Nancy S. Detty; October 23, 1918–May 30, 2005

My mother, Nancy B. Syphrett Detty, passed away on Memorial Day at the age of 86. Her health and mobility had been generally good—she was often described as spry—until she began suffering chest pains in April. This led to valve replacement surgery, after which she remained weak; she never fully recovered.

On May 23, her heart abruptly stopped, and while EMTs were able to resuscitate her almost immediately, she apparently aspirated some stomach contents when she passed out and contracted pneumonia. From that point on, she was on a breathing machine and never woke up. After a week during which her initial improvement was worn away and her condition began to deteriorate slowly, then more quickly, my father and I gradually accepted that it was time to let her go. This was in accord with her wishes as expressed to both of us and affirmed in her advance directives to physicians.

This has been a severe blow to my father, the more so for being unexpected, and compounded by his generally poor health. He was only able to make very short visits to Mom in the hospital once a day; then his strength would fade and I’d have to take him home and put him to bed. He’s much better now, but very lonely. I see him almost daily now. We talk about news or politics or sports; we’ve grown closer. Sometimes we watch baseball or golf on TV; sometimes we run errands connected with Mom’s estate. Today we selected a headstone. The finality of having the date of your mother’s death engraved in stone is a terrible thing.

I’m better, too, but I still have trouble sleeping. Sometimes I lie awake and try to remember her as she was when I was a young child; sometimes I just lie awake.

I wrote about my mom at some length last year, in this post.