Category Archives: the last days

the last tuesday

Posted in grief, life, mother, the last days by

much like the remainder of the last monday, there is very little that i remember from tuesday.  most of it is from the evening.  from right before everyone left and my mother and i were going to bed.

after everything, all the doctors and all the nurses, my mother knew there was only one way to get home.  she had to stabilize and, most importantly, she had to reduce her oxygen dependence.  still she was insistent.  she was feverish with her desire to get home.  she kicked my aunt and i out to talk to my uncle.

when he got out of her room, he said little, but he said that she wanted to know why she wasn’t getting physical therapy.  she needed physical therapy to get out.  she wanted it.  she asked him for help.

after he left and i was left for the night, she asked the nurse about the physical therapy as well.  she said little other than that she would look into it.

when the respiratory therapist arrived, she asked to be stepped down off her intense oxygen.  she wanted to go home.  she was desperate to go home.  she convinced the therapist to reduce her concentration, by 2%, but it was the start.  the start of her path to go home.

it was after that, that i was i was sitting by my mother, holding her hand.  she was propped up on her side, awake and alert as ever.  just wanting to chat.  we were speaking of general things, when she said to me, “tell me about yourself.”

i was shocked.  we have never really been close.  a function of many things, but a reality.

regardless, here was my mother wanting to know about me.  all the things i did not tell her because it was just too hard, for a variety of reasons, she wanted to know.  i always wondered what i would say, if i just told my mother about me.  where would i start?  in most cases it is impossible to start in the middle of the story.  it leaves so much context out.  but maybe it would still be effective?

so i thought.

i could not come up with much.  i met brian.  we were married.  we were happy.  life was going to move forward.  all the rest seemed like details, but i could tell she wanted more.

so i thought.

and realized that even though i didn’t know what i was going to say, that it was going to be a lot or take awhile to say all those things [because of all those years of only providing part of the story].  so i asked her for a minute to change into my pjs so i could be more comfortable [it was 11pm after all] and went into the bathroom.

i changed.  i also took a shot of vodka.  how/why did i have such a thing in my overnight bag you ask?  well, reality at this point had been pretty intense and i thought i just might need it.  to take the edge off.  to sleep.  any reason that might arise.  but at this point, i needed it as a little lubrication to allow the words to flow, the ones i had never shared with my mother.  whatever they were going to be.

and i came out to tell her everything she ever wanted to know.  or didn’t.

only, the nurse had come while i was in the bathroom to administer pain medicine.  so while i sat down, primed to tell my mother whatever she wanted to hear, she was starting to fade.  i desperately asked her what she meant by her question, what she wanted to know.  she just said she wanted to know more about me. she also said that she wasn’t ready to go yet.  she wasn’t done.  she said she wished she could come live with me for a couple months.  i told her that i wanted that too.

god, how i wanted that [and never thought that would be the case].  in november she was supposed to visit for thanksgiving.  she was supposed to stay at my new house.  my first house.  a purchase that scared her, but i am sure also made her proud.  a place like she wanted [as written in the journal i found while visiting her earlier in the year].  but her health had been failing her and in the beginning of november she was diagnosed with lung cancer that metastasized to her bones and lymph nodes.  in fact, just before thanksgiving things were so dire, that it was uncertain she would live, so i flew to mi to be with her.  she got better, but she did not make it to my house.  from there we were waiting for her to be done with treatment and for things to settle a little so she could come.

they finally had, but only in the past few weeks.  now instead of planning trips, here we sat in a hospital room with my mother passing before my eyes.

we spoke of a few other things, but she was fading in and out.  the pain medicines working the way through her system.  i tried to re-engage the conversation, tell me about yourself,  but as i spoke she fell in and out of sleep.  so i said, “let’s try again in the morning.  why don’t you get your sleep.”  she laughed because she realized she was in-and-out.  as i laid out the pull-out chair and was headed to sleep, i opened my eyes for a minute to find her propped up on her arm looking at me.  i asked her if everything was okay, and she said it was.  strangely, she was smiling.  i was tired so i laid back and so did she and we went to sleep.

***

she woke a few hours later in intense pain.  i called the nurse and she brought more pain medicine.  i stayed up with her until it took hold [not long] and we went back to sleep.

