The Service

 

Denise’s Memorial Service will be held on Sunday, the 27th of May at 2:30 in the afternoon, with special music beginning at 2pm.
The service will be held at the Bryn Athyn Cathedral with a reception immediately following.

The cathedral is located on 900 Cathedral Road, Bryn Athyn, PA 19009

 

As many who have known Denise are aware, she was a highly talented and passionate piano player.  She shared this passion over the last 40 years by donating much of her time to the Kempton New Church and School as an accompanist for both church services and classes for the school students. In honor of her memory and to further her dream of a music program at KNCS, the family asks that, in lieu of flowers, donations can be made to the Kempton New Church Music Fund.

Those who wish to give can do so by check or online via the following link: https://www.gofundme.com/DeniseAHendricks

 

Checks can be made to the Kempton New Church with “Wellesley and Denise Music Fund” in the memo. The mailing address is: 583 Hawk Mountain Rd, Kempton, PA 19529

 

 

 

Here She Comes

Denise passed on peacefully last night, May 19th, just before midnight. Her husband and all of her children were able to be with her hours prior.

Information will be posted here in the coming days regarding her memorial service and possible ways to honor her memory in lieu of flowers.

—

I am standing upon the seashore. A ship at my side spreads her white sails to the morning breeze and starts for the blue ocean. She is an object of beauty and strength. I stand and watch her until at length she hangs like a speck of white cloud just where the sea and sky come to mingle with each other. Then someone at my side says:

“There, she is gone!”

“Gone where?”

Gone from my sight. That is all. She is just as large in mast and hull and spar as she was when she left my side and she is just as able to bear the load of living freight to her destined port.

Her diminished size is in me, not in her. And just at the moment when someone at my side says: “There, she is gone!” There are other eyes watching her coming, and other voices ready to take up the glad shout: “Here she comes!”

And that is dying…

-Henry Van Dyke

Mother’s Day

As Mother’s Day has been approaching, none of us have really wanted to think too deeply about the significance of this particular day. It feels too raw to face fully, that this is the last time we will spend it with our mother. Not that we have ever made a huge deal about Mother’s Day. We generally got together for a meal, there might have been small gifts or flowers. Some years we were more organized than others and collaborated on a gift or volunteered time for yard work. Generally it was just a time to be together; that was really what mattered the most to Mom.

This year we planned to get together for family dinner. We knew there would be no need for gifts this year, but we would gather together for one final Mother’s Day. Our trajectory changed, however, Saturday morning. Mom got out of bed a little later than had been usual, she still ate a hearty breakfast of eggs, toast, yogurt and berries. Her appetite has been practically insatiable thus far, although you would never know it to look at her tiny, withering body. She curled up on the couch for her typical morning nap. When the nurses aide arrived to give her a shower she was completely and deeply asleep and unable to be woken. After repeated attempts to rouse her the aide informed us that this may be our new normal, we should brace ourselves that she might not wake up again.

We knew this was possible, we thought we were prepared, but as the realization that we may have heard the final words from our mom sink in, it is a new kind of pain.  We convene a quick family huddle and come up with a game plan. Everyone divides into crews to attack various projects. The sitting room quickly transforms into a makeshift hospital room. Curtains are hung, furniture moved, paintings rearranged, a hospital bed assembled and put into place. Mom sleeps soundly through it all. We joke that she will  wake up and be horrified by our renovations-we would have welcomed such an event.

We tuck mom into her new bed and all gather around before dinner to make sure she is comfortable in her newly created space. It is reminiscent of the early days in the hospital as we all huddled around the bed supporting each other in the face of our new reality. Sean and Mekenna face-time in and join the circle. After dinner we again cram into the room. A cool breeze wafts in through the open window, bringing with it the sounds of the gurgling stream and the spring peepers. A hush fills the room as we all paused to absorb our definitive progress towards the inevitable outcome. Mom stirs and opens her eyes, mumbling something. Dad leans over and says; “Hi honey, you left us for a long time.” “Yes,” she replies “I had a lot of things to do, but now I just have one more thing.” “What were you doing?” dad asks. “I don’t know,” Mom says, then suddenly looks around the room and says forcefully, “Do you guys know what you are doing?”

We assure her that we do, although nobody is feeling very confident. Mom continues to talk. We assure her that we love her and support her in doing what she needs to do. We will do everything we can to help her. We will take care of each other, we are going to be okay. Dad suggests we say the Lord’s prayer. Around the lumps in our throats we begin;  “Our Father, who art in heaven…”  she says every word quietly but distinctly. As we say “amen” a huge angelic smile spreads across her face. She looks peaceful. She softly tells us that she loves us and then drifts back to sleep.

