Mom

Perhaps the best place to start is at the beginning of the end. That day wasn’t much different than many of the others that I had had to face with my Dad. Began with a phone call, “Peg, this is Dad. Your Mother has fallen and I can’t manage to get her up by myself.” “Have you called an ambulance?” “Should I? I called just before I called you.” “Is she conscience?” “Yes.” “What happened?” “She was on her way to the bedroom, with her walker, she stopped at the doorway – there just over the floor furnace grate. I asked her what was wrong, and she said her legs were going to give way. I tried to catch her, but before I could get there she was on her knees, holding herself up with just her arms. I was trying to get onto floor with her, but there wasn’t much room to maneuver, she said that perhaps she could push herself with my help through the door and over to her bed, and we could get her up from there. I moved the walker to give this a try. We hadn’t really started when she said she thought her arms were going to give way too, her arms began that uncontrollable tremble, before I could react her arms gave out and she fell hard to the floor. Hit her head.” “Dad, you’re taking her straight to the Emergency Room?” “Yes.” “I’ll meet you there.”

I was at work, in the warehouse when the phone call came and while not that different from the dozens of other phone calls I had received from Dad over the past two years since Mom’s stoke, this call took my breath. I felt like I had jumped into a pool filled with ice water, and even though it was an unseasonably warm evening in October I broke out in goose bumps and a cold sweat.

I ran down the rickety steps to the ground floor. Calmly stated, “Got to go, Mom’s fallen and I need to meet Dad at the hospital.” Concern from those present, “Is she okay?” “No, I don’t think so.” Their questions came heavy and slow as though being filtered through thick syrup, my statements and responses coming from somewhere outside of myself. Silently screaming at myself, “Hurry, Hurry! How can you be so calm!”

The drive in many ways seemed longer than normal, yet because of my fears and what I thought I would have to face it ended to quickly. “Please let her be alive, please let her be alive, Lord if she has to go tonight, please let it be after I get there, please God, please God,” I pleaded over and over again. That drive is magnified in my mind’s eye. The night sky clear and dark with a golden tint coming from where the sun had just fallen beneath the horizon. The lights from the Ashland building on the hill over the 6th Street exit sparkle as I pass. How can it be so beautiful? How can anything bad happen on a night such as this one? “Please let her be alive, please let her be alive, Lord if she must go tonight, please let me there before she leaves. God, please. God, please.”

I was so sure of this day’s outcome that I called my boss while in route. “Mom’s fallen, I’m going to meet her and Dad at the Emergency Room.” “Is she okay? she asked.” “No, I don’t think so. You’ll need to call Roger and make sure the warehouse is covered, I don’t know what will happen. I don’t think that I will be available.” “Call me when you know something,” concern in her voice. “I’ll do my best.”

I try calling my sister, no answer at either her Charleston or Charlotte numbers. I leave messages at both. “Sharon, this is Peggy. I’m on the way to meet Dad at the Emergency Room. Mom fell in the hallway, on top of the furnace grate.” I call my older brother, and though nearly paralyzed with fear, I assure him that everything is okay (Oh God, please let it be so) and that I’ll call from the hospital. He is to call our other brother, Tom. After I hang up I wonder why I said that? Do I really believe that everything is going to be okay? I’m afraid that I’m so selfish that the reason is that I want her last living moment to be with me, only me. No, that’s not it – she is going to be alright, she will be going home. I’m not ready to be without my Mother.

Mom reached the hospital in her ambulance at almost the same time that my Dad and I arrive in our cars. I’m directed back to a small room, where my mother is lying on a hospital gurney much to small for her girth, already in a hospital gown her body is doing it’s best to bust out of. She has managed to keep her pants on though and appears more comfortable for that fact. Her nose is scraped and there’s a small red bump coming up just to the side of her forehead.

I lean over and stroke her face and hair with both my hands. She looks into my eyes and smiles. States in no uncertain terms, “I need to pee now!” Before I can get the nurses to get me a bedpan it’s too late, Mom soils her pants. No problem, easy clean up. “I love you Mama,” I say over and over again. I feel foolish, so sure this was the end. Yes she’s bruised, but in fine spirits. Talkative as usual, a magpie.

