LOSING MOM - Part 36

Surprisingly, Mom actually seemed a little brighter when we got back to her room, and certainly less confused than she’d been earlier that morning, so maybe talking to the chaplain again had done some good. But as we’d come to discover over the past few weeks, every ‘rally’ Mom experienced, whether big or small, brought with it equal amounts of joy and angst for her daughters.

Because, sadly, as grateful as we always were to see a little bit of our mother’s spark again, it also left us anxious and unsure about the future, especially when it came to deciding when, or if, to go home.

At this point, Lib had been in Ohio for a full two weeks and was scheduled to leave that night to fly home to California. But the past couple of days she’d been noticing subtle changes in Mom’s pattern, and had been considering staying a little longer, just in case.

“I don't know what to do,” Lib fretted, glancing over at Mom who had dozed off again. “Staying doesn’t feel right...I've been here so long! But then I can’t imagine leaving.”

“It’s definitely hard,” I agreed, sympathizing with her quandary. God, how often had one of us struggled with the decision to go or stay since we’d been on this Hospice journey? And whether the conversation was between one, two or all three sisters, it always sounded pretty much the same:

“Do you think I should leave?”

“I don’t know! I wish I could help! It’s so hard!”

“I just don’t know what to do! If I leave I’ll feel worried, and if I don’t leave I’ll feel worried!”

Back and forth it would go until a decision was somehow reached, the plan set, the airline called, again. But even then we never knew for sure if it was the right decision - there always seemed to be a giant question mark hovering over either choice we made.

Because if we stayed, Mom might linger for weeks and we'd just have to keep deciding what to do, over and over. But if we left, she could die the next day and we would always regret that we didn't stay just a little longer to be with her at the end.

Staring out the big bay window at another gray March afternoon, I remembered Sal telling me that Julie, our most favorite of all Mom’s nurses, had been a big help when she was making her decision to go home the previous week.

“Maybe Julie could help you decide what to do,” I suggested to Lib, thankful that she happened to be Mom’s nurse that day. “I’m pretty sure she helped Sal.”

“I guess I could ask her,” Lib replied, glancing at the big clock on the wall. “I have to make up my mind pretty soon. I still have to pack if I’m going to leave!”

She stood up, smiling sadly at me over our sleeping mother. “This really sucks,” she said softly, turning to go.

“It really, really does,” I agreed, my heart breaking inside at the enormity of the decision my younger sister was having to make. Leave, and Lib would have to say goodbye to Mom, knowing the chances were slimmer than slim she would ever see her again. Stay, and she’d have to deal with the guilt of asking Kit to keep taking care of Henry, a hard thing to do on your own because Henry, with all of his special needs, required an exhausting amount of attention.

So as difficult as it was for Sal and me to decide whether to stay or go, it was simply that much harder for Lib. And that made me feel sad, and hopelessly guilty, because, well...I didn’t have a Henry.

The room felt so still after she left, a harbinger perhaps of what the days ahead would be like if Lib decided to go and I was there on my own. Part of me had been looking forward to being the lone sister-in-charge, the one on the front line reporting back to my sisters. It felt important, purposeful. And as someone who definitely enjoys her alone time, the prospect of only having Mom and myself to worry about was not unappealing.

But as my eyes drifted around the room, I kept noticing all the things we'd brought over from Mom's apartment to make it feel less Hospicey, more like home. It had been such a team effort - the three of us putting our heads together to think of ways we could make Mom more comfortable, perhaps even coax a little smile to her face.

There was the blue glass vase of white hydrangea sitting on the windowsill, and the blown up photograph of the view from Mom's room in Maine hanging on the wall opposite her bed, the one we’d rushed to have made the day she moved to Hospice. There was the needlepoint heron pillow Lib had made for Mom, just after Dad had died, sitting on the recliner, and folded over the arm one of the small, blue, just-the-right-size-for-a-nap comforters Mom had bought years ago when she had all seven grandchildren visiting at once. Framed pictures of our family lined the tray table, pushed up close so Mom could see them. The oh-so-soft, cream-colored cable knit blanket we'd given her for Christmas one year was spread over the length of the bed, and on top of that a small, dusty rose floral quilt handmade by Hospice volunteers added a touch of bright color.

Everything had a little story behind it, and Mom, Sal, Lib and I knew them all. The four of us had shared so many stories in the years since Dad had died, forging a bond between us that I, for one, gleaned great strength from. And great comfort.

So even though part of me knew I could handle things on my own, was maybe even looking a little forward to that role, another part was desperately sad that I had to. That our little team of four would never be together in this room, or any other room, again.

Looking over at Mom, I wondered what would happen to us after she was gone. Not that I doubted the strength of the bond between me and my sisters - we were the three Ball girls after all, and would always share that tie to each other. But as Mom had aged, her needs and desires were like an invisible force that kept pulling us together again and again and again.

What would happen when that force wasn't tugging at us anymore? What would pull us together when we didn't have Mom?

Thankfully, before I could go any further down that particular rabbit hole, Mom’s eyes fluttered open, so I moved from my seat in the recliner to the edge of her bed.

“Hey sleepy-head,” I said softly, glancing at the clock to see if it was time for her medicine. “Are you feeling okay?”

She nodded her head weakly, offering me a tenuous smile, but then closed her eyes again. Relieved that she didn’t seem to be in pain - there was still 2 hours left before her scheduled 4pm medication - I sat quietly next to her, watching her sleep.

A few minutes later, Lib poked her head around the door, and seeing me sitting next to Mom, motioned for me to come out into the hall.

“Is she okay?” she asked, nodding toward the room.

“She’s alright...just woke up for a second. No pain, though. I think she’s back asleep.”

"Phew - I was worried when I saw you sitting on the bed.” She pulled the door a little way closed, then said, “So I talked to Julie and you were right - she was a huge help. I'm going to go.”

“Oh wow.. okay. What did she say that helped?" I asked curiously, feeling a strange combination of relief and despair that she had, in fact, decided to leave.

“She said she was going to ask me two questions, and if I could answer yes to both of them, then it was okay for me to go.”

“What were the questions?” I prodded when she paused, intrigued but not too surprised that Julie, with her soft, soothing presence, would have the perfect solution to Lib’s dilemma.

“Well, first she asked ‘Do you believe your mom knows you love her?’ and I told her yes, that I know she does. And then she asked ‘Do you know your mom loves you?’

Tears welled up in Lib’s eyes, and she brushed them away. “And I told her yes, that I absolutely do.” Her voice was shaky, and I could see how hard she was trying to keep it together.

“It’s gonna be okay,” I said, giving her a quick, tight hug. "You're doing the right thing. And you know it's what Mom would want, right? She'd want you to go home to Kit and Henry."

"I know," Lib pulled a wadded up ball of tissue from her pocket and dabbed at her tears. "But it doesn't make it any easier."

No, I thought to myself sadly, following her back into Mom's room, there's just nothing easy about any of this.

To be continued....