Back in Limbo
It's a good thing I bought the suit.
I arrived in Nashville Friday a week ago, when Mom was moved to the Alive Hospice Ward at St. Thomas Hospital. It's very comfortable there. She has a large private room with wooden floors, attractive wingback visitor chairs, artwork from home, and a view of the tree-covered hills to the northwest. The staff is lovely and caring, and it's clearly the right place for Mom to be now, but there's a terrible sadness in knowing she will probably never go home again.
They aren't giving us a timeline, but it seems that the end will come soon: maybe only a week or two, maybe a little longer. The fluid continues to accumulate in the plural space in her chest, and she is no longer strong enough for surgery to implant a drain. Even if she could tolerate surgery, she would be losing so much protein and sugar in the drained fluid that it would be nearly impossible to make up for it, especially since she has almost no appetite and is eating very little.
They are keeping her comfortable with breathing treatments and morphine, but she is tired. I can see that it's slowly getting worse, little bit by little bit. I'm glad it's slow. I'm glad she's doing as well as she is, because the day I caught my flight out here we thought it was going to be a matter of days, not weeks, but it's hard living in limbo, not knowing when the end is coming, not knowing when I'll be back in California.
It's hard watching Mom decline.
I've been able to sit and talk with her in the evenings when all my early-to-rise family and Mom's friends have left. We've talked about our relationship, the future, and the fact that she is dying. She's sad and disappointed that her life is ending already. She said she feels tricked, and so do I. Cheated. Robbed. She's not ready to die, not in her heart or mind, but her body is operating on its own schedule.
We're trying to leave mornings to my stepfather to have alone time with Mom. My sister and Mom's sister both need some alone time with her, too, and the visitors just keep coming. Too many, sometimes. It's hard to tell Mom's friends and more distant family to limit their visits, especially because Mom wants to see them, but she wears herself out acting bright and perky, and then when they go she's exhausted and breathless.
I'm staying with my aunt and uncle for now, though if that becomes a strain on them I will probably go to a hotel or maybe find a cheap room to rent on Craigslist.
Most of the time I'm okay. Most of the time I have enough strength and peace to sustain me, but every now and again the grief hits me like a sucker punch to the gut. But at least I know that at this point there is no unfinished business between us. There's nothing important left unsaid, no lingering hurts or unresolved issues. I don't want to lose her and she doesn't want to go, but we both have peace and sureness in our love for one another.
It's not clear, though, what's coming. Mom had a good day today: her color was better, her coughing less severe, her appetite a little increased. They've added a narcotic patch at a very low dose, so she will have continuous relief from pain and breathlessness - narcotics are very good for coughing and breathlessness - and won't have to remember to ask the nurse for a dose when she starts coughing. The doctor even mentioned the possibility that she could be transferred to the residential hospice facility, out of the acute care ward, if she continues to hold her own.
Mom thinks maybe I should go back to California for a little while. Part of me wants to. I want to go home and be with my pets and my friends and go to my own church and be in my own bedroom. I want to have Thanksgiving with my friends. It's been so long since I was with my blood relatives for Thanksgiving it feels more natural to spend it with my California "family of choice".
But I don't want to miss out on the last good days with Mom. I don't want to miss out of my last chance to be with my mom while she can still smile and laugh and tell me she loves me. I don't want to fly home while she's still doing okay only to come back when she's really in her last days, barely conscious, really dying. It seems so pointless, and all I can think is how much in this moment I regret living 2700 miles away.
I arrived in Nashville Friday a week ago, when Mom was moved to the Alive Hospice Ward at St. Thomas Hospital. It's very comfortable there. She has a large private room with wooden floors, attractive wingback visitor chairs, artwork from home, and a view of the tree-covered hills to the northwest. The staff is lovely and caring, and it's clearly the right place for Mom to be now, but there's a terrible sadness in knowing she will probably never go home again.
They aren't giving us a timeline, but it seems that the end will come soon: maybe only a week or two, maybe a little longer. The fluid continues to accumulate in the plural space in her chest, and she is no longer strong enough for surgery to implant a drain. Even if she could tolerate surgery, she would be losing so much protein and sugar in the drained fluid that it would be nearly impossible to make up for it, especially since she has almost no appetite and is eating very little.
They are keeping her comfortable with breathing treatments and morphine, but she is tired. I can see that it's slowly getting worse, little bit by little bit. I'm glad it's slow. I'm glad she's doing as well as she is, because the day I caught my flight out here we thought it was going to be a matter of days, not weeks, but it's hard living in limbo, not knowing when the end is coming, not knowing when I'll be back in California.
It's hard watching Mom decline.
I've been able to sit and talk with her in the evenings when all my early-to-rise family and Mom's friends have left. We've talked about our relationship, the future, and the fact that she is dying. She's sad and disappointed that her life is ending already. She said she feels tricked, and so do I. Cheated. Robbed. She's not ready to die, not in her heart or mind, but her body is operating on its own schedule.
We're trying to leave mornings to my stepfather to have alone time with Mom. My sister and Mom's sister both need some alone time with her, too, and the visitors just keep coming. Too many, sometimes. It's hard to tell Mom's friends and more distant family to limit their visits, especially because Mom wants to see them, but she wears herself out acting bright and perky, and then when they go she's exhausted and breathless.
I'm staying with my aunt and uncle for now, though if that becomes a strain on them I will probably go to a hotel or maybe find a cheap room to rent on Craigslist.
Most of the time I'm okay. Most of the time I have enough strength and peace to sustain me, but every now and again the grief hits me like a sucker punch to the gut. But at least I know that at this point there is no unfinished business between us. There's nothing important left unsaid, no lingering hurts or unresolved issues. I don't want to lose her and she doesn't want to go, but we both have peace and sureness in our love for one another.
It's not clear, though, what's coming. Mom had a good day today: her color was better, her coughing less severe, her appetite a little increased. They've added a narcotic patch at a very low dose, so she will have continuous relief from pain and breathlessness - narcotics are very good for coughing and breathlessness - and won't have to remember to ask the nurse for a dose when she starts coughing. The doctor even mentioned the possibility that she could be transferred to the residential hospice facility, out of the acute care ward, if she continues to hold her own.
Mom thinks maybe I should go back to California for a little while. Part of me wants to. I want to go home and be with my pets and my friends and go to my own church and be in my own bedroom. I want to have Thanksgiving with my friends. It's been so long since I was with my blood relatives for Thanksgiving it feels more natural to spend it with my California "family of choice".
But I don't want to miss out on the last good days with Mom. I don't want to miss out of my last chance to be with my mom while she can still smile and laugh and tell me she loves me. I don't want to fly home while she's still doing okay only to come back when she's really in her last days, barely conscious, really dying. It seems so pointless, and all I can think is how much in this moment I regret living 2700 miles away.