It’s been quite a while since I last wrote here. For a while, it was because we were in a very satisfying holding period. Then the bottom fell out of that holding pattern and I really didn’t feel like writing or talking about it.
In many cases, my mood mirrors my mom’s. I suppose that’s pretty normal.
On Thursday, somebody from Kindred called me and told me that Mom had broken her femur in her right leg (i.e., the “good one”). I found that odd. Mom didn’t break anything.
Her femur is fractured but there is no way she did it.
Then the story began unfolding. I don’t blame anyone. The CNAs were trying to clean up Mom’s bed. She had wet her bed, her diaper had leaked, and the sheets got wet. So they needed changing.
So they moved her temporarily into her wheelchair. And that’s when it happened. I don’t think it took much. I think she could snap in two just by moving at this point.
At 10pm they called. She needed an x-ray. Of course, I said go ahead. Friday morning it was confirmed. And since she was in a lot of pain, so came the morphine. She’s in hospice and that’s what they do best – medicate so she’s as comfortable as possible.
Slowly dying by not eating is probably pretty painful. Lop on top of that a broken bigass bone and there ya go.
In fact, the nurse asked my mom how her pain was and Mom said, “I’m okay.” Pressed for a number from 1 to 10, Mom said, “8.”
Yeah, that’s pain.
Mom has taken another tremendous leap down. It’s astonishing. Just when I think she can’t fall any farther, she does. I mean, I know she’s going to die. Soon. It could be days, weeks, or months. But it’s not years. It won’t be long.
But I can’t stand seeing her decline like this.
When I visited her yesterday, she was such a shell of her former self. It’s like nothing is left. She has nearly zero energy left. She’s given up. There’s no fight left.
And that makes me sad. But she’s closer to where she ultimately wants to be, so I have to keep that in mind.
I want to be there to support her, to hold her hand, to give a squeeze when she needs it. But I don’t even know if she feels it. Does she even know I’m there?
Does any of it matter?
She may not feel it, or hear it, but you will, and your closure is as important as hers at this point. FWIW, I think it matters. And I’m so very sorry you’re going through this.
Stay strong for her. She is listening, even if you think she is not. Best gift of all is to let her know that she can go whenever she likes. That you will be ok. I had to do the same with my mom.
God bless you, Billy. It’s rough. My stepfather is in early Alzheimer’s and also (at 90) more brittle by the day. My Mom is taking care of him as best as possible, but has had to concede to twice-weekly leaving him in care of others, just so she can take care of normal life for a couple of days a week. I feel for you and I’ll say a prayer.
Oh Bill, I’m so sorry you are going through this. I know first hand how tough it is and it’s not over for me yet either. It may even be harder for a son. I can’t say for sure.
Does she know you’re there? I believe that on some level she does. Many days my mother doesn’t even know who I am but at the same time, she seems comforted by my presence. Or, maybe that is just hopeful thinking on my part. Either way you look at it, it’s a comfort to us.
Does it matter? Absolutely yes! When our mom’s are gone… it will matter even more.
I know this is hard. I’ve cried over and over again. For her. For me. I’m scared it’s going to happen to me. I don’t want to remember her this way. It won’t be long and in the end… it will matter most to us that we did what we could even in such sorrow. Even in such pain.
Virtual hugs to you my friend.