I put the previous post back into draft after my sister said she thought the post could be a problem down the line. While I disagree, and I think the people involved have already made their decisions, I respect my sister’s opinion.
The post is not deleted, and it will not be. The post will be up for all to see when we’re sure they are rejecting the case. Sorry for the confusion, but I didn’t want to give my sister even more stress.
Mom’s viewing is set for later this afternoon, and while it will be sorrowful, it is nice to know mom is still looking over us. The picture above and below are from Friday night, hours after she passed away. It was one of those sunsets you occasionally see in the summertime, but not a common occurrence.
I just happened to pass by the window, saw the sight, and immediately called Julia over. Julia’s favorite color is pink, and while this may sound borderline insane, I think mom had a hand in this; as if she asked the Big Guy to paint us a scene for her passing.
I don’t know; maybe it’s a coincidence, but I believe otherwise.
I’ll have regular posts tomorrow morning.
My mother was called home to the Lord Friday morning, after a battle with dementia while recuperating from a broken hip. Mom was 74.
Kathleen Elizabeth Remar was born in November, 1945 just three months after the end of World War II. Her parents, Anna and Joseph Remar were children of Slovak – at the time, Czechoslovak – immigrants, who came to America for a better life.
The Remars settled in Bridgeport, PA, and had four children – Jeannie, Joseph, Kathleen, and Raymond. My grandmother raised the kids, and my grandfather worked in factories, while helping the church next door – Our Mother of Sorrows – doing odd jobs and maintaining the grounds.
All four Remar children did well in school, Aunt Jeannie became a nun, Uncles Joe and Ray went to college, and while mom was enticed by colleges for her musical aptitude – she was awarded “All-Catholic” for her clarinet aptitude – her mother would not allow it. Different times back then.
Mom eventually got married, and they had three children: me, my brother Chris, and later on, my sister Allison. Dad was a Philadelphia firefighter, and mom worked odd jobs to keep the money coming in. She worked as a waitress in banquet halls, was a secretary, and was the organist for Christ The King Parish in Philadelphia for years. Mom always wanted to teach us how to play the piano, but sadly, we weren’t interested.
Mom was great when it came to crafts. She would create homemade Halloween costumes that were out of this world. One year, she made a cardboard table – complete with tablecloth and glued on utensils – cut a hole and the middle, and put my head through it. Another year she sewed a pair of footy pajamas, added a tail, and created a dragon head for the ensemble. I won a prize in the school costume contest that year.
Mom loved to play bingo at the parish hall on Monday nights, she was a rabid fan of the Phillies, Flyers and Eagles. She spent most of my grade school life coaching girls softball. Every girl in school knew “Mrs. G,” and as a result, every girl knew me. It. Was. Awesome.
She revolutionized the school’s talent show. For years, it was kids lip-syncing to popular songs, mostly boring fare. When I was in 6th grade, mom changed all that. She invited my friends over, broke out Spike Jones records, and had us choreograph skits to go along with the record. After that, she dressed us up as cheerleaders and we did a gymnastics skit that brought down the house. I was finally (somewhat) popular!
In college, mom was reluctant to go to my lacrosse games, thinking I would get hurt. I finally conned her into going, and five minutes in, I jumped for a ball, got hit in the legs, flipped over, and crashed to the ground. After the game – which we won – I walked to her and she said, “I’m never coming to another game!” And she didn’t.
As mom got older, she suffered the maladies many people face. She smoked much of her life, and that eventually evolved into a triple bypass. She fell down the steps at her home and broke her back, and the dementia set it not long afterward.
For a while, mom was having short term memory loss, but she was still as sharp as ever. She would babysit Kevin and Julia when Kyle and Erik had sports events, and they loved seeing mom at the house. Mom spoiled them, of course, bringing junk food and letting them play on her tablet. A year or so later, she was forgetting people, places, and things. Then, in 2018, we decided she needed to be placed in an assisted living facility, which was the most difficult decision of our lives.
Mom still recognized me and my siblings when we came to visit, but she was sometimes unclear with the grandchildren. Mom was still mom, but she didn’t have that spark as much anymore. It’s very difficult to watch a parent deteriorate, but we thought she still had a lot of time left.
The broken hip certainly didn’t help, and her dementia all but determined she would not be able to do the rehab.That said, we didn’t expect the doctors to tell us she would need to be moved to hospice. (Apparently anesthesia makes dementia symptoms much worse.) Allison and I went to see her that evening, and the staff set up mom with a morphine drip. She was in excruciating pain, and the hospice figured it was better to keep her comfortable. She never opened her eyes or spoke to us, but we hoped she knew we were there.
