Waiting for her last breath (warning this is an account of a deathbed observation)
Todd's mom was diagnosed with cancer 10 days ago. Four days ago she met with her oncologist to schedule chemo. We brought her to the ER last night - it wasn't just dehydration, her body had begun its last fight. Today the cancer broke through the wall of her intestines and sent her body into sepsis. The ER Doctor mentioned hospice and asked if they had filled out end-of-life directives. He of course has never considered the need. Today we made the decision, as a family, through tears. That she wouldn't want to go through the trauma of attempting to recover from a surgery that had less than a 1% possibility of survival. We agreed on the DNR, but to continue antibiotics, blood thinners, and pain meds. The grandchildren returned from their trips with their friends and Greek society formals. They drove five hours back to ATL - not knowing that she was even sick on Friday. And diving here to be able to say goodbye. He doesn't know how to say goodbye. I'm not sure anyone does. They've been married 54 years. His children have never seen him cry, and they're both well over 50. I've sent my husband to get some rest. It's almost 3 a.m. There are no monitors in the room, so I'm watching for Cheyene Stokes respiration before I wake anyone or call my SIL and her kids. She's not writhing in what looked to everyone like pain. It was definite distress, they tell us it wasn't pain. It was distressing to the children - hell they're 21 - but they're still children when they're seeing their grandma near death. She had two priests give her last rites. And she prayed The Lord's Prayer and mouthed a Hail Mary. I hope that gave her the comfort she needed. Back to bedside duties. Tell the people in your life you love them. Tomorrows have a way of falling down in mid-air (to quote a really bad over used poem from the 70s or 80s). But the poet is right, with every goodbye - you learn.