Mother’s Day has been spent together, doing what needs to be done. It’s what Mom would want, if she could still tell us. We stroke her hand, administer medicine, give her water on a sponge, tuck her blankets around her and put lotion on her face. We brush her beautiful hair and quietly sit with her. It’s hard to leave, it’s hard to let go, it’s hard to contemplate this life without her physical presence in it.

Dear Mom, on your last earthly Mother’s Day, more than ever we appreciate all you have done for us. How fiercely you have stood for what you believe in. We are honored and humbled to have been entrusted to your conscientious care. We are grateful to have walked this earth with you, particularly these last six poignant weeks as we have seen the beauty of the world through your eyes. We love you!

God speed….

 

Approaching Mother’s Day

It’s nearly 6 weeks since mom went into the hospital. It’s hard to remember what was on our minds back then. Of course we were concerned, but fundamentally believed that we would find out what was troubling her, and fix it. Learning in those next few days that her condition was incurable, and she was merely going to get worse until she left us all together was news we didn’t quite expect. But mom left us no choice but to come to terms with it quickly as she squared her shoulders and charged ahead to confront her fate. The early days and weeks left us with many incredible moments as life’s trivialities were stripped away, forcing us to contend with life and death, returning our focus to the fundamentals.

We continue to find ourselves expressing things with a newfound purity; not waiting around to say what needs to be said. “I love you mom” is now stated with regularity and with added heart, while in the back of our minds we wonder if that simple phrase was stated with enough frequency in the past. Mom quickly understood while she was still in the hospital that her time to communicate with us was limited. From that moment of acceptance she adamantly, if not feverishly made time with each of her children to make sure nothing was left on the table, knowing that anything she didn’t say then couldn’t be said later. We are glad she did; as it provides a peace of mind we cannot take for granted. And while it’s refreshing, we wonder somewhat gravely if this sort of purity is only accessible in the face of death.

Slowly, but surely, mom is getting weaker in both mind and body. Her words are fewer, her ideas less clear and she needs both hands to take a sip of water. She has a lot she still wants to say, but isn’t able to. Although the moments of joy still come, they more often give way to the harsh reality of her condition. Frustration and confusion are more common, her enthusiasm less. We can mostly figure out what she is trying to say, but increasingly cannot- the clues are more obscure and the context less relevant.

She still loves to walk around the yard, or take long drives in the car during which she takes in all the landscape with quiet wonder. She continues to remind us of the subtle beauties contained in the smallest of flowers, or in un-tamed woodland corners we normally over-look. “Wow, I’ve never seen anything like it!” she often repeats, and it warms our hearts to see her happy. As the tough times increase, and our hearts break once more each time we see her struggle, we look closer at the smallest sources of beauty that bring a smile, a tear or cause a laugh- just as she’s been teaching us to.

We continue to try not to think far ahead, knowing the worst is yet to come. The room already feels empty when she’s not in it and we realize just how hard it will be when she’s not simply in the next room sleeping.

Three Weeks On

Was it only three weeks ago that we all found ourselves gathered at Lehigh Valley hospital? At the time, we were braced for some sort of unpleasant medical issue, but none of us would have believed that now we would be discussing funerals, burial options, building a casket and preparing our parents home for the transition out of this life. It feels as if we have all lived a couple different lifetimes in the past few weeks, yet it’s as though we are flying through space in a blur.

Our brother and sister-in-law from China were here for one week. A week that went so quickly we surely must have been traveling at warp speed. A week full of precious conversations, walks, a final trip to the mall to offer fashion advice, dinners, laughter, and tears. A swirl of beauty and pain.

In no time at all, they must leave. We gather for dinner on the eve of their departure. The entire family is together, and with all the siblings, significant others, and grandchildren, it is indeed a full house. There is much conversation, reminiscing, and laughter. We have worship, and continue to visit merrily. But in the background is the thought on everyone’s mind: this is the last earthly gathering of the whole family. The evening is merry, but as with all good things, it inevitably draws to an end. It is time for the Shanghai contingent to go to bed in preparation for an early morning flight. A son and daughter-in-law embrace their mother for the last time. The tears flow, and they linger over their embrace. The scene is beautiful, tender and loving; but simultaneously it is brutally heart-wrenching. All involved feel a sense of having been punched in the gut. Mustering great strength, son and daughter-in-law end their embrace and will themselves out of the room.

