Michelle Brann Carter grew up in an extended family with eight kids and two adults, and always in 3-bedrooms, whether a single-wide, a cabin with no heat, water or septic, or small house. It was a crowded childhood and adolescence. Time was, too -- Michelle worked while while attending Lincoln Academy. For years it was lobstering, but when fell in love with Danny Carter and got pregnant, she turned to cooking and washing dishes in the evenings at Lincoln Homes. They married, and Michelle moved into the Carter home on Gross Neck. They named their son Andrew. Before high school ended, Michelle took a course for her CNA (Certified Nursing Assistant) course. She was following the path of her mother and grandmother in caring for older adults. She got her certificate December 1994 and started the next month at Fieldcrest in Waldoboro, and she’s never stopped since. At one point she and Danny divorced. Then they married again. But it wasn’t meant to be. A few years later, they divorced. However, in that period, just as COVID was hitting and when her mom was bouncing in and out of hospitals, Michelle and Danny brought her mother home. Lucille Mae Murray Carter died January 19, 2021. Today Michelle works 40-hour evening shifts at Chase Point Assisted Living in Damariscotta. She also cleans rooms and bakes at the Waldoboro Inn. In the leftover time, she cleans AirBnBs. And most importantly, she watches over and cares for her fiancé Normster Collamore who is living with a severe heart condition
Mom’s bed was right up against that wall, next to the woodburning stove where she could warm her feet. But she was one tough lady. She could outrun anybody. With everything that she had, we didn’t know the half of it. But she was my person.
We’d had some tough times together. I remember one time when she really beat on me, but she couldn’t remember it. I think that bothered her. But Mom had mental issues. Eventually she went to counseling. It helped me, too. I learned to set boundaries. We decided to look forward, not backward.
But it was still hard being in the house full-time with Mom. In the nursing home, I can walk away and tell someone that I’ll be back when they’re feeling better. With Mom, it was different. We were stuck together.
Dan was a big help. I couldn’t have brought her home without him. Dan would take care of her in the evening when I was working. And Mom loved Danny’s cooking. She loved playing cards with him. She had a great time here. I would get her ready in the morning, then home health would come in the day, and Danny came in for the evenings. She got strong enough for a bypass operation but then she got pneumonia. When we could, we brought her back home, catheter and all. It was the day before Christmas.
And we all had Christmas together — probably the poorest Christmas I ever had. Nobody had any gifts. We’d been running back and forth to the hospital since September. I was driving up and back to Portland but I’d have driven to Florida to see her. But it’s expensive. And it was non-stop. So nobody had any money left! But we dyed her hair that day. She wanted to be a redhead.
The next day, she went into congestive heart failure. It was back to the hospital, and from then on, she just declined. They were so good to her, but her body had become immune, and there was nothing they could do. The doctor explained that she was in the dying process.
She didn’t know she was coming home to die, and if anyone had told her, she’d probably have said, “I’ve got God on my side. I’m not going anywhere.”
When she got settled at home that first evening, I asked about dinner: “Anything you want, Mom. Anything in the world, and we’ll make it happen.”
She said, “I want scallops.”
Dan said, “I’m on it,” and he went down to his nephew’s house, got some scallops and we ground them up in the blender because, being intubated, food had to be soft. She ate two bowls of them, then a coffee which we thickened. And I thought, “Good. She eats a little something, and she’ll be fine.” I was still in some kind of denial.
The next morning, life changed. She was incoherent, in and out. So, for the rest of the time, I slept in the leather recliner next to her bed. Every day I’d say, “Mom, thank you for being my mom. I love you so much. Thank you for taking care of me and making sure I grew up in the person I grew into today.” And sometimes she’d say, “Well, you can’t pick your family,” so I knew she had some humor in her.
After she passed, I took out the catheter. I dressed her in a beautiful red sweater because it was her favorite color, and in her black pants. I did it even though she was being cremated because I knew she would haunt me if I sent her off with a catheter and a nightgown open at the back. I did her makeup.
The first year Mom was gone, I couldn’t talk about her. There have been so many times that something great has happened, and all I wanted to do was pick up the phone and tell her, or if there was something was making me grit my teeth. I used to share everything with her. For everything that happened in my life, I would call her, and she’d be there with a hug, and sometimes that was all I needed.
Death is the hardest part about my job. You never get used to it, and now that I’ve lost my mom, each time someone passes, I think of Mum.
But I think I’ve learned to live like you’re dying. Because you never know when God calls you home. It’s how Norm and I are living, because with his heart condition – well, you never know.
Leave a Reply