It’s tough to know what to do. I want to be with mom and feel bad when I go into the kitchen for tea or supper. But I also know mom will wait for someone to be at her side if that’s what she wants. Waiting is horrible.

Morning—March 16

Valentino woke me twice this morning. The first time, mom was still moving her arms. So I went back to bed in the hopes of getting a few more minutes of sleep. Valentino came to me again. This time, mom was still. No breathing, but she was warm. I moved her arms onto her chest and unclenched her fingers. I fixed the pillow under her head, as if it would make her more comfortable. I spoke to her and kissed her and told her I would miss her. Then I told her to find daddy and my dogs Lorenzo and Lucy and Roxy. Wouldn’t it be great if she met them. “Say hello for me. Tell them I love them and I miss them terribly, as I will miss you.”

I called my brother and mom’s brother in Tokyo, who bade her a tearful good-bye. I rang cousins Karen and Patricia and wrote to everyone else. The phone has been ringing off the hook ever since.

I called hospice and the whirlwind began. The women from hospice came. I took their photos and they said their good-byes to mom. Lorraine, one of our CNAs, stayed with mom a bit and she had her last cup of coffee with us. The most difficult part was seeing the undertakers put mom in a black bag, zipper her up, and haul her off. But I knew she wasn’t in there.

I wrote notes to everybody who knew mom, family and friends. I approved the obit and edited my eulogy. I packed up mom’s things for Good Will, put aside the hospice equipment, and set aside supplies for another hospice patient. I chose photos to be given to the funeral home and have only to purchase a USB port and load the photos onto it.

It’s nearly 4:00 pm, and I have just had breakfast—a cup of tea and some herb baked eggs (but I forgot the dill). I am going to sit now and wait and pray. Two guests are coming tonight: Cheryl and Deb. As a matter of fact, Cheryl just arrived. More later. The night is young. My dear friends are with me in prayer and in person. It’s wonderful. I know this will end eventually. But I will always have my memories. My memories of mom and our nearly 4 years together in this house with Rob, Valentino, and Lucy.

Our LPN Margie came to visit as did our neighbor Barbara, another LPN. Margie said she cried on the way. Both were so helpful. This is so heartbreaking. There is no age—I think—at which it is easy to lose a parent. Particularly one who was so loving. A pain in the butt, but loving. I probably will never carry a sweater in the summer, but I will think of mom when I leave without one. And I won’t always wear my shoes out onto the porch, but I will think of mom when I go out there barefoot. And I will remember her favorite flower: the huge violet-colored dahlia.

My brother John and I sat for a while and talked with mom. My cousin Karen called twice and with tears told mom she loved her. Rob, of course, spent time with mom. He held her hand and sent his messages wordlessly. We are all blessed to spend any time with mom at the end.

My urge is to pick up the phone and call mom, but then I remember she is here with me—in a sense. There will be no talking to mom or being with her anymore. And I won’t hear her tell me how pretty my blouse is or how she likes the color or hear her ask where I bought it, or tell me how pretty she thinks I am. My mom is leaving me, and I am having a tough time of it.

More later…

 

 

Wednesday, March 15, 2017

We still have not shoveled the entire drive, and we cannot open the porch doors. They are blocked by mounds of snowdrifts. Everything is an ordeal today. I must wear cleats on my boots and must smear Vaseline on Valentino’s paws before we go out. But Rob and I cleared the front walkway for emergencies.

Although I called the CNA at hospice and told her not to come today owing to the ice on the road, I regretted it in short order. Mom had a very bad night. She moaned in pain, but we didn’t know where the pain was coming from. We gave her some Ativan and hoped she would be able to sleep, but it was a fitful sleep. Yesterday was her worst day. I know organ failure is in progress. Her left hand is blue and cold and she is still asleep, but breathing more rapidly than usual. This deterioration is too difficult to watch. I tried giving mom some Reiki, but I needed to get away from her. I told mom to go. It’s time. This body is broken. We will be fine. But I didn’t mean the last part. Or maybe I did. I will go back and lay my hands upon her again and tell her that I love her. I just don’t like saying it with such finality.

I called my brother John and he will be on his way shortly. My dear neighbor Barbara is also on her way. I am so blessed to have friends and neighbors all wrapped up in one.

And I have already told mom that I love her and that her body is broken and worn. It’s time for her to leave it and be with daddy and her parents and her siblings—Little Marge, Big Marge, Mary, Helen, Rose, Vera, John, and Sam. What a reunion it will be!