Mother... to be addressed

Mother

She sits up and pulls on her oxygen mask. I jump up and rush to her side.

"Mom, you need to leave that be, it's helping you to breath." I tell her for the umpteenth time tonight. She nods and settles down.

Not two minutes later she sits up and pulls at her IV.

"Mom," I explain, "that's your IV. You need to leave that be. It will hurt if you pull it out." Again she nods, and lays her head back on the pillow.

Moments later, she again sits bolt upright and says in short gaspy breaths, muffled by the plastic of the oxygen mask, "I have... to go... to the... bathroom."

"You have a catheter in Mom. Your pee just drains out," I explain.

"I have to go," she states again.

I move various medical supplies that are scattered throughout her bedroom and get the portable commode in place at the head of her bed. I wrap my arms gently around her frail and failing body to help her to a standing position. She gives me a surprisingly strong hug as we dance slowly back and forth the few inches needed to position her over the commode.

"I love you," she tells me.

"I love you too, Mom," I reply. I give her a gentle squeeze before lowering her to the awaiting commode.

"I'm sorry you have to do this for me," she says in a stronger voice than I have heard in the past few days. "You should be with your family and not stuck with me."

"You are my family," I admonish, "and I am not stuck with you. I wouldn't have it any other way. I am glad I can be here for you. You have always been there for me."

She smiles. I smile. We sit in comfortable silence, her on the commode, I on her bed, holding hands.

"I'm done," she states matter of factly.

I have her lean forward as I wipe her behind. We then dance back to her bed, where, totally spent from this minor excursion, she sleeps for a few minutes. I clean the commode, readying it for its next use, keeping an ear tuned to Mom's bedroom, listening for any movement. She is so restless now. Just nine days ago, she and Dad were in Washington D.C. looking at the cherry blossoms in full bloom. Her decline has been so rapid.

I return to her room and lie down beside her, listening to her breath echoing in the oxygen mask. Rapid and a little forced, but even and steady.

She is never again as coherent as she was at that last exchange. The rest of the evening is spent with her pulling and tugging at tubes, and clothes and covers, never resting for more than five minutes. Her pain is intense, and the intravenous Morphine and Valium are doing nothing to make her more comfortable. Nothing I do helps.

My brother peeks his head in. It is morning. I have never been so glad to see someone before in my life.

"We have been up all night. She sleeps for no more than a few minutes at a time. I have got to get some sleep. Can you sit with her?"

"Sure," he says, and pulls up a chair.

"Wake me if she needs anything," I order. "Don't worry about me."

"Okay," he agrees, knowing my need to feel in control in such an uncontrolled situation. "Go get some rest."

I lay down for 15 or 20 minutes, but cannot shut my brain off. She is so young. Sixty-one is too young to be this sick. She is such a wonderful person, always giving of herself and thinking of others. This isn't fair. But no one ever claimed that life would be fair. Mom has always accepted the hand that life dealt her, and has always maintained that everything happens for a reason. In my heart, I know this, yet I am furious at the injustice of her fate.

Realizing that sleep is a lost cause, I get up and call the hospice nurse to inform her of last night's events. Chelle says she will be right over, and I release a sigh of relief.

Chelle arrives, her bright, perky, bubbly self, and gives hugs to us all. Dad is glad to see her, feeling, like we all do, that Chelle is the authority, and all will be better now. We follow Chelle into Mom's bedroom, like sheep gladly following their fearless leading shepherd. She talks with Mom, but all Mom can do is nod yes and no. Chelle gives her a hug and a reassuring smile and ushers me out of the room, leaving my dad, brother and sister-in-law with Mom.

I follow her into the guest room with its large pink roses that mom stenciled on the walls less that six months ago.

"Chelle, I can't put her through another night like last night. We have to do something for her," I plea. "Isn't there some other drug we can give her to make her comfortable?"

Chelle tells me what I know, but am unable to admit. "Angela, she's dying."

I bow my head, not able to look her in the eyes, and nod.

"She's fighting it," Chelle continues.

"She always has," I say with a tearful yet hopeful smile. "She didn't survive these past eight years with ovarian cancer without being a fighter. She always surprises us. She always pulls out of these depths."

"I think she needs to be told it is okay to go," Chelle gently explains, bringing me back to reality. "She is fighting to stay here for you guys."

"I will not let her think we are giving up on her. I will not have her die thinking that," I say adamantly.

"You're not giving up on her. She's not giving up the fight. Her body has had it, her spirit is all that is keeping her alive. The most loving thing you can do is tell her it is okay. The suffering can stop."

