When my mother, Marian, was 90 years old she decided that she needed a new hip. The pain from the arthritic joint was turning her into a recluse. In her words, “What the hell good am I to anyone like this?” She had no intention of living the rest of her life as a shut-in, so action needed to be taken.

There were two barriers, however. First, there was an irregularity in her EKG, something that had first shown up several years before in preparation for hernia surgery. Her second problem was high blood pressure, though the readings were only high when taken at the clinic. They seemed to be stress induced, the main stressor being the worry that she would be unable to get her new hip with high blood pressure. These were significant issues to overcome, but my mother had worked as a nurse for twenty years after she and my father had retired from the farm, and she knew her way around the health system. Soon she had a plan to overcome the barriers.

The EKG blip was mitigated by finding a doctor who wrote an opinion minimizing the importance of the abnormality, a “bundle branch block”. In addition, she had lived with no problems since the original EKG, so that barrier was overcome. To combat arguments regarding the high blood pressure reading she was certain the nurse would measure, she brought in a voluminous log of much lower blood pressure readings she had taken at home over the past two weeks. Thus buttressed, and with me along as a witness (she had me watch her take two readings earlier that day), she talked the orthopedic surgeon into performing a hip replacement.

The surgery went well. Afterwards her spirits were high, despite the inevitable post surgical pain. My older brother, Leon, came to be with her, and after a couple days brought her back to the tiny hospital in Webster, her home town, to convalesce a few days before going home.

Leon went home, and I went to check on her the next day. I found her slumped in the recliner in her room, looking for the first time in her life like a frail old woman. “What happened, Mom?” I asked. “You look like hell!”

She looked down and to the side, deciding how to spin her reply, and finally said,”I had a little upset last night, Bobby.” Then there was a short pause to decide how honestly she would answer my question. “The doctor thinks I might have had a small heart attack.” She looked down at the floor while she said this, not wanting to make eye contact.

“What??? What are they doing about it? Why are you just sitting here? What actions are they taking? What does the doctor say?”

She raised her head, looked at me with steely eyes, and said, “They’re not doing anything. He wants to send me to a hospital in Sioux Falls, but I told him I wouldn’t go. Talk to the doctor yourself. He should still be on call.”

I went to the nurses station to page the doctor, and when he came I asked, “What happened last night? My mother says that you think she had a heart attack, but there are no measures being taken. She is just sitting in her recliner. Are you all right with that?”

“I am NOT all right with that!” he indignantly replied. “I want her to go to the Heart Hospital in Sioux Falls, but she categorically refused. She practically kicked me out of her room. We just can’t do much for her here.”

His plaintive tone told me that Marian had cut him off at the knees when he had suggested an ambulance ride to Sioux Falls so I left him at the nurses station with an aggrieved look on his face and went back to confront my mother.

“The doctor still wants to send you to Sioux Falls. Why won’t you go?”

“Bobby, I already know what they will do with me down there. I’m an old woman who just had surgery, so they won’t do anything. They will put me in a bed with an IV and just stare at me. After a few days they will tell me to go home. I can do the same thing here. I feel better now and would just like to spend the night and talk in the morning. If I have a bad night I will consider it again. What’s the worst that could happen? I have a heart attack and die.”

After dismissing the worst case scenario with a metaphorical wave of her hand she sent me home. She was much better the next day, excited because my younger brother, Jim, was flying out from California to stay a few days with her. My wife went to get Jim, dropped him off with Marian, and left them to visit. After a couple days Marian seemed perky enough to go home and her first day at home was great. She spent the day regaling my brother with all her ideas of activities possible now that she had the new hip, thrilled that her baby boy was home to see her. As I remember, she wanted to go see the renovations done on the diocesan Cathedral in Sioux Falls, and she wanted to plan a trip to Wisconsin to see her younger sister.

Late that afternoon she tired of talking, and excused herself to go to the bathroom. Immediately she called for my brother, “Jimmy, come here, I need you!” He found her slumped on the floor, confused. Jim dragged himself away long enough to call 911, returned to her, and held her while her life ebbed away after a heart attack. She passed away a couple days after her 91st birthday.

A day or two later I was back in Webster making funeral arrangements. The funeral home was only a couple blocks from my mother’s house so I welcomed the walk to clear my head. My mood matched the weather, black swirling clouds buffeted by a strong wind. I stood looking at the turbulent sky, trying to make sense of my turbulent emotions.

And then the vultures came. A lot of vultures. Perhaps two hundred vultures were taking advantage of the strong south winds, swooping and circling just above the treetops on their way north. The Valkyries had come for my mother, the warrior, to take her to Valhalla. In my fey mood, walking with one foot on each side of the great divide, I momentarily wondered if they also were there for me. My place, however, was still on earth, and after a few minutes they were gone, leaving me there with my mouth agape.

My mother had grown up speaking Kasuby Polish, a dialect from near the Baltic Sea. Her arc began with horse teams and hard labor, and ended in the twenty first century. Though there were many aspects of Dakota farm life that frustrated her, she always shaped her environment and crafted her own path. “What’s the worst that could happen? I have a heart attack and die.” She knew that, unhesitatingly moved forward, and lost her bet, getting to die in the arms of her son. Pretty damned cool. If anyone deserved to feast in Valhalla (or it’s Polish equivalent) Marian did. A lot of lessons and a lot to live up to. If I can live my remaining years with half the courage and strength as my parents I will be satisfied. And if I am lucky, maybe the vultures will come for me as well.

Postscript:

About two weeks after my mother’s death I was back in Webster cleaning up some of her business when I received a phone call from her surgeon. “Bob, I just heard that Marian had a heart attack and passed away. I’m so sorry. I feel responsible for her death.” Wow! The surgeon had both the balls and the humanity to speak from his heart, quite a gift in our litigious society. I returned the gift, telling him that while the surgery probably did lead to the heart attack, Marian went into the surgery with her eyes wide open. I thanked him for the call and for trying to give my mother the opportunity to lead a richer and happier life. It felt very good to be able to tell him that. We need to go forward bravely; the worst that can happen is that we die.