Waking up...

I think I am awakening. I feel as though I have been in a fog for such a long time. Years ago work was all consuming for me. My husband worked long hours so I found a career that would eat up long hours of my time. Later, my work obsession was replaced with the joy and scurrying that comes with babies -- my two wonders came to me just 360 days apart. They became my world, and they still are ten years later. I look at them and am shocked at how my love for them can just keep growing and growing.

I was in the car accident 5 years ago and was introduced the the fog that comes with chronic pain. I saw doctor after doctor and attained a more complicated life. It was tiresome, but I was able to get back most of my life. Then I rode the roller coaster of illness as my mother inlaw endured chronic illness and multiple surgeries and recoveries. My mother came down with cancer, but moved swiftly into remission. My father had an aeortal aneurysm which ruptured. The hospital staff named him "Superman" due to his recovery abilities. They brought fresh young medical students to his bedside so they could meet the miracle man and wonder at his knack for survival (he'd had a heart attack and triple bypass 20 years earlier).

I came to believe that my family members were like Keanu Reeves in "The Matrix." We could dodge bullets. Things that killed normal people didn't kill my people. We endured and we survived. This was a handy skill -- I appreciated that it ran on both sides, my family and hubby's. Then cancer came back for my Mom. I have been in a horrible fog ever since.

I have stumbled along life's routines and have kept on keeping on. I have kept up with the obligations. I went to the hospital. I sat quitely and listened to her breath. I remember thinking that there would be time for crying later, I needed to savor every moment I had left with her. I treasured each smile. Her smile became like a beautiful sunrise or sunset -- you have seen one before, but the one right before you has such beauty that your heart could break.

I sat with her the night she suffered heart failure at just 63, the night the doctor had to reverse the medications that held her pain at bay. Dad and I had sat with her. I could hear the seagulls crying in her chest. Dad had told me how it had started that day. It was just how things were now. We accepted it. The doctors and nurses weren't panicked by it. Mom was somewhat entertained by it. Her breathing had taken on an alien noise. Now her respirations came so slow, the monitors showed how the oxygen was no longer as it should be in her blood. The doctor asked if she was DNR. He woke her and she said "Yes. I AM DNR." To save her he had to reverse the narcotics. It would be horrible for a time, and then she would be able to breathe again. We were warned it would be horrible. Dad paced, Mom made a began to whimper from the pain. Dad turned pale and decided to wait in the hall. He paced with the most horrible look in the world on his face.

I was in the room, on the other side of her hospital bed from the hall. I could see him out there looking worried as the doctors and nurses moved about. I looked at her beautiful face before she plunged into hell. She was even more beautiful without her hair -- though she didn't want her grandchildren to see her like this. It started with a moan, and then the pain overtook her. Her body betrayed her and she became violently ill. She began to choke, the doctor yelled to me instructing me on what to do. I was the one who turned her over so that she did not drown in that horrible dark vomit. She hadn't eaten in days, I could not imagine what this horrible stuff was that was coming out of her. I climbed up on her bed and held her her head over the side and turned her body over for her as I held her in the bed. I held her steady as she screamed in pain and vomited more. I tried to comfort her but my hands gripping her shoulder and hip only brought her more pain. I told her I was sorry and that it would be okay... I lied.

It would never be okay again. It hadn't been okay since the cancer had returned. She'd been on the unfortunate side of every equation. If 20% of patient had kidney failure following chemo, then she had to be in the 20%. If the doctor said most patients would be able to go home, she would be the one who's pain could only be managed in the hospital.

So I held her as she screamed, as she cried, and as she later drifted back into the horrible drugged sleep. The seagulls once again cried in her chest as she breathed slowly in and out. My mom asked for my sister while she cried out in pain. For once I wasn't jealous, I just asked Dad to call her once Mom settled back to sleep. My sister thanked me. I took no credit for thinking of her, Mom had asked for her. This was a huge comfort to my sister. It would was nice to be asked for...

The nurses told me I was brave, the doctor said it was amazing and that I'd gotten right in there and saved her (I was the closest). How can you be called heroic for being in the right place at the right time? How can you be a hero for turning her over so she doesn't drown in her vomit? The doctor said he didn't think any of the horrible stuff made it into back into her lungs. He didn't think there would be infection. My sister and my Dad thanked me. How could they be thanking me and saying they were glad I was there?

Dad was so glad that I was there. He thought I was strong. How did I fool him? I was walking with my sister later that night and a nurse stopped to tell me what a great job I had done. It was funny, she said that not many people could handle that kind of bodily fluid incident. She praised me and I felt stupid. I asked her how could I not have done what I did? She's my MOM. I had to do what I did. Mom only made it three more weeks. They'd said she had months left to go.

