My mother at ninety-four, July 2012, and as a young woman.

Saturday, March 9, 2013

Before I left for an afternoon appointment I was in touch with the aides and their supervisor. My mother was at home with three shifts of round the clock care and  hospice nurses that were on twenty-four hour duty. My mother had more attention than she had ever dreamed of. But –there is always something for me to take care of and this time it was firing the day Hospice nurse. She had a cough. I complained. Loudly. They sent someone else.

My day was strange. I went to a close friend’s baby shower riddled with guilt that I was leaving the house. I told myself that I was allowed. The supervisor of the aides told me I had to go. In fact she insisted that I have a good time. I forgot what that means.

Once there I felt a little better but as soon as some of my former colleagues asked how I was, I couldn’t lie. I wanted to but was unable to. I wanted to say everything was perfect but I couldn’t. I sputtered, “My mother is dying.” Many of my friends lost their moms and I understood the words: their mothers had passed, they had no mothers. Now I can relate to the pain. People were nice, a few compassionate, but the fact is: most people don’t want to hear depressing stuff at a baby shower. I was assigned to camera duty and gratefully accepted. But as the afternoon progressed I got that sick feeling in my gut: I had to go home and face whatever was waiting for me.

Once back home I was hoping for a quiet evening  but the internet was down and rebooting the router and modem didn’t fix the problem as it usually does. None of the computers or electronics would recognize the signal for a good period of time and then just as strangely as I got a tech from Verizon on the phone, all of a sudden things started working. Just as I was about to call I felt the fatigue I had been carrying on my back for months, six months, since my mother began to exhibit “signs.”

As the evening progressed my fatigue strengthened and I figured I’d go up to bed and give in to what I hoped would be sleep. All of a sudden there was a loud series of crashes and then broken glass.

Mind you, my cats never, NEVER have, in all the years I have them, jumped on a kitchen counter, EVER. But one must have, the one diagnosed with diabetes, smelled a cup of dry food on the counter and had likely leaped  up and got stuck in something or spooked. He jumped through the pass through taking several crystal and glass pieces with him. It took me an hour to clean it all up and I am sure there are still some shards out there.

It felt like everything around me was different or in transition, that something bigger than myself was happening, I can’t explain it. Or maybe I can: things were falling apart. Or maybe the things around me were reflecting my feelings: I was in pieces.

And so to bed. You must understand that the fear of the phone ringing is one of my worst fears, that middle of the night call. It took me a long time to relax to drift into sleep.

This morning I had a long talk with the lovely replacement Hospice nurse. I learned that:

• my mother sat up in her chair for two hours yesterday and told her life story
• she sleeps most of the day
• she is barely drinking and there is barely any liquid output, a big difference from her having to go every couple of minutes
• she is refusing to take an anti-nausea medication, she said it makes her feel worse, except she didn’t take any, she only took her blood pressure meds
• she had sips of soup all day, and two small spoonfuls of mashed potato, today she had ice cream
• she is totally “with-it” and aware of everything

I was able to talk to her briefly and could barely comprehend her. She is just too tired, too weak to articulate. But what I did get was: I’m trying very hard to get well. My mother has always been a fighter, she’s tough, all, now, eighty-ish pounds of her. She is the last person alive in her family.

Today I wrote a stack of birthday and get well cards to send out tomorrow. Her ninety-fifth birthday is days away. These may be the last cards I ever send to my mother.

About four years ago I planned my mother’s funeral.

Today I went to the funeral home and paid the bill.

[This series is linked: see “continued here.” Also, below the line there will be links for the previous post and the next.]

continued here

The series starts here