Summer Killed My Mother

Cause of death is a complex construction.
We identify one culprit as the cause of a person’s death. That’s a narrow view.
A dear friend of mine was killed while riding to work on her bicycle. She was struck by a truck. The driver said he didn’t see her. She was a political activist and an environmentalist. She rode her bicycle for exercise of course, but also to reduce her carbon footprint and to preserve the planet. I say global warming killed my dear friend.
In our community there is a family who suffered the tragic death of their teenaged son. Three years after the boy’s death, his father died of cancer. The surviving mother and daughter in this family are upbeat and positive individuals. They are good people, who do not deserve the suffering inflicted on them of course. And they are strong women who struggled with their grief and plunged through it to continue with their lives. The father, however, wandered lost in his grief without finding a doorway through which to emerge. I say he died of a broken heart.
My mother-in-law had many health problems. Diabetes. High blood pressure. Obesity. Heart condition. A few weeks before her death, she had a small heart attack and was hospitalized. The doctors adjusted her medication and sent her home. She lived her entire life in extreme poverty, although it did not seem to affect her spirit or her ability to make a difference in the lives of others. It did affect her health. In the end, she died of a heart attack in the back seat of a car while a friend attempted to drive her to the hospital because ambulances refuse to enter her rough neighborhood. I say she died of poverty and racism (she was African American).
I have never told the long story of how my mother died. I usually go with the short story and say she died of Hepatitis. Here’s the long story.
My mother had a vegetable garden every summer that I can remember while I was growing up. I have a photograph of us taken when I was three years old. We are sitting on a picnic bench in front of her sunflowers, which are as tall as the roof. The photograph is in black and white. No matter. I am well-acquainted with the piercing yellow of those sunflowers. I have also never forgotten the pink rosebuds on the sun suit I am wearing. I saved it until I had a little girl of my own and then I dressed her in it.
The taste of fresh green beans takes me back to my mother’s summer yard. I picked them and crunched them while standing barefoot in the dirt. And tomatoes. My mother always grew tomatoes. It isn’t summer without tomatoes, which never ever taste any good when they are not in season and never ever taste any better than they do straight off the backyard vine. After my parents sold the family house and moved to a smaller home, my mother abandoned the big summer garden. But tomatoes, never. She grew them in pots on her deck. Cherry tomatoes. Pear tomatoes. Grape tomatoes. Beefsteaks. Early Girls. Better Boys. What is life without tomatoes?
My mother’s health became compromised when she contracted a serious though curable lung ailment that required surgery. After the surgery she received a blood transfusion. At the time, health professionals remained unaware of the danger of Hepatitis tainting the blood supply. Many people during that time period contracted Hepatitis from tainted blood transfusions. My mother was one of these people. For many years her liver functioned adequately, but as she grew older it limped along, steadily degenerating until she was forced to remain on a strict diet and limit her exposure to toxins that would stress her liver.
At the same time, my mother suffered from diverticulitis, or deep pockets in her intestines where seeds could become stuck and cause infection. A dose of antibiotics usually cured the infection. She had to avoid eating seeds. No poppy seeds, sesame seeds, or sunflower seeds. No strawberries, blackberries, or raspberries. No tomatoes.
My mother had a good life. My father was devoted to her. She had three beloved children and six very fine grandchildren. She conducted a productive career as a social worker. She delighted in talking to people, or rather listening to their stories. She particularly loved to listen to elders and spent many hours in the company of the aged who flourished in the shade of her attention. She had many interests, all of which she pursued with enthusiasm.
In her last summer, my mother ate a grape tomato. She usually exercised superhuman restraint with her diet. But that tomato wheedled it’s way in through a chink in the armor. For what is full summer without the delight of a fresh tomato? She told me this, that it was that irresistible grape tomato that caused her last bout of diverticulitis. She didn’t go to the doctor in time. It was hot. It was summer. She didn’t realize she was spiking a fever. By the time she went to the doctor, she had a full-blown infection, which had perforated her intestine. Because of the Hepatitis, the doctor could not enter surgically to remove the perforated section and repair the intestine. Her Hepatitis was so far advanced that my mother would have bled to death from such a surgery. They sent her home with morphine to leave this world in her own room in her own bed.
Technically she died of peritonitis. Although, one could truthfully say she died of Hepatitis. One could truthfully say she died of diverticulitis. One could say she died from procrastinating a visit to the doctor or mistaking a fever for the heat of summer or even from eating a tomato. She loved life so completely and she embraced all of it heartily. Good times, bad times, she had all of it. Sunflowers. Grandchildren. Green beans. Husband. Laughter. Music. Autumn, winter, and spring. If the bountiful fullness of summer had failed to arrive then she would still be alive. When summer spread its wings, she had to have that tomato. Summer killed my mother.