Monday, March 6

Mom awoke late in the day. We moved her to the potty, gave her something to drink—she took two sips—and now she is back in bed, propped up with pillows and taking oxygen. We kiss mom on the forehead, allow her to rest without interruption, but Rob and I both feel as though we are not doing enough. Should we be waking her to give her something to eat, something else to drink?

The answer, of course, is no. She is winding down, and it’s tough to watch. Mom has so little energy that when she sits on the toilet, she begs to be put back in bed. If I take too long to clean her, she complains, “That’s enough. Put me back. Put me over there, Rob, please.” She tells Rob she loves him, and she is off to sleep again.

We listen to the sound of the oxygen machine, at least until she pulls the tubes off her nose. Then we get some quiet.

We are waiting and it’s tough. The inevitable is too sad to ponder, even though mom has so little left. I look at photos of her a year ago, just a few months ago in fact, and she is a profoundly different woman. Even Valentino is aware of the change. As noted before, he sometimes sleeps alongside her bed and always alerts me to her calls.

We all remain tired. There is little real rest. I wonder what we will do when we find her gone, but then I remind myself that she is still here—in a manner of speaking. Mom is really between two worlds. People remind us that we were lucky to have her so long. But I wonder. How many of those years were good years. Fortunately, there is a higher power in charge, and her lingering here is of greater moment than I will ever reckon on my own.

Sunday, March 5

It is past noon, but we just woke mom and took her to the toilet. She slept so peacefully and completely, it was difficult to stir her, but we did. I was reminded that she sleeps the sleep of the dead. Undisturbed, she breathed normally. She was clean and warm. It seemed a shame to awaken her, to uncover her frail little body, to expose her to the cooler air, to challenge her modesty. What’s the point, I thought. But we had little choice. Mom needed to drink something and to relieve herself, whether she knew it or not. With her eyes still closed, Rob carried her to the potty in her room. Once seated, she pulled her nightgown down—an automatic effort to retain modesty or perhaps she felt a draft. After she had relieved herself, I cleaned her and changed her, while she begged Rob to bring her back to the bed. Rob first tilted the bed toward the head so that he could pull her more easily up toward the head of the bed once he deposited her limp body onto the bed. I did the usual: changed gloves, emptied and cleaned the potty, and disposed of the waste and soiled products.

We do this all without a word. Rob knows what needs to be done next, as do I. We are team. Tireless, no. No longer. We are exhausted. There seems no rest in sight. When mom called and cried all night, there was little chance for sleep. But now that she sleeps through the night, we sometimes lie awake wondering. Wondering if she will call, but wondering mostly if she will be with us in the morning.

Each morning, we check her breath, her color, the temperature of her skin. Each of these elements is a potential degree of separation upon which we might realize loss. Even though we know no one will live forever, we fear the final proof that a life is truly over. The verification of loss will be terrible.

Every new physical limitation she experiences presents another cause for mourning. The toll is difficult. My energy, Rob’s energy, the energy of those who come to visit are drained—almost in deference to the failing body. Valentino, too, lies beside her bed. We respect the process of dying. We are in awe of it. We respond to it. We are baffled by it, even though it’s a daily part of our lives—plants, trees, insects, animals—nothing and no one is exempt. Yet each time, the process remains new, unthinkable almost, perhaps because each creature’s life and each person’s life is measured differently. And every creature’s end will be reckoned with differently.

You never know what you will be dealt. It never occurred to me that I would be taking care of my mother for nearly 4 years through the age of 100 and that she would eventually pass in my home. I can only say that I am glad we don’t know in advance what’s in store for us or those whom we love.