Allison and I took 12-hour shifts for the duration. She went in from 8a-8p and I took the overnight shift. We were literally watching her die; something I wouldn’t wish on anyone.
If something happened, we didn’t want mom dying alone. I said goodbye to mom before I left every day, in case I wasn’t able to see her again. I’m not good at these things, and didn’t know what to say. I touched her arm, told her I loved her, and said everything will be alright. I also said her mom and dad were waiting to welcome her into Heaven.
On Friday evening the nurses were going to give mom a bath. Allison said people in hospices often pass away after baths; it’s the shock of it, mostly. Allison went home – she was exhausted – and I went into the hallway while they took care of mom. I was sitting on a chair when one of the nurses came toward me. I knew it before she spoke. “I’m sorry, but your mom died while we were giving her the bath.”
For some reason, I just said, “Okay.” I wasn’t processing what happened, or I wasn’t accepting it. The staff were great for this week-long ordeal, and they were trying to comfort me. Still, all I could respond was, “Okay.” They cleaned mom up, and prepared her on the bed with dignity. They said I could go in and see her, and when I asked how long I could have, they replied, “As long as you need.”
I walked in to the room, and mom was lying there, eyes closed. I started sobbing and walked over to her, saying, “I love you, Mom” over and over again. I tried to gain my composure and I called Allison. She knew the second she picked up the phone. I told her to stay home, because she wouldn’t want to see mom like this. I knelt on the floor, said the “Our Father” and begged God to take her into His Kingdom. I stood up, packed our things, held mom’s hand for a bit, said goodbye, and left.
The staff were at the front desk, and one of them asked if I needed a ride home. Apparently I was shaking and I didn’t realize it. I assured them I was okay, and drove myself back to Philadelphia, promising to call the hospice to let them know I got home okay. To be honest, I don’t remember the drive. I know I was driving, but everything was a blue.
At times like these, I second-guess anything and everything I have ever done. Was I a good son? Am I a good father? Should we have taken mom in instead of placing her into a home? Could I have done something to offset the dementia? I continue to think I could have done more. I could have visited her more, or I could have told her I loved her more. Or I could have skipped work and sat in her room for the weekend.
I’m the oldest child, so I feel like this falls on me.
My mother would not have wanted to live like this; addled with dementia and not remembering friends and family. Living in constant pain from a broken hip which cannot be rehabilitated. My only respite is toward the end, she continually asked for her parents and her Aunt Betty. Much of her short term memory was gone, but all her childhood memories were still intact. She had a good life and a great family growing up, and I hope those visions kept her somewhat happy.
It’s very odd, even as a fifty-something, to realize both your parents are dead. You always expect them to be there, and in a snap, they’re gone.
I love you, mom. Your suffering is over, and you are headed to a much better place.
Considering the circumstances, I’ll be taking today and maybe tomorrow – the day of the viewing – off. I’ll try to post a few things if I’m not running around, helping my sister get mom’s things into order.
A little over a week ago, I mentioned my mom’s partial hip replacement surgery and asked for prayers. The hip replacement surgery was a success, more or less, but she was transferred to hospice last Friday.
The surgeons said she could not complete her rehabilitation because of her dementia – mom has been suffering from it for a while now – and her deteriorating cognitive abilities, combined with her other health issues. The decision was made to send her to hospice and let her be comfortable until the inevitable happens.
Mom hasn’t opened her eyes or spoken since last Friday. The hospice – which has been amazing through all this – has her set up on a morphine drip and have been amazing in their care. All we care about now is that mom’s comfortable, and so far that has been the case.
My siblings and I have been there with her, and yesterday my sister and I decided we would take twelve-hour shifts. She’ll stay with mom from 8a-8p, and I’ll have 8p-8a. I’ve told my supervisors I’m going to take vacation days until mom decides it’s her time to go.
That’s the other issue. The staff at the hospice were fairly certain mom would be gone by now. This is day six, and as of this post she’s still fighting. It’s as if she’s saying, “Screw you dementia; I’ll go when I’m damn good and ready.” You see, mom’s grandparents came from Slovakia. They were hard people who didn’t roll over for anyone. Mom was like that. She was effectively the boss at home, and no one messed with her. Ever. My sister and I think she’s holding out just to prove that she can.
