There is only one god and his name is Death, and there is only one thing we say to Death: 'Not today.'
My mother is the poster child for this quote.
Last Sunday, mom was having trouble breathing, and being that I have a mini ER at the house, my spouse, who was in charge, was able to discern that her oxygen level was dangerously low. EMS was called and they whisked her away to the low-rent Emerald City, also known as Carolina East Medical Center in New Bern, NC. There's no place like home because no one is assuming mom will die there.
By Monday morning, I was asked if mom had a DNR and what extraordinary measures they should take to keep her alive. They asked if I wanted the chaplain to visit and whether I wanted to keep her on her current meds or just 'keep her comfortable' for her remaining time on this overwhelmingly crazy spinning planet-oh wait, that's just my head spinning.
Mom was unconscious for most of the day Monday, with a few pop up moments-literally opening her eyes clear as day saying, 'I'm hungry' or 'hi, what's going on?' Each time, I would have a short period of hope until she fell back into the horrible sleep/imminent death I dreaded every time it happened. I agonized over calling my siblings; I was still hating them over their accusations of my non-existent impropriety regarding my mom's money so I wasn't speaking to any of them.
As fortunes go, this was not a moment in time to allow my anger to dictate my response to this tragedy. I told them all to come. Say goodbye. Tell mom you love her. Whisper into her ear the things you wanted only her to hear. My sister spent most of Monday with me and mom. She saw mom at her worst, but also her miracle waking moments. We both whispered to her that she should go if that was what she needed to do.
My brother, Brian, came. Mom was awake for most of his visit, but spouting hallucinogenic visions that would make Timothy Leary jealous. I posited to medical staff the notion that perhaps mom was feeling better because she was not unconscious, but was told that this happened a lot; patients tend to 'rally' just before they pass. And Monday turned into Tuesday.
They told me they wanted to move mom to comfort care, meaning they would suspend all meds and would only provide what was required to make sure she didn't suffer. I agreed. She was moved to a separate wing of the hospital and the waiting began in earnest.
To say I was at the end of my rope would be a classic understatement. I had spent every single moment legally allowed by that prison of a hospital by my mom's side and I was exhausted. Exhausted by the sheer weight of my responsibility toward her, toward my family, toward my sanity, toward the end of knowing my life with my mom in it, toward what a horrible person I was that I both wanted her to stay because I loved her and for her to go because taking care of her was so fucking hard-I've never felt both grief and shame so powerfully in my life and it was painful and breathtakingly horrifying.
Wednesday-my brother, Mike, and his wife Cindy came from South Dakota. Mom was alert, lucid, and eating and drinking; they wondered why I told them to come. Thursday, she was sent home as a hospice patient. She was doing even better than the day before. Are you confused? Because I definitely was.
It's now a week later. Although mom has memory issues, which she had before this, and she has trouble moving around since she spent a week in bed, she is doing tremendously well, all things considered. I do believe that the hospital so overly medicated her that she was rendered virtually unconscious solely by their hands. Once they stopped the meds, poof, she came back with a vengeance. Perhaps it was me asking y'all for your good vibes. I guess we'll never know, wink, wink.
No idea what tomorrow holds, but none of us do so we just have to make the best of what's around. I'll keep doing just that.
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