I sat with Mom 3 weeks later. All that week I'd felt her slipping further away. She was out of it and then she was back. She was sleeping and I'd tell her I loved her and that I'd be back tomorrow, tears streaming down my cheeks as I stared at her face. Her eyes were always closed but she saw everything. "Goodnight I love you... now get out of here before you make me cry!" She was alert, her voice was clear and sweet.

It was Saturday and I had delayed my visit. Somehow inside of me I knew that I would not be leaving her that night. I knew that this was her last day. I delayed going to the nursing facility where she was staying. I delayed to the point where my best friend and husband had to practically shove me out the door. I didn't share my fear with them. They knew.

When I got to Mom's room my uncle and sister left. They both looked so relieved to be leaving. I was glad to be there, but I knew that this would be the last night. Instead of her chest having the crying gulls, she now had a train locomotive, a boiling kettle. The noise was like none that I'd ever heard. I learned later that nurses often call if the "death rattle."

Mom wasn't comfortable. Her nurse and I debated which drug she should get -- we knew she couldn't hold much down. What would be best? Something to calm her stomache? Something for the pain? We decided on the anti anxiety medicine since she seemed to be having a difficult time resting. She would cry out in her sleep here and there.

She would have moments when she was my mom, and other moments when I felt like I was the mom and she was my baby. I worried over her -- listening to her breathe, talking to her when I didn't think she could hear me. I sang to her, I prayed aloud. I tried to read and couldn't. I said the rosary and she calmed and slept better. At one point she seemed to look up. She nodded her head in greeting and said simply, "Helen." Calm, clear and simple -- she greeted her mother by name. It was always strange to me that she called her mother by name, but here she was greeting her mother who had passed when I was just a baby.

I will never forget the conversations she had that night. Nodding, "I'll try." Sigh, "Okay." A gentle moan here and there, followed by a softly muttered "Sorry." As if her pain was an inconvenience she did not want others to suffer. As if making the noise of her pain was an offense that needed pardon. I told her to cut it out -- "You're allowed to moan Mom!" She would smile a small smile, clear her throat, and try to shift position. I was watching the end of her life. How could this be?

As I watched I knew I was learning a great lesson. She was not afraid of death. She was at peace with going. What was the point in staying when all you had left was physical misery that could not be relieved? She had faith and her faith strengthened mine. I knew who she was talking to when she said "I'll try" and when she nodded her side of the conversation "okay." I could feel my faith grow as my certainty grew that she was not going on alone. When she greeted her mother I knew that I would not be leaving her side that night, not until she was done.

Hours passed. It was time for the nurses to clean her. I made sure the towels were warm -- to be cleaned with warm water is a tender mercy that a nurse showed me. Warm towels -- she can feel the difference even if you don't think so. And so I warmed the water. I brought fresh warm towels. The nurses aides washed her with care. I felt like the mother again now, washing my baby. It was so strange. So strange.

She became sick again. I felt bad, but then realized as she stared into my eyes that she was done. Enough was enough. She looked at me like -- "Sorry babe, I'm not staying for this." I could see her tune it out. She was no longer there for the sick part. The light was still in her eyes -- but disconnected from what was physically going on at the moment. I wiped her mouth and told her over and over how I loved her.

How could I be the one that was there for this? How could it be me that was the one who would watch the light leave her eyes? I realized that this was an honor that I was not equiped to handle. I wondered how God could allow me to be here at such an important moment. How could I help her? How could I make this better for her. What words do you say as you look in your mother's eyes knowing that she is dying right now. "GO!" I told her I loved her, and to go! "GO MOM. I love you, GO." The nurses aid rubbed my shoulders and back. The other aid said Amen. I felt my Mom leave the room. She wasn't there anymore. Three very kind women nurses were with me in the room at that moment. I'd never been so alone.

I was in a fog for the longest time. I mechanically did what you have to do. I made the calls, helped plan the funeral with my family, gathered the pictures, attended the wake / funeral / graveside service and luncheon. I did all of these things in a fog. I did everything in a fog for months to come. I have two kids -- you have to keep functioning for their sake if not your own. This summer I have started to begin to come out of the fog.

Sunny days like today hold so much beauty that it almost hurts to look at the splendor of the clouds against the bright blue sky. I appreciate sunsets more. I feel love more deeply than ever -- now that feeling is coming back it is vivid feeling that borders on painful. While I revel in my new found appreciation for the ordinary sunsets (taking photo after photo to try and capture those moments), I would gladly give it all back to have her here to appreciate.

The hurt doesn't leave, not even more than a year later. It is still vivid. But at least I can function more now. I can feel more now. The fog is lifting. It is good to be awake. Maybe that is why I'm having more trouble than ever with my sleep. How can you sleep when there is so much to see and feel? I am waking up again... I still miss her so.