticky tape. (Presents featuring double sided sticky tape is also a large category.) It wasn’t long before my dog ate off the wool, leaving me with just a sticky, slightly hairy picture frame. It was a great day the photo depicts though, the day we went to see the lambs at the campus farm. Judy bundled up and sat on her walker gazing at the sheep while I walked the dogs. When I came back she had so many observations to make about the lambs and their mothers. We watched in amusement as two baby lambs practiced mountain climbing on their mother, who was gamely trying to finish a nap. Later she framed four pictures of the lambs and sheep along with this photo. I still have the sheep pictures hanging in my bedroom, in the little known category of actual good presents that I love and use exactly as my mom intended.
In the eclectic category of presents that were presumably profound but problematic to implement : “Parallel Co-Arising and Mutual Interpenetration: The Totality of All Things” bumper stickers. These were kind of a lot to fit on the bumper of my petite car and even if I could, they seemed worrisomely open to obscene misinterpretation.
In the LARGE category of trophies and awards[2], and the related extensive category of things that were a huge effort to create and are bulky, heavy, breakable, embarrassingly self-aggrandizing or otherwise awkward to display: The Booby Prize. I can’t remember what the occasion was for this glorious award, but Judy went to an enormous amount of trouble, dispatching her operatives all over Santa Cruz County to find an appropriate pedestal, combing the internet for a blue-footed booby of the proper size and suitably dopey appearance, and choosing just the right sticks to glue to the booby’s feet. The resulting statue is immensely heavy (I can barely lift it) and scratches every surface I set it upon. The booby himself has gotten kind of ratty looking. He’s dirty and a few of the sticks have fallen off his feet. The dried glue revealed underneath looks like boogers. And, the cat likes to chew on the booby’s head and I fear left a few actual boogers back when he had an upper respiratory infection. Of course I can’t wash him. And of course I adore him.
In the fairly extensive category of presents that make unpleasant or alarming noises beyond the recipients control and also the closely related category of presents that triggered bomb scares in public locations: Christmas Billy Bass. This could conceivably be apocryphal, but reportedly when she packed this up to mail to me in Wisconsin and was standing in line at the post office, it went off unexpectedly and started thrashing wildly inside its box, belting out a garbled “Twas the night before Christmas”. Assuming the worst, postal office workers swarmed the box. They were eventually able to subdue the fish, but not before everyone in line had been fairly shaken up. Other presents in this category included the dog clock, a present for vet school graduation that barked violently every hour throughout the day and night (12 barks at noon and midnight) and of course the famous animal alarm clocks. Another name for this category is: presents that get much better after they break.
In the highly problematic category of presents I’m not even sure Judy bought me: Chicken Apron. Maybe Judy carefully picked this out and wrapped it up for me a Christmas or two ago. Maybe there was special paper with chickens on it and a card that said “Squawk! Merry Christmas to the Chicken Savior from your Proud Momski!”. Or, maybe someone else gave me this. Maybe I bought it myself at Cost Plus one day when I was in a chicken-y kind of mood. I honestly don’t remember. At any rate, now I’m not sure if this is holy or incidental but I feel I have to keep it forever just in case. There are quite a few items in this category languishing about my house. I believe this pleases Judy.
In the bittersweet category of presents that Judy bought me with my own money that I don’t especially love: A 40 piece crockery set which is heavy, takes up an entire cabinet in my small kitchen, and isn’t really my style. I sent her money each month in the hopes she would use it to buy wholesome food, obtain needed care or buy small niceties to make her increasing confinement more bearable. But once I sent it, it was hers to do with what she would and in this case her choice was to cruise the internet for hours looking for just the right crockery for my new little house. I know she did this because she still wanted to feel like my mom and provide for me in a practical, household kind of way. Here’s the email that accompanied the dishes:
And here’s the plates from the set. Not bad, just not exactly what I would have picked.
This was typical of many of her presents, making me feel so loved and at the same time somewhat afflicted. Now, obviously, these will be mine forever.
Finally, there is the category of things I did for my mom. Maybe one of the very best presents she gave me was the chance to feel like I was a genuinely good daughter for her. The main way I accomplished this was by executing various missions at her request. The more demanding or problematic the mission, the more sure I was that in its execution we would both know how much l loved her. Of course, I wasn’t always particularly gracious about carrying out my missions. I remember when I was “baby-sitting” Judy in the last few years and she’d ask me to adjust her pillow or close the cabinet door or turn on the fan or turn off the fan or open the door just a bit or bring her some water or a pen or a notepad, I’d try and be perfectly compliant and chirp “okay” in my brightest voice. Eventually she admitted that I was freaking her out and asked if I could roll my eyes or snort when she made a request so she could know it was really me.
There are many things still present that remind me of my missions for my mom, starting with the scar on my lip I incurred when I was five. I was running to bring her a glass of water when I tripped in my haste, dropped the glass, fell and sliced my lip open on a broken shard. If you look closely, you can see it here. I wear it now like a badge of honor.
I’ll close this by describing two of my most recent missions, one remarkable and one mundane. I was a little surly about both of them.
