LOSING MOM - Part 7
Ever since I was a little girl, Mom had always been a go-getter. She rarely sat still, and was pretty much game for any challenge that came her way. If something needed doing, she just did it.
Too much litter on the streets? She got Dad to make her a litter stick out of an old broom handle and nail, decorated it with pretty flowered contact paper, and walked around our small town picking up every rusty soda can, discarded cigarette butt, and stray newspaper she could find.
Didn’t like a decision from the town council? Out came her blue, electric Smith Corona from its shelf in the kitchen cabinet, and Mom would quickly (or sometimes not so quickly, depending on how mad she was) dash off a letter to the editor of the local paper. We knew she had written quite a few over the years, but didn't realize exactly how many until Sal dug up a treasure trove of them at the local library.
Wanted to see Obama elected? Okay, no matter that she was 80 years old and lived in a small town in Ohio that had always voted Republican. Mom helped open an Obama Campaign HQ smack in the middle of the main drag, made phone call after phone call, and succeeded in getting Wood County, Ohio to vote for a Democratic president for the first time in decades.
Stubborn, tenacious, and strong-willed, our mother simply did not put things off. Ever.
Even when she would have a health set-back in her later years, she'd always do whatever she was asked in order to get better. To get back home.
So when the physical therapist arrived to try and get her up walking again, we all expected, perhaps somewhat naively, to see that go-getter spirit kick in.
But even though there was a glint of it when Mom agreed to put on her shoes and socks, it disappeared as soon as she tried to stand up. Even with the help of a walker, and Libby encouraging her, Mom was just too weak and tired.
She couldn't do it.
Or, maybe, I suppose, she just didn't want to.
It’s funny. I’m realizing that for the first time since I started writing this story, I am struggling with what to say next. Part of me wants to go into every detail of the next 24 hours - to explain each little thing that happened so whoever might be reading can understand how we came to the decision that we did.
But another part of me is scared to remember. What if we were wrong? What if we misjudged the signals we were getting from Mom and should have pushed her harder? What if our own tiredness clouded our judgment?
What if. What if. What if.
Except here’s what I know was true, no matter how much I might second-guess myself: Mom was tired. Her body was so old it was sometimes hard to understand how it still even worked.
Absolutely everything she had to do was a struggle. Sitting up. Eating. Going to the bathroom. Breathing.
Just being in the hospital was difficult. The constant barrage of the same tedious questions. The constant coming and going of hospital personnel. No sooner would Mom doze off than a nurse, or aide, or doctor would come in and startle her awake.
By the third day it had finally gotten to a point where one of us would station ourselves outside her door and not let anyone in, just so she could get some uninterrupted rest.
So we found ourselves at a bit of a crossroad by Tuesday afternoon. Mom couldn’t stay in the hospital because there wasn’t anything more they could do to help her. But because of her oxygen needs, she couldn’t go just anywhere.
Certainly not anywhere we would want her to go.
The skilled nursing facility at her independent living complex was one possibility, but they weren’t 100% sure they could provide the oxygen - they had to 'look into it'.
But even if they could figure the oxygen out, we weren’t sure it was the right place for Mom to be.
First of all, if she fell or got sick again, they would send her right back to the hospital. That was exhausting to even think about. Secondly, in order to be there and have Medicare cover it, she would have to do the physical and occupational therapy every day.
Again, too exhausting at that point to really even consider.
I suppose we might have been more open to the idea if she hadn’t spent six weeks there for rehab the year before. But unfortunately she had, so we knew firsthand how understaffed it was. And how bleak. Mom had hated every minute.
The only other option was the local hospice facility. They could definitely handle her oxygen needs and manage her pain, but wow...hospice? Had we really reached that point?
Sadly, one look at Mom and it seemed pretty clear that yes, maybe we had.
And though we obviously wanted her to keep fighting, we also wanted her to be free of fighting.
We were tired for her.
So while Sal and Lib went to check the facility out, Mom and I met with the very nice Hospice liaison to get the paperwork started, 'just in case'.
At least that's what I kept telling myself because, you know what? It's actually really, really hard to tell your mother, who you love beyond measure, that Hospice may be her only option.
Not just hard. Surreal. There seemed to be two of me in the room that afternoon.
There was the calm, matter-of-fact me who ushered the nice lady into a chair next to Mom, who had her feet up in the recliner under a mountain of blankets to keep warm.
The me who made pleasant small talk to break the ice, but then, wanting Mom to take the lead, sat quietly by as she struggled through her oxygen mask to answer the myriad of questions.
The me who, when I saw a tiny flicker of fear flash in Mom's eyes, squeezed her hand reassuringly and said:
"Don't worry, Mom, nothing's set in stone. If you go there it might just be kind of an interim step. Once you get stronger and don't need so much oxygen, then you can try rehab."
"Of course, of course," agreed the nice lady, nodding her head emphatically. "We see that quite often. Some patients rebound very quickly after they've had a few days to rest."
The me who sat there, smiling and nodding, and pretending that this was really no big deal. It was all just in case.
But then there was the other me. The scared-out-of-my-wits me. The me who was screaming inside, "No no no! This can't really be happening!"
The me who's heart was racing a million miles a minute because, oh my god, this was happening. There was a real lady sitting there, with real papers, that, once were signed, would set the wheels in motion for my mom to go to hospice. Hospice!
And no matter how I tried to convince myself (or Mom) otherwise, it felt like we'd lost all control and were heading full speed toward a point of no return.
But then somehow, as I watched Mom sign the paperwork, her hand so weak that she could barely get the pen to work, it suddenly seemed okay. Like maybe the point of no return wasn't such a bad place to go.
And when Mom handed the papers back to me, I was pretty sure she felt the same way, because I could see a little glimmer of relief in her eyes.
The truth is, and this is pretty hard to admit, but I think there was actually a third me in the room that day. A me who, like Mom, was maybe just the teensiest bit relieved that the hardest decision had finally been made.
That the wheels were in motion, and now we could sit back and see where we ended up.
And for what it's worth, I honestly didn't even know the relieved me was there.
At least not until the moment when I saw its reflection in my mother's eyes.
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Note to Reader: This is a story in progress, so I am sharing it as I write it, as a way to spur me on. If you're interested in following along, here are the links to the others I've written so far. Thanks!