We know the next time we all gather one of us will be missing. The one who brought us into this world and fed and nurtured us. Who taught us right from wrong, who soothed our fevered brows and said the things we didn’t want to hear but really needed to. How can you say goodbye to that one? There are no words, just long lingering tearful hugs that all too soon come to an end. And then you fly half way around the world.

***

From the first day three weeks ago when we all gathered around that hospital bed we prepared ourselves to take care of mom. We have come to realize since that moment that mom is actually taking care of us with her determination to face her own death bravely, and with acceptance, grace and wonder. She gently shares the process with us; her struggles and fears are spoken softly with amazement and excitement for the journey. Her humor shines through when she says; “I hope to just toddle off in a lovely manner.” And we are left breathless and hollow when she describes the “dark place” of fear and uncertainty and loss at leaving so much that she loves behind. And while her poor body seems to shrink before our very eyes and she becomes more and more confused with basic tasks, her resolve to love and accept quivers undaunted.

Scattered amidst the grueling routine of hospice, ever changing medications, scheduling care, and adjusting the house to the latest set of needs are the beautiful moments. The moments that feed us and hold our weary spirits above the abyss. When a certain piece of music plays and we all grow silent and listen. The sound creates that sacred space in the center of the room. The space of grief, pain, love, fear and healing- the space where words are no longer needed. The notes flow through us and bond us together.

The sunshine brings healing and joy as well. We walk around moms gardens, observing the tender little shoots emerging, some are barely breaking through the earth and others are in full bloom. Mom talks about things she has planted, she can’t remember the names of the plants (she used to be able to rattle off common and frequently Latin names of most of them), but she is excited to see that they are growing. “It worked!” she exclaims at the sight of one blooming flower. “Oh look, that one worked too!” She says, noticing another blossom. It’s true nature is working; the ground is vibrating with life just under the surface and bursting forth into the sunshine. It’s ironic to witness so much miraculous life when just under the surface of moms skull something else is growing. And it saps her energy and withers her muscles and causes her to totter and shake as it slowly sucks the life out of her.

We know this is the cycle of life, but it is excruciating to witness.

Family Dinner

Our family is finally complete. Our brother and sister-in-law arrived Thursday night from Shanghai. It is bittersweet to have all the siblings together like this. We gather for our oldest brother’s birthday. It doesn’t feel that celebratory somehow, but it is very good to have everyone all together for dinner.

Family dinners have always been an important part of our family traditions. We all sit down at the table, Dad leads us in the blessing and then the platters of food are passed around the circle. It’s been this way since we were children. You weren’t late to the dinner table without a pretty stellar excuse. No matter what was going on, there was always family dinner. A time to gather together and decompress from the day. As kids we were annoyed to be pulled away from our games or books, but now we eagerly participate. Particularly now. It is hard to imagine the table without our mother.

Facing this loss reminds us how integral our mom is to the feeling of home. As children, we all rolled our eyes when she corrected our posture or method for holding our forks. We complained and whined when she made us do things we didn’t want to do. Then, we didn’t view Mom as a unique person with a past and a life outside of us. She was some sort of super machine that loved and nurtured us, and whose existence was primarily to cater to our needs. Even as adults we struggled with unrealistic expectations of her. We would roll our eyes when she inadvertently weighed in on our life choices even though we were adults, but still somehow expected her to drop everything when we needed something. And more often than not, she did drop everything to come to our rescue.

We feel gutted about losing the person who has always been completely and unconditionally invested in our well being. The loneliness and ache threaten to consume us, so we drag our thoughts back to the present, where living actually happens. We revel in the warm weather, the bright sunshine, the flowers emerging from the ground. It has always been Mom’s favorite time of year. We remember walks with her in the woods to find tiny wild flowers, so frail and yet strong in their determination to fight up through the pile of debris on the forest floor. Mom was always so thrilled with each fresh-petaled face that emerged; it was a wonderful miracle to be rejoiced in every year. We remember this as we watch Mom’s spirited fight through the debris and confusion of this tumor. Her face is radiantly beautiful, and we celebrate each jumbled phrase. We hover around her protectively and drink in each moment, trying not to think too far ahead. We know that as the delicate flowers of spring are fleeting, so is this time with our mother.

 

 

Listening to the Music

The weekend was a whirlwind. Fueled by the knowledge that we had to dive back in and salvage our jobs on Monday, we felt an urgency to get mom adjusted and create spaces for the upcoming changes. The house resembled an ant colony, with furniture moving from one room to the next, the steady stream of family bringing in food, supplies, sorting medications, coming up with ways to communicate details from day to day. “We really need some shelves here” someone comments. Tape measures appear, a crew disappears and reappears carrying shelves. We all take turns shuffling visitors in and out, eating in shifts and making sure mom is getting what she needs.

