LOSING MOM - Part 49

Lib and I are walking along the beach in Maine when her cell phone rings. It’s Sal, calling to tell us Mom died. I’m sad, but thankful I’m with Libby, and that Sal was with Mom when she passed. Looking up to the sky I see what appears to be a platypus flying over us, so close I can see its underbelly. Then there are more platypuses circling around, and one of them turns into a big white polar bear. I hold my breath, scared to move when it comes close to us, my heart pounding as it starts to nuzzle my neck. But then I realize it’s not trying to hurt me - it just wants to be with us. So I relax, feeling safe with Libby and this bear, when suddenly it turns into a brown bear and I get scared all over again. But it doesn’t seem like this bear wants to hurt us either, though it’s staring straight at me, its big snout so close to my face I can barely breathe.

I wake up with a start, my heart racing as I look around the dimly lit room, trying to remember where I am. Oh, right. I’m in my mom’s room, in her apartment. My heart sinks as I realize that it’s morning and the phone hasn’t rung, again. Mom made it through another night. Squinting over at the clock on her bedside table I check the time, the red numbers glowing eerily bright in the grey, early morning light. Not even six. I close my eyes again, so tired from tossing and turning all night, waiting for a phone to ring that never rings, but the dream is still so vivid I can’t stop thinking about it. Replaying it over in my mind, I try to make sense of the disjointed scenes, as absurd as they are unsettling, and decide I should maybe write it down so I don’t forget.

Padding out to the kitchen, I turn on the coffee maker and sit down at the small counter, opening my laptop. What a crazy dream, I think as I jot down all the details I can remember. A platypus? A polar bear that turns into a brown bear? What the heck? Wondering if there might be some significance to such random animals showing up in my subconscious, I do a quick search on their symbolism, surprised, but not surprised, at what I find. 

Polar Bear: A spiritual animal who helps guide souls to the other side when a person dies.

Platypus: Draws our attention to the grit of experience, not allowing us to look away from unpleasant details.

Brown Bear: Stay grounded, no matter what.

A shiver tingles down my spine and I stand up to pour myself a cup of coffee, marveling at the power of my subconscious to know things my conscious mind has no idea about. Like animal spirit messengers. Walking over to the living room window, I peek through the wood blind to check the weather. There’s a spattering of raindrops on the glass, the early morning sky a heavy, leaden grey. I sigh. Another dreary Ohio April day. I’m so tired of the weather, of not sleeping, of Mom dying. My eyelids feel like they’re lined with sandpaper, scratchy and abrasive every time I blink. There’s a constant low hum buzzing in my ears, and my brain feels coated in a thin layer of fuzz that makes it hard to think clearly. Even the dream, so vivid just a few minutes before, is starting to fade, the edges of it blurring in my weary mind, and I’m not sure it matters if it was a harbinger of my mother’s impending death, or just a crazy concoction of meaningless jumble made up by my overtired subconscious. 

What does matter, I decide, turning away from the window and heading back to Mom’s room to drink my coffee in bed, is figuring out a way to get some sleep. 

The day after Dad died, my sisters and I arrived in Perrysburg en masse with our children, ranging in age from six to four-weeks old. None of us had gotten any sleep the night before, especially Mom, and after getting all the kids to bed, the four of us sat numbly around the dining room table, picking at the casserole a friend had dropped off earlier that day. A knock on the back door startled us, but before anyone had a chance to even stand up, Dr. ‘Jim’, our family’s physician for as long as I could remember, and a dear friend of Mom’s and Dad’s, came striding into the dining room, his tall, lanky frame so endearingly familiar my eyes welled up with tears at the sight of him.

“Don’t mean to barge in,” he apologized in his deep, gravelly voice, rounding the table to give us each a hug, “But I’m guessing no one’s had much sleep around here.”

Nodding our heads that yes, his guess was right, we watched as he plunked his well-worn doctor bag on the table, pulling out a small vial and twisting off the lid. He shook a tiny white pill out next to Mom’s placemat, then rounding the table again, repeated the process at each of our places.  

“This is Xanax,” he explained, leaving the vial next to Mom, then zipping his bag back up. “It’s not going to knock you out, but it will help you relax, maybe take some of the edge off.”

And wow, was he right. It did take the edge off. Lying in bed later that night, the tension melted off my bones in steady ripples, relaxing me just enough to drift away from my overwhelming grief - if not into a deep sleep, into a restful sleep. It was magical.

Of course, Dr. Jim is long gone and, not sure where else to turn to get something to help me sleep, I wait until eight o’clock and call my doctor in Connecticut, hoping she might be able to send over a prescription to Mom’s pharmacy in Perrysburg. “I don’t need a lot,” I say tearily to the receptionist, trying not to sound like a crazy drug addict. “I just need enough so I can sleep for a couple of nights. My mom’s been dying for a really long time and I’m just so tired!” 

“I’m sure we can figure something out,” the receptionist assures me kindly, promising to call back once she’s spoken with the doctor.

Sal pokes her head through the door. “I’m heading over now,” she says, “I’ll text you when I see how she’s doing. Did you sleep?”

“Hardly a wink, crazy dreams. How about you?”

“Terrible.”

“I called my doctor just now. Hopefully she’ll come through with something. I promise I’ll share it if she does!”

Sal blows me a kiss and disappears out the door. I look at the clock again. Eight fifteen. It is going to be another endless day.

                                                         ***********

About an hour later, as I’m puttering around the apartment, tidying up the kitchen, watering the plants and debating between taking a shower or doing a quick load of laundry, I hear my cell phone ping.

“Mom had a restful night with no breakthroughs,” Sal reported. “She seemed pretty uncomfortable when I arrived, so they’re adding a dose of Ativan this morning. Her heart rate remains high. Her lungs are congested. Martin says her color is different, too. Lots of changes.”

Reading Sal’s message, I’m relieved that Martin, one of our favorite nurses, is on duty, but I can’t decide if there’s cause for immediate concern. Should I go over sooner? I wonder, staring down at the phone as if it might tell me what to do. Not wanting to overreact, and figuring Sal would call if things were really serious, I decide to take a quick shower in case I don’t have another chance for a while. I’m just drying my hair when my phone lights up with a call and, expecting to see the doctor’s number on the display, am concerned to see that it’s Sal.

“Hello?” I answer cautiously. 

“Hey, Peg,” Sal says, her voice unusually hesitant.“I don’t know for sure, but Martin is seeing a lot of changes this morning. You probably should head over sooner than later.”

“Oh, wow, okay! I wasn’t sure from your text. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Tell her I love her!”

Hanging up, I stand motionless for a long moment staring at myself in the mirror. Is this it? I wonder. Could Mom actually die today? It feels possible and impossible all at the same time, and though my mind is screaming at me to hurry, that I have to get there, I find myself moving around the apartment in slow motion, as if I have all the time in the world. I brush my teeth, I make my bed, I gather up all my things - computer, chargers, needlepoint - like it will be just another day at Hospice, all the while wondering why I’m moving so slowly. It makes no sense, and I know it makes no sense, even as I’m doing it. But I somehow can’t seem to make myself move any faster. 

Finally, about twenty minutes later, I’m shrugging into my coat when my phone rings again. It’s Sal.

“Hey,” I answer, “I’m literally walking out the door.”

“Peg, wait,” she says. “Mom just died.”

To be continued...