In the category of spectacularly improbable missions involving endangered marsupials: the Chocolate Easter Bilby. A few months ago I was at a shelter medicine conference in Queensland, Australia. Judy was 7500 miles away, confined to her bed in her little apartment in Santa Cruz, prowling the internet for Australian wildlife. After a long day of lectures, I was mingling with the other attendees enjoying cocktail hour. Just then my phone blinked with an email from mom, commanding: “Katie! Check out these incredibly soulful relatives of the bandicoot!” It contained a link to the website for the “Save the Bilby Fund” (www.savethebilbyfund.org). I didn’t know it at the time, but a bilby is a small, highly endangered marsupial, rare even in Australia. She demanded a photograph of me petting one. The next email was also from her, with a picture of chocolate Easter bilbies, invented in lieu of the Easter bunny since the Australians aren’t crazy about rabbits. Of course she also required one of these. I looked up from my phone and exclaimed to the veterinarian standing beside me, “I can’t believe my mom! She’s 7500 miles away and she’s still managing to make trouble for me. Now she wants a picture of me petting a bilby AND she wants a chocolate Easter bilby, and it’s not anywhere near Easter and I don’t even know what a bilby is!” Calmly the veterinarian replied “Oh, my boss is the chairman of the Save the Bilby fund. He’s right here.” Introductions were made and Kevin, the Bilby fund chairman, quickly arranged for us to visit what I suspect was the only bilby in captivity anywhere in the world. We toured the facility, got our photos taken holding the bilby, and came away with a truckload of bilby paraphernalia he happened to have on hand, including two varieties of chocolate Easter bilbies. It was all explained with the offhand “Turns out Kate’s mum is mad keen on bilbies. Let’s see what we can do.” When I returned to the states, laden with bilby loot, I tried to convey to my mom how improbable it all was. She calmly explained that from her bed, she had caused a folding in the space time continuum to ensure that, at the very moment I read her email, I was standing no more than five feet away from the one person in all the world who could help me grant her wish. I’m pretty sure she was right.
The final category is totally mundane missions involving breakfast foods. My mom slipped into a coma on the evening of Monday, November 7th. That morning was full of drama. We had no conscious idea she was so close to the end – the doctor was still saying she wasn’t even ready for hospice. But I think Judy sensed it. After the doctor came in for the morning update, it seemed like the right time to raise the issue with Judy of changing a standing order she had to be put on a ventilator if she stopped breathing. I told her matter-of-factly that the doctor said the prognosis wouldn’t be good if she ever did end up needing respiratory support. I didn’t expect the conversation to be a big deal, but Judy seemed to take the decision to change the ventilator order as a more final decision. She took my and Barbara’s hands and told us she didn’t know how to decide to leave when she loved us so much. She cried and listed all the people she loved. She said over and over she didn’t know how it was possible to love so much. We held her hands and cried with her for a while.
Finally, all cried out, we shakily turned our attention to other matters. Noodle day was just around the corner. I asked Judy what plan she had in mind. She seemed surprised, saying “you mean I’m not going to die today?” Barbara and I reassured her that no, the doctor said she would go home the next day or the day after. She gave us a few instructions to prepare for noodle day (“straight noodles, white sauce”), and then we all began the big task of getting her off the bed and on the commode. For the first time ever, she used a Hoyer lift to get out of bed, swinging through the air like a giant lemur. Afterwards, shaken but pleased at having survived the ordeal, it was finally time for breakfast – hospital scrambled eggs and an English muffin. During the whole Hoyer affair the muffin had gotten cold and soggy. Knowing the answer would be yes, I rolled my eyes and asked if she wanted me to re-toast it in the hospital cafeteria. As usual, it was a hassle. The first time through the hospital toaster it was still too pale, and after the second time it was burnt to a cinder. I bought another English muffin. This one I managed to toast to perfection. I brought it back to my mom, sitting there in her hospital bed, exhausted, anxious, in pain…but still eager for breakfast. She bit into the English muffin and closed her eyes to savor the moment. She said “how good it is to chomp into a perfectly crunchy English muffin”. She even relished the soggy hospital eggs, seasoned with the contraband salt I stole from the cafeteria. She thanked the nurse who cleared away the food.
And that was it. That was the last mission I got to run at my mom’s request. Now, looking back on all the presents and gifts she gave me, maybe the best one I could have from her – if I could find a way to receive it – would be to know, every day for the rest of my life, what a gift it is to crunch into a perfectly toasted English muffin, or to toast a muffin to perfection for someone I love.
Footnotes
[1] * Thunder Trading Company was a Jewish/Native American Deli in Santa Cruz. Judy worked there as a cook in ~1978-79. I was delighted by the notion of having a mom who had a job – it was one of her few bouts of discernibly gainful employment during my childhood – and I loved to go help her after school. I would pull up a stool and stand on it to stir the vast sea of “schmaltz”, a melting glob of chicken fat in a pan so huge it covered all four burners of the stove.
[2]* Judy’s life changed when she discovered that you could just waltz into the local trophy shop and order up a trophy of any kind at very modest cost. She commissioned about a half dozen trophies for me at this shop, gold and pink pedestals upholding dogs, owls, softball players, weight-lifters and winged victory. She awarded me “Most Improved Player”, “Dog Catcher of the Year” and one that just said “Sergeant Kate Hurley: Simply the Best”. One day, unsuspecting, I went into this trophy shop to order a plaque for my softball team captain. When I gave them my name, they said “Oooooh…You’re Kate Hurley. Your mom REALLY loves you.” They looked at me with the kind of pity reserved for those who have so few accomplishments that their mother needs to constantly buy them trophies to shore up their tiny self-esteem.
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