Waiting for death

I spend Tuesdays and Fridays with my 94 year old Mom. Our visits have grown shorter; she spends much of her time sleeping. I make her meals, do chores and run errands. When she feels strong enough I take her with me while I do her shopping. Gone are the days when she would go in the store with me or we'd go to a restaurant for lunch.

Last year Mom went through cancer surgery and multiple rounds of radiation. Add to that multiple spinal compression fractures. She has grown so short her rib cage sits atop her pelvic bone. She is always in pain. She has gone deaf and has difficulty swallowing.

I was fortunate to spend Mother's Day with my Mom because when I arrived Tuesday morning she was unresponsive. Her hospice nurse was due shortly so I just stood in the dark by her bed watching her breath; her chest movement was almost imperceptible.

When Angela, her hospice angel arrived, the air charged. Suddenly everything became clinical. The bedroom light went on. An aid arrived to help move her onto a waterproof pad and put a fresh sheet under her. They tenderly bathed her. At their request I found a short-sleeved shirt and cut it up the back so they could piece it around her. The next thing I knew the light went out and they were gone. Now, it was just the two of us.

Angel Angela gave me detailed instructions on when and how much morphine to administer. Several hours later Mom grew agitated and said “I hurt” over and over. I called hospice. They advised me to administer a mild sedative. An hour passed and she was restful.

I stayed with her all night. I held her hand, tenderly stroked her face and spoke gently to her. I noticed a change before the sun rose. She no longer grasped my hand. As I sat there fear gripped me momentarily. And still I sat there.

 

I told my Mom many times over the last 18 months that I was honored to be on the journey with her. At 7 in the morning I watched her take her final breath. She had reached the end of her journey.