The doctors have warned us that while the steroids are working to keep the swelling at bay, they can only do so much and this could move rapidly. There are moments when Mom can communicate perfectly, we would almost not be able to tell there is a tumor pressing on her brain. Then there are times where she holds her head in her hands and exclaims in exasperation; “I just can’t remember, I don’t know the word, oh I can’t do this.” It hurts to watch her struggle to communicate. Sometimes we can guess what she is trying to say, sometimes we can’t and only make it worse with our suggestions.

Our fear right now is that she will slip too far away from us before our brother arrives from Shanghai. He has been frantically wrapping up work so he and his wife can get home. They have Facetimed in, but it is hard to be so far removed from the process. We have been able to lean on each other, hold each other and analyze each days developments. We are watching it unfold before our eyes while he is half way around the world and twelve hours ahead. Mom has been fueled by the activity and her own need to spend these precious moments with those she loves, but she is not eating enough to sustain this level of activity. The focus this week, along with an endless list of logistics, is to help her rest and keep her energy up so our brother can say his goodbyes.

Tonight dad asked if mom could still play the piano. We gathered in the living room and watched as her fingers tentatively touched the keys. “I don’t think I can do this,” she says. But slowly, fumblingly, her fingers find the right keys and soon music fills the room. Childhood memories swirl around with the notes, this music is so much a part of us. We haven’t even realized how integral the sound of her playing is to home.

Home Again

It feels like we have all lived a couple of lifetimes in the last few days or at least longer than a mere five days. But I guess that is just how you feel when your entire world is shaken around like a snow globe and shattered on the floor.

Mom is being discharged, since there is no treatment or testing still needing to be done, we can take her home. It feels overwhelming when we try to wrap our heads around what that will even look like with the daunting care she needs. We all gather at the hospital to have a meeting with mom to discuss how she envisions her transition home. We start the process of getting a living will in place. Since she is going to lose her ability to communicate, we are anxious to get as much input while she is still able to give it. We try not to feel frantic as we can see that already the strength and lucidity of yesterday is beginning to fade. There is so much we need to discuss, so much we need to say, so much we want to know….

With trepidation we walk into my parents house. It still feels the same. Mom is walking around in her regular clothes, we could almost think maybe the last few days were just a terrible nightmare and we are just having a normal family dinner. We laugh and joke and the kids play joyfully. It could just be another family dinner, but the stooped shoulders, the red rimmed eyes, the looks of fear, and the overwhelming weight of pure exhaustion gives us away. I am amazed at the perseverance in the room. We just keep showing up, and doing what needs to be done. But then I guess I am not surprised. We learned from mom. She has always shown up. Whether it is to clean something within an inch of its life, rewrite an entire piece of music to fit the needs of a specific class, practicing and practicing music to play for church, a special service, or a play, or doing all the little tiny details in the background that add that special touch of beauty that most people don’t often think of. She vibrates with passion and energy and determination to see tasks through. She won’t leave a room until she has talked to every single person. She wants to know about everyone’s lives, and is so enthusiastic about their accomplishments. She talks about all the kids at the school with love and affection because she is invested in all of their well being.

That love vibrates through all of us, it sustains us and buoys us up despite the crushing exhaustion that threatens to take us over. And we feel it vibrating back in ripples and waves from all the people who surround us. Right now we are getting our feet under us, and preparing for the path ahead. We will start scheduling visits with our mom in the next few days and calling on all the incredible offers of help that have been expressed.

As mom has taken to saying “We’re just hanging, man.”

 

We Face the Music

The last few days have been a barrage of information. Now it’s time to choose a path. Foremost on all of our minds has been whether or not Mom is going to be able to understand enough of what is going on to make a choice, and can she articulate her wishes. We have set a family meeting for the morning.

Morning arrives and somehow the drive to the hospital seems normal. We all show up with drinks, snack, food, supplies; we are getting pretty good at this. Mom is lively and animated. There is a strength and resolve about her that is encouraging. We had thought at one point that we might have to have this meeting without her, but she is fully prepared to participate.

Dad explains that mom and him talked for a long time last night. She understands what is going on and is prepared to tell us what she would like. She doesn’t want to undergo chemo therapy or radiation. She doesn’t feel the need for a biopsy. In terms of eternity, what is the difference between a month and six months? She doesn’t want to take valuable time away from her family to waste on treatment that isn’t going to make a difference in the long run anyway. Her faith is strong. She is sad to be leaving all of us; it is anguishing to think of all the things she will miss.  She is sorry that we are forced to deal with everything particularly after she is gone. We each have an opportunity to respond and express our wishes for her care. It is heartbreaking. Another level of reality sinking in. There are a lot of tears over the next few hours as we each articulate our thoughts and feelings. The overwhelming consensus is that more than anything else, we wanted her to be able to advocate for herself. She has done that, and we are in support.

