The hospice nurse told my mom on Tuesday she thinks it's likely we're down to weeks. From my observations, that doesn't seem too far off.
It's a horrible thing to watch your mother die.
When I was eight (nine? somewhere in there), my Nana had a stroke. Mom brought her to live with us and we cared for her for the six weeks before she died. I don't remember that being this hard. Of course, there are differences. It was Nana (who I adored), not Mom. And I was a child. I got to go sit in the room with her and chatter at her, hold her hand, and turn the TV channels when I knew a show she preferred was on. She couldn't speak or really interact, but I think she knew we were there. And I have fond memories of all the times I spent with her--these included. We woke up one morning and she was gone. It was simple, short, and uncomplicated. (And maybe for her it was a horrible, drawn out nightmare -- six weeks unable to communicate or do anything for yourself would absolutely be hard.)
Mom is dying by inches, and it feels cruel.
My mother has always been a mover and a get it done woman. She eschewed committee, because adding people just made simple things harder. And everything was simple if you took the time to figure out how to do it. Now she needs a nap after getting out bed to use the bathroom. And is asleep more than she's awake.
The grief that accompanied February's notice that there was no more they could do to treat her cancer was sharp and hard, but it faded, sinking into hibernation for a while because there was no drastic change in her circumstance. She was as she'd been for the last year or so. Not the vibrant, take charge woman I grew up with, but that woman was still there and visible.
In the last month, however, the grief has crawled out of its hiding place and sometimes clouds the room so thickly that I wonder I'm able to breathe. I wonder how no one else seems to see it--thick and black covering everything.
We visit my parents every Friday, me and the boys. Mom can barely leave her bed--leaving her room is completely out of the question. The eldest, I think, feels it most. He doesn't like to go in and see her and I don't push. I want him to have good memories of his Mimi, like I do of my Nana. The youngest crawls up next to her and brings her seashells from her collection and would stay like that for hours. I want to be like him, but my heart hurts so horribly, I'm afraid I'm more like the elder and am, at least mentally, running away to hide from the reality of what is.
She's ready to go home to see Jesus.
I can't help but wonder if it hurts so much now, before she's gone, if I'm going to survive what happens after.
3 days ago
Prayers for you, your Mom, and your family, Beth.
ReplyDeleteIt's a blessing, I think, that you're with her, at least. I lost my mother a year ago this coming Sunday. I was going to see her on our visit up to Maine. I hadn't seen her for a year or two prior to that, although we talked every week. She'd been fading pretty fast from dementia, and I knew it was probably going to be my last visit with her. Before we got there, however, she slipped and fell and banged her head. Lingered for a week, but never regained consciousness. I was with her when she passed, but I'm still haunted by the fact that I never got to have that one last conversation with her, particularly as I'd been out West for work for a couple weeks before and had been unable to make phone contact with her. (She'd been moved into a care facility and there was some kind of issue with transferring her phone.)
Any rate, there's nothing much you can do about the grief except tell yourself that it's a normal part of life and eventually you'll get out from under it. (I had that from both my godfather, who is a doctor specializing in geriatric care, and my priest.)
Thanks, Robbo. Prayers much appreciated - and returned for you.
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