Hospital personnel arrive and whisk her away for a CAT scan. Dad and I wait in her small room. He repeats the events of the day. Mom got up with a headache, maybe he should have taken more notice. She has chronic headaches, how was he to know that this one might be different. How will he get her home, they will have to keep her until she can walk. If she can’t walk how will he take care of her. The thoughts swirling around and around in his head are coming in a steady stream out his mouth. I try to calm him the best I can, feeling such relief that my mother appears not to be at death’s door that I find a spot on the floor and finally allow my body to just give way onto it. The multitude of problems that are facing Dad too insignificant in comparison with my thoughts up to this point.

Mother’s return to her room in the same high spirits. Restarts the conversation as though she hasn’t been gone for the better part of an hour. Her conversation is music, never ending soothing music. “Peggy, I dreamed of Dale today.”

Dale is my aunt, not by blood but by decision. She is the daughter of my grandmother’s (my father’s mother) second husband. Dale lived most of my life on and off with us as I was growing up, like a sister to my Mother and a surrogate mother to me. She died on December 3, 1992.

“What was your dream? I ask Mom.” “I dreamed I was somewhere with Dale, but I don’t know exactly where, it’s wasn’t familiar. We were taking care of a baby. That baby was the prettiest little thing, had blond hair. Oh, Peggy we were having the best time! I really hated to wake up.”

“Peg, I got to go again.” “No problem, I’ll go get the nurses.” Again, too late.

For the next several hours Mom needed to go like clockwork every 15 minutes. “What did you drink today?” “Nothing different. Oh, there I go again. No warning that time.” The nurses finally wise up and put in a catheter.

The doctor comes in, stays two minutes and leaves. The physician’s assistant comes in and says that the CAT scan is really unremarkable. Shows us what “might” be a shadow, or it could be where she moved during the procedure. If it’s a shadow, it’s probably where her brain is bruised from the fall. They’ll let us know more later.

I still think that we will be taking Mom home that night, Dad doesn’t think so. If she can’t walk how will he get home much less take care of her. We’ll cross that bridge when it comes is all I can think.

More tests and more waiting. Mom magically scoots to the foot of the mini-bed and is unable to get herself rearranged. The nurses are called again and get her back in position. The PA returns stating they will be keeping Mom over night for observation.

Mom hates being in the hospital. All her life it’s been one thing or the other, mostly asthma and she dreads every moment given over to a stay. She doesn’t like to stay alone. I’m torn, because I know this. I also know that I will need to go to work tomorrow and that I will be dead tired after sleeping in a chair by her bedside. “Mom, would you like for me to stay with you.” “Peggy I hate for you to have to do that, with your bad back and all.” “I don’t mind, I love being with you. I will need to run to the house though, bring the dog in the house and get some clothes for work tomorrow. Dad can you get back by say 7:30 or 8:00am?” Dad smiles, “earlier if you want.” “No, 8:00am will be fine.” “Dad, you won’t go before I get back will you?” “No, as a matter of fact she’ll probably still be here – you know how slow this place is to do anything.”

I kiss my Mother, telling her I’ll be back as soon as possible. My Mother’s last words to me are, “I really hate for you to do this, are you sure you don’t mind?”

I arrive home, still relieved and begin to prepare for the next day. It’s after midnight and my poor dog has been chained up outside since 7:00am! She is wired and needing to play. After I pack I set down to play with the dog and work off some of her energy before I put her in her crate. The phone rings.

“Peggy, you better get back fast.” My fathers words over the line. “Why? What’s happened.” Not long after you left Mom wanted to set up on the side of the bed so I helped her up. She started picking at the bottoms of my shirt, trying to rip them off. Then she started trying to get up off the bed. I said, “Inas, what are you doing? You know you can’t get up, and you’re going to rip my shirt.” She told me plan as day, “Yes I can. I’m going to walk over there and set in that chair for a while.” Well, I talked her out of that then she began trying to rip the buttons off my shirt again. I knew something wasn’t right so I got the nurses. They have your Mom back doing another CAT scan.

I’m on my way.

I don’t remember one moment of this second trip to the hospital. It is as though I was home and then suddenly I was back at the hospital.