We take a break for lunch. Mom and dad take a moment to regroup while the siblings go out for lunch. We reconvene and the room is peaceful. Everyone is breathing again, a tiny semblance of normalcy seeps into the room. We laugh, joke, and tell stories. There are still a lot of tears, but we know our path and the crushing pressure of the last four days has momentarily lifted. We revel in hearing mom speak; every precious word is a gift and a joy. Whether it is yelled, whispered, spoken or sobbed, it doesn’t matter, we just want words. Because we know they will become more fleeting, harder to access until they slowly slip away all together.

Please just keep giving us words mom. Keep giving us words.

The Hendricks Invasion of Lehigh Valley Hospital

Day 1: It’s Monday morning and Mom is going to her Doctors appointment. We are a little apprehensive because she hasn’t been acting normally. She is struggling to find words and getting people and things confused. She hasn’t been feeling well for about a month, but we just thought she had the flu. Dad texts and says they are going to the hospital. The Doctor thinks she needs to be evaluated. We all wrap up work when we can and trickle in. Mom is excited to see all of us and assures us that she is feeling much better, but as she calls us by the wrong names and struggles to remember her own name, our concerns are not alleviated. She gets moved to the observation wing and we all settle into the tiny room. It’s a shared room and we all just squeeze into the space and settle down to wait for CT scans and MRI’s. The nurses joke and roll their eyes as they slither through the family members crammed into every free square foot around the bed. Night falls and their isn’t much we can do. We make dad as comfortable as possible in his recliner, kiss mom goodnight and head home.

Day 2: Dad texts in the morning, she is back from the CT scan and there is a mass on her brain. We again trickle in when we can. We stand huddled around the bed and hear the possible diagnosis. We won’t know more until she has an MRI. We try to keep brave faces and support mom, but there are concerned conferences in the hallway. Mom is happy, she still can’t articulate everything she wants to, but she loves the family being there. The nurses are all cheerful even if slightly chagrined as they navigate the kids and match box cars on the floor, and the ever fluctuating group of people in the room. “there is a lot of love in this room” one of them comments. “It’s just beautiful” mom mumbles from the bed, “they are all so beautiful.” I look around at the complete disaster that is the room. It looks like a refugee camp, but it is beautiful. The kids voices and cheerful oblivion to the situation are a welcome relief. Everyone is standing or sitting, holding and supporting each other. There is a lot of love in the room.

Evening: The MRI results come back. The neurosurgeon calls my dad and says that the mass is a glioblastoma, a particularly aggressive brain cancer. The prognosis isn’t good. She will meet with the family to discuss results tomorrow.

Day 3: It’s a somber group that trickles into the hospital. We fall into our choreographed dance of support, meltdown, refuel, rinse and repeat. The nurses have resigned themselves to the constant tide of family coming and going. They offer support, hand out Kleenexes, bring us drinks and make sure mom is comfortable. The surgeon arrives and we take over the waiting room with our circle. Note pads come out, family facetimes in. I am in awe of my family, the questions are thoughtful and articulated with love and care.  There are a lot of tears as we realize there is no cure; care options can only buy a short time or an even shorter time. Top most on all of our minds “how cognizant is she, can she be a part of the decision making process? How do we best honor her wishes and how much can she really grasp of what is going on?”

We hold our moms hand and tell her that she has a brain tumor, it is impacting her ability to speak and understand. “Is that why I don’t have all my marbles?” she asks. “Yes mom, it is.” The going is slow, but things are sinking in. “It’s serious isn’t it?” she asks. “Yes, mom it is.” It takes a lot of explaining, but she gets it and wants to be part of the conversation. “This has been beautiful having all of you here and not knowing what is going on, but it’s time to face the music” she says. I think: “I’m really glad that you love music….”

We are being moved to a new room to have some privacy and give us more space. We watch as the nurses line up and hug our mother, saying they love her and wishing her well. They make sure she has her socks just so, “she needs to wear her shoes every time she gets out of bed” one of them tells me. “We got her these toilet seat covers from our bathroom because we couldn’t stand watching her cover the seat with toilet paper every time” another one informs me. “Don’t forget her chap stick” Someone else offers. I hear my dad chuckle next to me: “you just can’t help loving her.”

And it’s true, we all can’t help it, and that’s why it hurts.