We’ve been telling her it’s okay for her to go; that we’ll be okay while she reunites with her parents, but she refuses to leave. You understand that a situation like this must be excruciating, but until you deal with it personally, you have no idea.
My new home is the hospice, and has been since Friday. The staff comes in and works on mom, occasionally she lets out a soft groan, and there’s nothing you can do. We’re literally sitting with her in the room waiting for her to die. It shouldn’t have to be like this. My mother is a good person, and there is no viable reason why she should be going through this disastrous situation.
I told my sister I think this is some kind of penance for some of the awful crap I’ve done throughout my life. Sure, I’m nowhere near a perfect person, but take that out on me, not my mother. I understand life isn’t fair, and it’s filled with pain and loss, but my mother is an innocent. She lived a good life and raised her children life. She should definitely be spared.
Sorry about the rambling here, but this past week has been the worst of my life. I will try to continue posting regularly, but if there are gaps, I apologize.
This may sound like a whining post – well, it IS a whining post – but to be fair, I am going to whine about all my crap at once, then never try to mention it again. So either bear with me, or wait a bit until the next post. Your choice.
First off, I have been very sick for almost a week now. I am recovering from a bout of the shingles, and I have the actual flu. Not flu symptoms, or a cold, the ass-kicking flu. The only good health news I’ve received this week was my yearly skin cancer screening was negative.
Work has been a nightmare these past few weeks. It’s not due to the crime or the criminals, but due in part by my coworkers. It seems everyone has decided to adopt Homer Simpson’s “Can’t Someone Else Do It?” mantra. Many of the detectives in my squad show at least a half hour late every day – if they show up at all – and when they do, they spend more time bitching about jobs, complainants, or supervisors than they do solving crimes.
Now I’m not the model employee by any stretch of the imagination, but I am always at work on time – usually early – work my ass of while I’m there, and rarely use sick or vacation time. (The last two days notwithstanding, since I am actually very sick.) I’m tired of the whining, tired of the lackadaisical attitudes, and tired of being the only responsible person in the building.
But wait, there’s more…
My mother will be undergoing surgery at 2:30 this afternoon to repair her fractured L-1 vertebrae. Back surgery is a risky proposition, especially for a 70-year old patient.
If all goes well, mom’s vertebrae will be fixed and after some physical therapy she’ll be good as new.
Obviously, mom could use a few prayers if you can spare them. It will be a very long, stressful day for my family, and thanks to our lousy manpower situation, I need to be in work until 3pm.
UPDATE: The surgery went well and mom is resting. She’s in tremendous pain, but we think the worst is over.
Yesterday my mother was carrying groceries into her home when she slipped and fell down the stairs. Mom is 70, so the fall was more severe than usual. My sister recently moved in with her boyfriend, so mom is living alone. Thankfully, a neighbor took her to the hospital, and they determined she fractured her spine – specifically, the L1 vertebrae.
Mom was admitted into the hospital, and the trauma docs and the neurologist are looking her over. So, if you could keep mama Earp in your prayers, I’d really appreciate it.
My mother will be subjected to an MRI today. Lately she has been having memory issues – no surprise, since she’ll be 71 in November – but the issues have been more severe of late.
My sister – pictured above with Mom – took her to the doctor’s office last week, and Mom could only remember an average of one out of three items in a memory test. The doctor believes the problem is either the onset of Alzheimer’s, or vascular dementia brought on after her double bypass surgery in November.
Obviously, we’re worried, especially since my maternal grandmother suffered through Alzheimer’s as well. We’re hoping the MRI goes smoothly, but we would like to call in an airstrike, just in case.
Last week I took my mother to my doctor’s appointment, because the doc wanted to ask her some questions about my prior history and so forth. I volunteered to be chauffeur for the half-hour drive, and mom and I caught up on things.
The doctor’s appointment was brief and uneventful, except when mom had to observe my colon exam. (Okay, I made that up. The doctor actually checked my testicles for lumps.)
Mom was quiet on the way home, and about ten minutes in I asked her what was wrong. She paused, then said, “You drive really fast.”
I slammed on the brakes, and mom’s head hit the windshield. I then verbally abused her while she bled all over her cashmere sweater. I stand by my decision.
I asked mom if she was serious, and she confirmed she was. I was a tad offended, not because she was wrong – she isn’t – but because she said it. I promised her I would slow down (a little), but offered her a viable explanation:
“Mom, I drive fast because I’m a police officer. We’re trained to drive fast. I also drive fast because I’m a police officer, and I can do whatever I want.”
The O.K. Corral 
