The end and the beginning

This journey of waiting for my mom’s death is one I’ve never been on before. We learn of the “signs” of impending death, we watch, we reminisce, we wonder. We talk to one another, other family members. We ask ourselves questions – about what we’ve done, what we did not do, and what we want for ourselves in the future. How do we want our lives to end? What is important. This is what death brings the living.

Today, my mother’s suffering ended.

At around 11:20am she took her last breath. I was not there – no one was. The nurse and CNA had just cleaned her up a bit and shifted her in the bed, and when the CNA popped her head in a few minutes later, it was over. I had taken my dad home, since we did not know how long it would take (it could have been the next minute, or later in the day) but we did know it would be soon. It is painful to watch someone breathe their last breaths; at least I found it to be painful. One of my brothers and I and my dad sat by her bed for about an hour. Then my brother had to leave for home and dad was exhausted. It’s been a very long week of waiting and wondering. I was making some iced tea to take back to the home to watch and wait when they called me to let me know mom was gone.

Tomorrow we go to the mortuary to finish the arrangements for the cremation of mom’s body.

After all of the arrangements are made, and the cremation is done… and the memorials are over and only the memories and photographs remain… dad and I will have to start a new routine that does not include feeding mom ice-cream and strawberries for lunch. Life is shifting. An ending, and a beginning. Dad would probably joke that for him it is the beginning of the end, but hopefully we can make his last days, months and years full and happy.

Death is a Noun, Dying is a Verb

“Death is a Noun” was the name of an english class I took in high school.

Mom is dying. Dying? A verb. The signs are there, the first stages of dying. Rapid heart rate. Rapid/uneven respiration. Less responsive. Difficulty swallowing.

We’ve signed her up for hospice. She could live for a few days, or a week. But she’s in the process of shutting down. Some people shut down fast… an organ quits, and the rest follows. My mom clings to life. Last week, she became agitated a couple of days, crying “Take me away! Take me away! God, Take me away!” This week, the CNA was thrilled because mom didn’t fight her bath, or try to bite, or tell her that she hoped she was killed or “I’m going to kill you”. The CNA said, excitedly, “I think we’ve turned a corner!” and my thought was that yes, I think we have, but not the corner you are thinking of. I knew mom had given up. Two days later, mom stopped eating. She chokes on water, that is, when she tries to drink, which is not very often.

Mom’s body is like a skeleton with skin draped over it. Every bone is visible, even under sheets. Her eyelids have a red cast and her feet are cold. When her eyes open… I want to reach in and search for the mom I feel is surely in there, somewhere… but that’s just a fantasy. I want one more moment with the real person I knew. I want one more I love you but there are no more left for her to give. My quota is up, I can only give them to her over and over again never to hear her speak them to me.

I’m told by the hospice workers that they consider death to be just as “holy” as birth. I think I prefer the word “sacred”. Her death will be a relief for her. It will be a relief for us, and a chance to grieve and say good-bye finally and completely.