About twenty-four hours ago my mother came back from the hospital. She was seen by a Hospice nurse; I assume hospice has approved her case. Two aides were with her for the entire twenty-four hours. Here’s the rub: She is entitled to eleven hours: Someone has to pay the difference. So far it looks like me. This gets very expensive and can wipe a person out in no time. I am waiting for the managed long term care agency nurse to call me and do an assessment over the phone in hopes that my mother will receive twenty-four hour care. She is, half the person she was before, which is not saying much, unable to get up, to walk or go to the bathroom. She is, I am told, totally with it, conscious and aware but her body is betraying her-the little of it that was left.

I find it interesting how people process the facts. When I say she is home, people  say, “that’s great!” It sounds like she is cured, that all of this craziness is behind her. Other people focus on the word Hospice, and  they react with, “I’m sorry to hear that.” Hospice is end of life care; no intubation, no drastic measures, just comfort. At 102 years old, my mother needs to rest, not to be revived and possibly left in a vegetative state. The end is coming no matter how you look at it, but it is coming for all of us.

Seven years ago my mother was still in Florida, she got pneumonia and ended up home on Hospice care. That was when she was ninety-five years old. She was taken off Hospice care and we moved her back to New York City. Miracles do happen. This time I am not so sure.

But, I will tell you what I am really worried about. The aides who come to work on public transit, coming and going in the dark, leaving their own families behind. Yesterday Candy worked a 12-hour shift. She called me at 6:00 PM to ask if she could take a break and eat her lunch. I almost cried. I was worried that she’d touch her face, contaminate herself with the insidious prickly globe that got a hold of my mother. This is a nasty microscopic blob of terror that can take a person of any age down, from infants to the elderly. Others, it leaves alone and lays in wait quietly so the carrier thinks there is nothing wrong, lets down their guard and infects someone else. Whether that person lives or dies is another story.

The aides who are working need the money, they are risking their lives on the front line of a war. Most of us would not be that brave, not I. They are risking their lives for my mother. I am pleading with the Universe, with whatever power that be, to please keep them safe.

Please keep us all safe.

This series starts here:
Part 1: And The Band Played On … a mother’s life, a daughter’s journey

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