My mother died at 9:35 am on November 30th. I miss her terribly. I thought it would be different. I thought I was ready. Funny, how little I really knew.
She got sick on Monday, November 21st and was taken to the hospital from her Alzheimer’s Day Care Center. At first we thought it would just be a short trip to the hospital—then back home. She’d made many such trips—mostly dehydration. This would prove not to be the case this time.
I had just made a trip to New York the week before for my cousin’s funeral (my mother’s niece). It was unexpected, she was young and the family was reeling. We did not tell my mother, but I visited her on the Saturday before she went into the hospital. She was tired (her aide said she’d had a restless night—trying to get to her mother and father who were across the street—they were in trouble and needed her). So, she was tired but in good spirits, happy to see me. She ate her lunch and I painted her nails. She thought they looked pretty. We sang some old songs from church and I marveled that she no longer knew what day, month or year it was but she remembered songs from 40 years ago, verbatim. I gave her a kiss and told her I’d bring back better manicure tools next time I came—not knowing this would be the last time I would see her alert.
At the hospital—at first responsive, she dropped into a non-responsive state and after several tests it was found that she’d had an infection (probably urinary) and the infection was now throughout her body. The doctors spoke of “sepsis” and stated that if they were treating a younger person, they’d remove their colon, but my mother (at 98 years old) would never survive the operation.
After some consultation, we decided to move her to hospice, where she would be medicated for pain, and allow nature to take its course.
She was moved to hospice on November 28th and passed away on November 30th. I spent every hour, minute, and second with her. She was far away and I can only hope that what the medical staff said was true—that she could hear me and that hearing was the last thing to go. I held her hand, sang to her, read to her from the bible and told her what a great mother she had been. It was sad and lonely and I was honored and priviledged to be with her. After all she was with me when I took my first breath—it seemed absolutely fitting that I be there when she took her last.
As she exhaled that last breath and I waited for the next inhale, I knew it wasn’t coming. Everything seemed suspended—so still. I waited for what seemed like an eternity—my hand on her arm. I rang the call bell. The nurse came in, checked her pulse and looked at me and said “I’m sorry, she’s gone.” I started whimpering like a little puppy. “Gone, gone where”, I sobbed. That was silly. I’d studied and read a great deal about dying and I understood it in my head, but what I knew in my head was not translating to my broken heart.
I bent down and kissed her, smoothed her hair and took a long look at her. She was so peaceful. I picked up the phone to call my sister.
No comments:
Post a Comment