(no subject)
My mother is dead. Except that that isn't quite right, because she hasn't really been my mother for a while now. My mother died a few weeks ago, when she started refusing to eat, when her lung capacity dwindled such that a single sentence might take three or four breaths to get out. When she stopped speaking in complete sentences altogether. I think my stepfather and I were simply waiting for her body to follow. He had called paramedics a few weeks ago, but apparently at that time she was still healthy enough to refuse treatment, because they wouldn't take her to a hospital without her consent. Neither my stepfather nor I realized that if we called them back once her health had deteriorated a bit more, they would take her under a statute called "implied consent" which basically means that a person is so unhealthy they cannot take care of themselves, and are thus judged to be incapable of rendering consent, even if they still refuse medical treatment. But I don't know if I would have wanted to call them to force her to endure medical treatment against her wishes. I have never had anything but contempt for people who prolong someone's life for their own benefit, rather than the person to whom that life actually belongs. My mother was only fifty, and honestly, I wasn't at all prepared for her to die, even watching her slowly languish, starving herself. I thought I was ready for it, but I wasn't. It was pretty obvious she had given up. And it sucked. I used to see her twice a day, before I left for work, and after I got home. Just to check in, to let her know I didn't get in a car accident, and to see if she needed anything, or if she wanted to talk. Recently, it got pretty hard to take myself into her house, to look at her when she was barely skin and bones. Sometimes I would leave for work without going over, or go to bed without checking in. Friday, I didn't see her at all. Probably, she didn't like to be seen like she was, suffering and unable to take care of herself, but I still hate myself a little for the way I acted. I told her I loved her every time I left her house, but not Saturday afternoon before I left. She had been labouring for air, and my stepfather wanted a Primatene inhaler in hopes that it would help her, so he sent me to the store. I left without telling her I loved her, barely even looking at her, and when I returned, she wasn't there. Her body was, but she was gone. Three hours, we waited, while a policeman and detective asked questions. Every time the policeman mispronounced her last name, I wanted to punch him in the gut. She was taken to the office of the medical examiner in Sarasota, because we don't have a family doctor. The medical examiner's office called me on Sunday with the results from the autopsy (also necessary because we don't have a family doctor). They ruled her cause of death as Chronic Ethanolism. Her liver was enlarged, she was jaundiced, and the woman I talked to thought it was related to her heavy alcohol abuse. But anyway, after a minor crisis in which it took entirely too long to find her Social Security card, I've taken care of all the arrangements, and because of my mother's lack of health insurance and the fact that I was supporting her, it is entirely likely that Desoto County will cover the cost of her cremation. Which embarrassed the hell out of me was even a consideration, but $1,500 isn't something I had. Now I have to deal with relatives I haven't bothered to keep up with calling me because they're apparently worried. They don't even know me, and that is why they're worried. I think I find their concern harder to deal with than my mother's death. Because it makes me wonder why I'm not falling apart like I apparently should be, if their worry is justified. Like it's undermining the independence I've been trying to cultivate since high school. I was a mess on Saturday when it happened, but that was the day it happened, and probably made worse by the fact that I was already hormonal. Sunday, I didn't cry, though I almost did once while I was talking to the man at the funeral home. Now, it occasionally occurs to me that my mother is gone, and it's like a sharp jab of pain, awful but brief. Like chronic short-term amnesia or something. But really, I think I'm okay, and I'm certainly not posting this because I want anyone to worry about me. I debated disabling comments, because I know how awkward this is, and it's hard to know what to say, and I don't want anyone to think that they have to say something, when most things come out sounding weird or awkward. But in the past when I've disabled comments to particular entries, it always seemed to be more a cry for attention, and I don't want that. So I'm leaving comments enabled, but don't feel like you have to say anything. I'm okay.