So here we are. I wake up every morning and do what I have to do, because that is what you do, and write articles about broken toenails and plan for the book release, and then when I pause in my activities I remember: oh yes. That. It wasn’t a bad dream.
I have done what I am supposed to do. We held hands and stood in the face of a futile fight, and laid down our weapons. You may come, death. We do not fear you. And yet now that we have welcomed him, he hesitates, the rotten bastard.
We spent Mother’s Day at the beach, and afternoons watching the balloons drift by overhead. We enjoyed what moments we had, knowing they were to be short. And they are short, even shorter than we all had realized. The last full conversation we had was about a currant pudding, and then she moved into that chill fog of wandering from this plane into the next.
One of the last things I heard her say clearly, besides “I love you,” was “My bags are packed.” It doesn’t get much clearer than that. Our slates are clean, our consciences clear, and all we can do now is wait for the capricious whims of a malignancy that creeps this way and that in the motherboard of the brain, until at last, millimeter by millimeter, it overwhelms.
When you talk to the dying and ask them what they fear most, it is not being dead, something which is when all is said and done, rather dull by all accounts. It is the journey that worries them, the brambly path and the hands that pull them back or the quicksand of ineffectual treatments that, despite our best attempts, cannot make us immortal. They worry that they will suffer, and they are right to do so, because we do much to prolong it.
“Cherish every moment,” they say, and I did. There was a time, days or weeks ago, when there were still moments to cherish. But despite what some people will tell you, there is a line that some cross, a time where those moments are gone, where 22 hours of agitated sleep are interrupted by an hour or two of fretful wakefulness and perhaps a nod, and when they tell you the suffering is worth those small remaining moments, they are wrong. “Cherish these last days” does not bring me comfort, because she is gone in all but the literal physical sense.
Perhaps for you, the one by the bedside drinking those drops of life like a parched man in the desert, these last hours are worth it, but I do not believe they are for the one in the bed. I understand not everyone agrees, but I do believe we have the right to decide for ourselves when that line has been crossed. I’ve always felt that way- after all, I do this for a living for pets. The vast majority of people, in that situation, recognize the line way before the body reaches it on its own, and we can conjure death to our sides when he’s dragging his feet.
When the line is crossed with people, all that remains is an agonized twiddling of the thumbs, a bedside vigil that stretches ahead, vast and unrelenting. Those at peace have been waiting for it, and welcome it with open arms and relief and often not a small bit of impatience.
My mother is not suffering too much I suppose, though more than I would like because to me she shouldn’t suffer at all. We are managing her with a large and extensive brew of medications, consulting with the hospice team, feeling her feet for signs of cold and moving her this way and that so she doesn’t develop sores. What dignity she strove to live with her whole life is reduced to the fact that what we must do, is done by family and not strangers.
I am sad, because I know she is dying, and there is so little control of the situation.The pain of her being gone from my life is nothing compared to the feeling of helplessness while we try to ease her discomfort. We are doing all we can, and in my conversations with the hospice staff I know what we are doing as a family is more than most are able to, and that makes me both grateful and sad for others.
I believe she can still hear me, so for now I can whisper in her ear and hold her hand, choking down tears I don’t have time for- I can do that later. It will have to be enough. But do not tell me to be grateful for these last hours. There are many blessings in this journey, but this is not one of them.
Maybe someday I can look back at the ghosts of this experience and make something of it, but for now, all I can do is be frustrated at a world that views compassion so very differently for a person than they do a dog.
And it is a lesson I shall not soon forget.
Oh, Jessica, that has come around quickly. Life can be a cruel bastard sometimes, not least when it shows that the end has come, but just not quite yet. I am sad for your mom and for your family.
No platitudes from me; instead I wish for a quick release for your mother, That will sound awful to some, but I’m pretty sure you will understand.
So long, Jess’s mom. Have a good trip.
Patricia. But she goes by Pat. 🙂 And thank you, I do understand.
I’ve typed and deleted 10 things because I just don’t have the words. It’s a crap situation and I know you’re doing the best you can, and my heart aches because, well. Of course it does. Thinking of you all.
Thank you K.
I think we all agree with Von here. Thoughts and prayers are with you all.
Thank you K, I appreciate that.
Jessica, I am so sorry.
Thank you Linda.
My heart goes out to you, and to your mom, Dr. V.
I second Von’s wish which, in my opinion, does not sound awful in the least, but very caring and humane.
I was my mother’s caregiver for 12 years (and am now my sister’s caregiver), and I wish so, so much that I could have spared my mom her last four days and nights… She had been fed up with her “life” on this planet for six months, ever since she had become unable to leave her bed… Time and again she said that her patience was exhausted, that she has had ENOUGH already of the barely muted pain, just waiting around, waiting for The End… (She used to cry when she thought about who would take loving care of childless ME at some future date…)
I must say that I was at peace with her passing, as I know that it was all she wished for anymore, and as I did the utmost in my power to make her last days as “comfortable” as I could, e.g., by calling the pain specialists in every four hours. And I learned that toward the end, what really really counts is sedation. Sedation! Our laws even ALLOW “terminal sedation” at that stage! How do so many doctors not know this? How was it possible that her physician prepared a morphium shot for me to give her – at a point where even layperson *I* knew that my mom had been in pre-coma for hours and only had minutes left?
