mom at Pine Island, one of her favorite places.
The doorbell rang startling me from concentrating on the rise and fall of my mother’s chest. It was the hospice delivery man delivering the much needed medicine she now requires. Morphine, dilantin and ativan, these are just some of the meds that will help to make her journey to the next life more peaceful, or so they tell us. For now it seems to be helping.
This past weekend my brothers and I made the journey down to Florida to say goodbye to an amazing woman, our beloved mother. She has been ill off and on for most of her adult life, alway’s beating the odd’s and stretching doctors expectations to fit her own. Even now this seems to be the case.
The last few day’s we have reminisced about our childhood antics and our mothers reactions. We have pulled out all the old photo’s and held them up to her to see one last time how ridiculously she dressed us for our school photos. We have even prepared our favorite child hood dishes only to discover they are no longer our favorites. We have drank spirits and raised our glasses in adoration for the woman we adore. We have said our thanks for the strongest loving mother a child could have and offered her reassurance that we will be fine. We have told our mother we will look after one another and of course her beloved pooches. We have prayed with her.
Since our arrival she has became more alert, staying awake longer than asleep. Prior to our arrival she had been asleep more than awake. Now she seems to want to soak up every second. At times she stares so intently at us that you can feel her searing our faces into her memories. She no longer wants to sleep. I think this is normal when you are dying, yet, I believe once she is gone it is us who are left with just the memories, she on the other hand can look upon us when ever she chooses. This is just not fair!
Her desire to pull an all-nighter in order to savor every moment has finally taken it’s toll. She has grown increasingly anxious and frightened at the thought of closing her eyes. Or at least this is what we perceive for the “ deer caught in the headlight’s” glare she now gives us. No amount of comforting or reassurance we can offer seems to ease her spirits. No sleeping aides can touch the anxiousness she emits, and no amount of screaming at god in the garage at 4am by me is working either.
All we can do now is heavily medicate her. This is when reality slaps us just a little harder in the face. Just when you think you have it under control! Waaam! Medicating her means no more grins or silly photo’s will be seen, no more conversations or hand squeezing. But it also means no more discomfort and anxiety for her. It’s hard not to be selfish and prolong the next dose so we can see her smile again. Yet, they say she can still hear us though, so we will continue to talk to her and hold her hand and tell her we love her with our whole heart’s, and promise to see her again one day.