***

not that long later [a couple hours, which was much shorter than all previous doses], she woke again in pain and scared.  as i did all other times, i asked her, “are you in pain?  do you want some pain medicine?”  she replied, “i’m in pain.”  nothing else, but then…  ”the dilauded is going to kill me.”  she was panicked.  i could tell she was clearly in pain [it was like all other times].  i knew that she was not thinking clearly.  i called for the nurse.  i asked for dilauded [pain meds].

i also asked for ativan [an anti-anxiety drug].

i know this seems a simple request, but it wasn’t. this was a big deal.  my mother had insisted on no anxiety drugs.  insisted.  so much that the nurse asked if i was sure, stating again my mother’s request.

all i could do though, was see her.  see her pain.  see hear fear.  i just wanted her to relax.  so i insisted.  i thought, one dose will not hurt.  she will feel better.  she will calm down.  she is intense circumstances, this will take the edge off.

so both doses were administered.  dilauded and ativan.  my mother relaxed.  she fell asleep.

and much later so did i.

the last monday, 6/6

Posted in grief, life, mother, the last days by

it started with me sleeping on the pull-out chair/bed in the hospital and getting woken up by the mother of my childhood best friend.  she and her husband still live across the street from my mother and they are/were friends.  my mother wasn’t quite lucid, probably from all the late night partying, but i did my best to wake her.  edith brought my mother some pictures from my wedding.  a couple she framed [one of my aunt, my uncle and mother, with my mother smiling no less, and one of brian and me].  she had some other photos printed out that she shared with her. my mother was groggy, but enjoyed them.

not too long after, my aunt showed up and so did my mother’s other neighbor, rebecca.  my mother was able to chat some, but not much so we [the family] mostly visited with them.  discussing the everyday things and my wedding.  all hoping she would perk up some to visit with them, but she continued to sleep until her psychiatrist arrived and we all had to leave the room.

in the hall, rebecca and edith decided they should head home and we [my aunt and i] decided we should get lunch.  as my aunt and i said our goodbyes, rebecca asked, “does it look like she will recover and come home, like the other times?”  and while the answer was almost a definite no at this point, we still gave a vague and non-conclusive answer. “maybe, we are not sure.  we will see how this goes.”

but we knew.  at this point, it didn’t seem likely.  even though my uncle and i had worked out a shared care plan where we would alternate coming into town to take care of her, so she would have the requisite 24-hour care needed to allow her to go home, the chances that she was coming home were slim.  as we would later learn from the hospice nurse, she was on oxygen that was too strong in pressure, too concentrated in dosage to be administered anywhere but a hospital or highly capable nursing facility [never mind, that i am not sure how the oxygen would be administered to her during the transport to such a facility].

no, it did not look like she would make it home.

still, we tried to keep the departure from the neighbors hopeful as my aunt and i headed to lunch [and were later joined by my uncle].

when we returned my mother was up and awake.  she was very alert.  she wanted to go to the cafeteria for some food and to visit with us.  we told her we just were there, but maybe we could go later for dinner.  when the nurse returned, i asked if it was possible for my mother to get the oxygen “to-go”.  we were told about the high concentrations and the high pressure and how that was not portable, thus dashing my mother’s hopes of getting out of the room.  to lessen the blow i mentioned that this was the situation right now, but that as things progressed she would try to get her out.

somewhere in there the hospice nurse arrived.  she mentioned the events of the weekend [the "mini-code", the breathing aides, the heart monitor] and explained how those were not considered hospice protocols.  she explained that because my mother did not sign the d.n.r. she received that care, but that if my mother wanted that type of care they would have to un-enroll her from hospice care.  the nurse explained that there was a type of care that was in between that might more align with my mother’s wishes, but that a decision was required.

my mother was overwhelmed.  she did not understand that choices that were required .  the hospice nurse tried to explain further, but my mother just could not understand.  she did not want to understand.  it was all too much.  she knew two things.  1) she wanted to live.  2) she wanted to go home.  eventually the hospice nurse relented and left with no decision, only a promise for my mother [and us] to think on it further.

my mother asked me to write down the decisions required of her, so she could understand them clearly.  i did.

if your breathing deteriorates, do you want to be ventilated [even though you may not come off the machine] or do you want to be made comfortable?

what level of care do you want?  do you want more interventive care or do you just want to be made comfortable?

she read the words.  over and over.  none of them really sinking in.  or maybe in a way that was too real that she didn’t want them to.  i’m not sure.  still, at that time, no decisions were made.

the rest of monday is lost to me.  i know we spent it visiting.  i know it was good.  i know that she started to have blood in her catheter bag.  that was not good. but the rest of the details that define the minutes we shared that monday are lost.   i want to touch them, but i can’t.  i can’t find them.  all i know is that i was there and i stayed all night.