Mother is in a different room, larger so that more hospital personnel can get in and care for her. The PA meets me at the door. “The CAT scan shows a large accident. She’s bleeding into her brain. The speech area of her brain is gone, she won’t be able to speak to you and I think most of her memory will be going soon as well.” Blunt and to the point, but she did keep her hand on my shoulder through the entire conversation. She walked me over to show me proof on the CAT scan film. There was a dark ball taking up about a quarter of Mom’s brain.

I run to Mom’s room. The nurses carefully explain that Mother can’t speak to me, but can hear everything. That it would be good for me to talk with her, reassure her, tell her goodbye.

I walk up the bed. Larger this time, cradling her girth. I lean over the bed and stroke her face and hair with both my hands, “Mom, I love you. Have they explained to you what’s happened?” She looks up at me, a very direct look, unreadable. Fear isn’t mirrored there, only longing. I’m struck with just how beautiful my Mother really is. Her eyes are simply fantastic.

I see peace there, in my Mother’s eyes. And something else – perhaps longing.
 Dad returns. Confused and in denial. Tells me that another doctor was there earlier wanting to make some decisions, but he told him to come back after I got there.

The Doctor arrives and wants to talk about our options. Dad wants to leave Mom’s room, the doctor states even though she can’t speak she can hear us perfectly well, that any conversation we have regarding her is her right to hear.

He breaks horrible news. There is a massive bleed and there won’t, no can’t, be full recovery. He tells us that if she lives, and it will be a miracle if that happens even with dynamic effort, she probably won’t remember any of us and she’ll definitely never be able to speak again.

By this time Mom has slipped away, still alive but unconscious and who knows if she can hear us or not.

The doctor’s news is grim and Dad is barely in control. I ask the doctor, if we go for dynamic measures what does that involve. He describes surgery, busting into Mom’s brain by removing a portion of her skull - massive long procedure that can only be done after they get her blood thickened (she has been on blood thinner for years). He explains that the very act of taking her off the blood thinners may create a clot that either migrates to the lungs or the brain which in itself may end up killing her. I look the doctor dead in the eyes and ask him point blank - is your mother still alive. He answers yes. If it were your mother, right here, right now and you were making the decision for her - what would you decision be? He doesn’t hesitate, tells me that he’d take her off of all live support and medications, thus creating a situation where she would simply fade away from us.

Dad and I discuss the options and decide to go with the doctors recommendations. Just after the decision is made, my brothers arrive and everything has to be retold and the decisions made again. I’m beyond exhausted and feel as though if they don’t stop talking that my head is going to explode. Finally, they wheel Mom to her room and I set up to spend the night.

That night turned into six nights. People came and people went, I flew my kids in from across the country (my son from California and my daughter from Texas) so that they could say goodbye to a warm body. I went for 72 hours before my body forced sleep on me - so afraid that she’d pass without me aware. You see I had to be there, it was so important to me to be there when her spirit left her body. I don’t know why - it just was all I could think of. Either that she’d open her eyes and all would be well or her spirit would slip away and for either I had to be there.

The six days and nights that Mom lingered we clung together as a family. Cousins, aunts, nieces, nephews, sons and daughters, grandchildren, we came together as though it was a reunion. We loved each other and we were horrible to one another. I think back on that week and wonder how any of us survived the tension and stress of waiting for Mom to die.

One of my last memories is standing by the bed, stroking Mom’s hair, willing her to open her eyes and be okay. A longing came over me so strong that I still wonder why I didn’t act on it. To just crawl into the bed with her and hug her tight. You see when I was a little girl, I loved finding Mom alone in her and Dad’s bed and crawling under the covers with her. I loved her scent and the warmth of her skin as well as the sound of her deep and steady breathing. I was so over whelmed with that old longing, to crawl in that bed with Mom just as I did when I was a little, that to this day I don’t know how I managed not to follow my heart. But I didn’t do it, I stood there and pushed that longing aside and to this day oh how I wish I had followed my heart.

Six days after she fell, around 11:00am on a dark and rainy day Mom quietly slipped away. The six days that she lingered were the most emotionally wrenching and stressful time of my life. Images forever burned on my brain. Yet I cannot remember the exact day in October or the exact year of her death and I always wonder why that is.