Still unable to look at Chelle, unable to fully admit the truth, I tell her, "You have to tell everyone else. We all have to be in agreement."

She agrees, and we go to find the rest of the family. They are right where we left them, by Mom's side. They have moved her recliner into the bedroom. Steve and Dad had helped her to the recliner hoping to find a more comfortable position for her, but nothing seems to help.

I sit at Mom's feet on the floor near the recliner as Chelle speaks with my dad, brother and sister-in-law. Mom is so uncomfortable and restless; and I chat with her about little things, hoping to distract her from the pain. I tell her about what her adoring grandson did yesterday. My little Edward is the light of her life, and I see a weak smile form at the corner of her lips at the mention of his name. She still understands, even if she is not communicating verbally.

Chelle enters the room, followed by the rest of my mom's loving family. Krissy and I lay on the bed, Steve sits at her feet on the floor, Dad is holding her hand, and Chelle stands beside her.

"Marie, do you know what is going on?"

Nod

"You know your body is failing?"

Nod

"You have put up a good fight, but your body can't take it anymore. You have fought for so long, that your spirit doesn't want to stop fighting. Your family loves you, and doesn't want you to suffer. If you want to go, you can. Your family loves you and only wants what's best for you."
Mom's eyes are closed so she can't see our tears.

"I love you, Mom," Krissy says.

"Love you, Mom," Steve chokes out, eyes rimmed red.

"I love you so much, my darling wife," Dad says, as he gives her a gentle kiss.

“I love you, Mumma Dear," I say.

As we sit motionless and cry in our own sorrow of our loss, no one but Chelle seems to notice the peace that has come over Mom. All the restlessness has stopped. We get ourselves together, and thinking of her, instead of ourselves, help her to bed and she sleeps.

I sleep next to her. Fours hours of calm, resting sleep.

Dad wakes me up to tell me dinner is ready. Chelle has left and my husband and son have arrived. They enter Mom's bedroom, and give her and me a kiss. Edward curls up by her head and says, "I love you, Gum.' He kisses her forehead, and I see a gentle smile cross her lips.

I tell them to eat, that I will sit with Mom, and when someone is done, they can come trade spots with me.

I know this will not be a leisurely meal, and my alone time with Mom will be short, but I have so much to say.

"I will try to take care of Dad for you, Mom. I'll make sure he eats well, and do the best I can. I know I can never do as good a job as you did, but I will try my hardest. You promised years ago that if you couldn't take care of Edward here that you would be his guardian angel, and I think that time has come. I will take care of things here, you take care of him when I can't. You taught me well, and I will do my best to make you proud."

I lay my head on her pillow and tell her over and over that I love her, and it is okay. Everything will be okay.

Dad comes in; he is done eating. He sits in a chair at Mom's head, and I hear him whispering the same kinds of loving sentiments as I leave the room. I sit down at the dinner table and toy with dinner. I am not hungry. I am too emotionally spent to be hungry.

Steve walks into the bedroom to check on Dad and Mom, and returns promptly. His normal calm exterior ruffled, and red-rimmed eyes tell it all, but still he says, “You’ve got to come. It’s time.”

We rush into the bedroom, hoping that Steve is wrong. Time goes by like many snapshots. Dad crying. Mom lifeless. Steve and Krissy comforting each other. Paul crying quietly and holding Edward, who is wondering what is happening.

"I told her I loved her very much," Dad begins when he is able to compose himself for a minute, "and she opened her eyes, smiled her beautiful smile, and just stopped breathing."

I turn the oxygen concentrator off, and remove her oxygen mask. I straighten the blanket around her, and kiss her forehead telling her lifeless form again that I love her.

I ask Paul to take Edward across the street to a neighbor's house so we can be selfish in our grief, and not be strong for him. He will have lots of questions and will need explaining about what is going on. Even at age 29, I still need time to be the child at loss. I need time to adjust.

Steve, Kris and I hug each other, and pass around tissues. Dad is still sitting near Mom's head, holding her hand, stroking her forehead. I walk over and kiss him and tell him I love him. He is not ready to leave her side, and obviously needs time with her alone.

We leave the room, allowing Dad to say goodbye to his wife of 39 years. I call Chelle, and we cry together on the phone. She will take care of the details: calling the funeral home, calling the medical director, defining the time of death. Not knowing what else to do, I begin clearing the dishes. I think to myself, It's what Mom would have done.