It's been kind of a rough couple of weeks...my boyfriend's grandmother is in hospice at the nursing home, and it's basically been a waiting period wondering when "it" will happen. She is in her 80s and has Alzheimer's and hasn't known who anyone was for several years. I'm sad because I never knew the "her" that she was before the disease claimed her...I'm sad for his mom and especially his grandfather, who has always visited her regularly in the nursing home no matter what. He is still completely crazy about her. Now that she will be gone soon, I wonder if he won't know what to do with himself. Part of me thinks at least they got 20 more years out of her than I got out of my mom...but at the same time, I know that you are never ready or prepared to lose your mama no matter what her age or the circumstances. I guess at least with her body here, even though her mind hasn't been 100% here, they have still been able to hold onto her. It's kind of a waiting game now, knowing it will probably be very soon based on all the signs but not knowing for sure. It could play out for a while longer. Today they decided to leave the IV out, though. It kept falling out and was a big struggle to get it back in every time, and with the shape she's in now, they decided to just leave it out and try their best to let go.
I actually did okay visiting with her and the family in the nursing home, better than I thought I would. When I first walked in and saw her in the bed with the oxygen tube and IV and the open-mouthed, labored breathing, I had flashbacks of my mom toward the end. After the initial shock of the similarities, somehow I found a strength within me and just tried to focus on comforting the family members and telling them things from my experience that I hope helped them a little. They were really worried that she was suffering and struggling and fighting inside and in terrible pain and hungry, and I explained to them that at the point she's at now, she's probably not really feeling anything and that her spirit is somewhat removed from her body so that she sees and hears what's going on without experiencing the suffering in her body...it's just her body's slow process of shutting down, bit by bit. It did seem like that comforted them some, because they were just so afraid she was hurting. I hope I didn't make things too much about me and my experience, though, because right now it is about them and their pain.
There was one old woman in the home who, to me, looked like what I think my mom would look like at 90, and in a weird way, it comforted me seeing her. And she was funny, with my mom's dry sense of humor. They call her Little Bit. When she was rolling her wheelchair up to the table for dinner, she said, "Oh, this must be the Executive table." She was this tiny little woman and absolutely adorable.
There are times when I think I can't volunteer at a place like a hospice because it would take me back way too much, and then there are times when I think maybe I could do it because I've already been through it and could possibly provide some support to people who are dying but maybe don't have anyone visiting them or be there for loved ones who are playing the waiting game. I know from experience how much that waiting game can almost drive you insane...continually watching the person's face wondering if that last breath will really be their last...being afraid to leave even for two minutes to use the bathroom...it is maddening. There goes the videotape playing in my mind every so often again, though...sleeping in the hospice bed the nurses pulled up next to my mom for me, putting Rosebud Salve on her lips, singing to her, trying to make her laugh, raising her bed so she could breathe better, putting wet washcloths on her forehead, her asking me how I knew just what to do to make her more comfortable and telling her it was just because I loved her so much and knew her so well, promising her that I would be alright, falling asleep while holding her hand with my head resting on her side, looking into her pale but beautiful face as she took her last breath of life on this earth, beginning to scream when I realized she was gone, clutching onto her and not wanting them to take her body away. It is simultaneously haunting and sweet...sweet because of the love we have for each other and the gratefulness that I could be there with her right through the end...but haunting reliving it in my mind over and over. Still, I think I've said before that I don't want to forget any facet of my mom...the good, the bad (there wasn't much bad), the life, the sickness, the death. I don't want to forget anything about her time here with me and sharing everything with her.
In a very strange sort of way, sometimes I think I am relieved that I did not have to watch my mom get very old and lose her memory. I don't know if I could stand it if one day she didn't recognize me, even knowing it wasn't anything personal. I can't bear the thought of seeing my mom in a nursing home. At the same time, I wish she could have gotten old, maybe just not that old. I would do everything I could to take care of her and do anything at all she wanted and needed. If I had to sponge-bathe my mom every day and change her sheets and feed her and wipe up her piss and even diarrhea, I would do it with a glad and thankful heart. So I have these seemingly contradicting feelings about not wanting to see her get that old and still sort of wanting the chance. One part of me is relieved that I no longer have to dread the death of my mom like I always did, because it has already happened; the other part of me would give anything to have her back.
A little while ago, we were sitting around with my boyfriend's (and what I consider my) family, and they were all reminiscing about memories of each other as children and funny stories about things they used to do...and suddenly, it hit me that I don't hardly have anyone left who could reminisce about what I was like as a little girl. My dad, being my dad, would probably say he couldn't remember anything. My aunt does tell me cute stories now and then, but she didn't live there with us. My grandmother is close to senility herself now (my mom's mom), my mom's dad is dead, my dad's parents and stepmother are dead...and my mom is dead. Who is there left who will laugh as they tell funny stories about things I used to do? No one, really. I had never really thought about that before, and when I realized it, it really kind of messed me up. I remember a whole lot from my childhood, but I can't tell the stories from the outside perspective like my mom could. And there are things she would be able to tell me from the time before I really had a memory. Sometimes it feels very, very alone not having my mom. You don't just lose the person who died...I've realized you lose a whole lot of other things when they die, like their perspective on the past. I wish I could hear someone talk about how cute I was or something innocently funny I did or that time I did such-and-such. Oh, what I would give for that chance. It doesn't make me want a sibling. For whatever reason, I've always been completely fine being an only child and have never felt a sibling void. I just wish my mom were here.
So I have semi-unwanted (though special) flashbacks of my mom at the end...and wishes for flashbacks FROM my mom about the past.
I guess that's about all I've got for right now. It helps to get it all out in words. It is a blessed release.
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