DNR
2019-03-26
This feels like labor. The past fourteen years were like nine months of pregnancy. Now it’s the end. The intense part. The painful part. A time of transition that ends with a life very different from that which was before.
Saturday was a roller coaster of emotions. I woke up and went straight to the hospital. No response from her. She slept or stared at the ceiling. We met with a hospice chaplain and it was easy to picture her at home passing in the presence of her family. The I took Jonah, Sophia and Sophia’s friend L--- to see her. Mom smiled at Jonah. It was so exciting. On the way out of the hospital the palliative care manager called to say that Mom isn’t improving, and we need to make decisions on sending her elsewhere. I felt like throwing up. Even a comfort cookie did nothing to make me feel better. Kimmy bought a plane ticket to come next weekend. I went back to the hospital alone.
“Hey Mom!”
Mom smiled big. That was a huge surprise.
“Momma, Kimmy is coming to see you.”
Another smile.
“Do you want to see Kimmy?”
“Yyyyyyyyyaaaaaaaaaaaa”
I couldn’t believe it! Her first word in a week!
I talked to her about Ellen and she growled like she wanted to say something and then fell into a deep sleep.
I told the nurse. The next day Xenia and I heard her say her moaning version of “hi” and “yeah” and a laugh. The nurse verified that she and the doctor had heard her say those two words, but it wasn’t communication. She still wasn’t eating or drinking or tracking with her eyes. It’s as if the new medication had woken only her deepest self. A spirit of joy and encouragement to the very end.
She was less responsive on Monday. Tuesday, she slept all day and woke up near the end of my visit before it was time for the kids to come home. She smiled again. While she was sleeping, I talked with a Medicare representative and her doctor. I signed the Do Not Resuscitate order and watched the nurse put the purple band on Mom’s wrist. All the tests that have been done and redone all verify nothing that is wrong. Nothing that can be treated. The doctor has one more thing to try and another test she has thought of that will keep Mom in the hospital until the end of the week. It’s an answer to prayer. The family coming on Saturday will probably be in time to see her again.
The house is so empty without Mom. I see previews for movies that she was planning on seeing with me and adds for ice cream or chocolate or a million other things that remind me of her. We have done everything together for so long that it’s hard for me to know what to do with myself. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. My favorite hours of the day are those sitting beside her.
2019-03-26
This feels like labor. The past fourteen years were like nine months of pregnancy. Now it’s the end. The intense part. The painful part. A time of transition that ends with a life very different from that which was before.
Saturday was a roller coaster of emotions. I woke up and went straight to the hospital. No response from her. She slept or stared at the ceiling. We met with a hospice chaplain and it was easy to picture her at home passing in the presence of her family. The I took Jonah, Sophia and Sophia’s friend L--- to see her. Mom smiled at Jonah. It was so exciting. On the way out of the hospital the palliative care manager called to say that Mom isn’t improving, and we need to make decisions on sending her elsewhere. I felt like throwing up. Even a comfort cookie did nothing to make me feel better. Kimmy bought a plane ticket to come next weekend. I went back to the hospital alone.
“Hey Mom!”
Mom smiled big. That was a huge surprise.
“Momma, Kimmy is coming to see you.”
Another smile.
“Do you want to see Kimmy?”
“Yyyyyyyyyaaaaaaaaaaaa”
I couldn’t believe it! Her first word in a week!
I talked to her about Ellen and she growled like she wanted to say something and then fell into a deep sleep.
I told the nurse. The next day Xenia and I heard her say her moaning version of “hi” and “yeah” and a laugh. The nurse verified that she and the doctor had heard her say those two words, but it wasn’t communication. She still wasn’t eating or drinking or tracking with her eyes. It’s as if the new medication had woken only her deepest self. A spirit of joy and encouragement to the very end.
She was less responsive on Monday. Tuesday, she slept all day and woke up near the end of my visit before it was time for the kids to come home. She smiled again. While she was sleeping, I talked with a Medicare representative and her doctor. I signed the Do Not Resuscitate order and watched the nurse put the purple band on Mom’s wrist. All the tests that have been done and redone all verify nothing that is wrong. Nothing that can be treated. The doctor has one more thing to try and another test she has thought of that will keep Mom in the hospital until the end of the week. It’s an answer to prayer. The family coming on Saturday will probably be in time to see her again.
The house is so empty without Mom. I see previews for movies that she was planning on seeing with me and adds for ice cream or chocolate or a million other things that remind me of her. We have done everything together for so long that it’s hard for me to know what to do with myself. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. My favorite hours of the day are those sitting beside her.