I beg your pardon, Dr. V., for hogging your comment section. My heartfelt wishes for you and your mother, two very brave and sane women. I have “favorited”(?)(sorry about my bad English) a link to your today’s and your preceding posts because they just resonate with my deepest thoughts and feelings. Thank you, Dr. V., and, again, my heartfelt wishes for your mother and you. ~nuri
“And yet now that we have welcomed him, he hesitates, the rotten bastard.”
I so agree on “the rotten bastard”… I am sending vibes to your mom for – – lightness(?) despite the rotten bastard. Lightness that will show in her face and which, later on, she will transfer to your aching soul so that you, too, can be at peace.
Thank you so much for all your lovely words. I am so sorry you went through so much with your mom. You sound like an amazing, caring daughter and sister.
Having sat similar vigils, I know the agony of the wait … that final wait. Our bodies are far more fragile and far stronger than we understand. It’s especially hard when you know they’ve spoken for the last time, yet the wait goes on. Nothing but love and support in this time of transition.
“Our bodies are far more fragile and far stronger than we understand.” So, so true.
Oh Jessica,
I work in a nursing home and your post made my eyes leak this morning. You have my deepest sympathies and complete agreement on your views of compassion differences between human and pets. I’m an avid supporter of the death with dignity laws that are slowly inching their way toward approval. May your mother’s journey be as painless and pleasant as possible and your agony be short lived.
Bless you for your work- that must be so hard.
I imagine its much like vet work as far as the rewards and hardships. True, none of your “clients” will ever in their confusion honk your boob and tell you that this is how we say thank you on my planet. (It wouldn’t have concerned me so much had it not been a woman) But I couldn’t ever help a furry soul over the rainbow bridge. I know its the right thing to do and I help my companions when modern chemistry can no longer provide them with a comfortable quality of life, but to actually do the deed? I couldn’t do it. You are a special woman to be able to do what you do. Thank you.
Not much to say except I know the waiting, and hold you in my heart during this painful time.
Thank you Barbara, so much.
When my father passed away, in our home, the thing that I couldn’t get over was the “not himself-ness” of it all. He was on drugs to make him comfortable. He tried to smile and to be present, but the cancer was in his brain, too, and there were things distinctly “not Dad-ish” about him, most of all his smile. It took me a long time to come to grips with that smile I did not fully recognize.
It felt, for me, like I was standing on the precipice of an abyss into unknown, foggy territory: one foot was firmly planted in the sunny bedroom on an early Sunday afternoon, and the other had stepped unwillingly across this invisible but impossible divide; I felt like I got a glimpse of what the journey was beyond death.
The things I remember are the little, obscure moments I never thought I would: what the pastor said when he came over late one night to comfort my dad, how the bedsheets we had didn’t fit the hospital bed and running out at 2 a.m. to find more, how my dog reacted when he saw my father after he passed, how a friend of the family brought over asparagus spears for us to snack on while we waited.
You are dearly loved, Jessica, and you love others dearly. That is never easy to let go. You’re not alone. Love and light to you and your family. May this time be filled with grace and little mercies.
Thank you Marcie. I know how deeply affected you were by your father’s passing and I appreciate all your kind words to me.
I can live a hundred years and not figure out the thought process that leads one to asparagus spears as a good grief snack. Booze, cheese and chocolate. 😉
I’m so sorry. Frankly, this just sucks. ((((hugs))))
It does. I agree 100%. And hugs gratefully accepted.
Once again, you expressed deep feelings absolutely beautifully and perfectly. Your mother must have been very proud of you and to have you at her side during this transition must be of immense comfort to both of you. These are very hard moments to go through, seeing your mom change, lose her ability to communicate and not being able to fix her. My vet friend went through this with her mother earlier this year. Hospice..those hospice personnel are absolute angels, They know how to help you, your mother and your family. Do take care of yourself Dr. V and big cyber hugs to you and your family.
Thank you, once again, for being open and brave and sharing your experience with us. It helps those of us who have been fortunate enough to have not gone through it yet understand better. And i’m sure it brings some sort of “comfort” to those going through to know they are not alone. So often we want to say the right thing and do the right thing for someone going through grief/suffering. Sometimes there is nothing to say b/c, well…. nothing is going to change the grief/suffering. Sending hugs your way.
Dr. V my heart goes out to you and your family. You have said the things that many of us have wanted to say but didn’t have the words to say. I hope the wait is not to much longer and you and your Mom find the peace you both need.
There are no words for the feelings I have for your Mom right now.
My prayers are for a peaceful journey
Love you Patsy….
My deepest sympathies. That you can write this now as you go through it in real time is all the more powerful. Your words, “when they tell you the suffering is worth those small remaining moments, they are wrong.” Resonated with me so much. I have lost two aunts this way and I do not want to see another die this way. It is heartbreaking and needless and not filled with the meaning you expect. I am so sorry you are going through the this now. May you and your mother find peace.