Friday, September 26, 2008

(Excerpt from personal journal)

Throughout the night, my Mom mumbled mostly inaudibly. I found myself in and out of sleep until about 4:00 a.m. when her talking caused incessant coughing. I was laying beside her hospital bed on the couch thinking, "OK, if she coughs one more time, I'll get up. Please don't cough." It took me back to the days of tending to my kids when they were infants and I was sadly struck by how we gain each milestone in our lives only to be agonizingly stripped of them on our way out. I am just as sleep deprived and selfish for more slumber as when I had newborns stirring. I eventually had to get up, adjust her position and give her more meds. She woke easily. She kept her milky gaze fixed in the direction of the French doors and she reached out for something...a hand? She became agitated and started pulling at her covers in a frenzy. Clear as a bell she said, "Pearl." I knew Pearl was in the room and I felt such comfort even though I couldn't see her. Then she turned to me and with clearer eyes she said, "Goodnight honey, I love you."

She slept peacefully for hours and I rested beside her.

This waiting is the hardest part. I feel like I'm sitting around waiting for my Mom to die, and it is just finally setting in that when she is gone, she will be gone forever.

When I was a kid - about 6 or 7 - I remember grasping death. I realized that when I die I would be gone forever and ever. I would close my eyes and picture infinity. It was like a dark, endless, claustrophobic tunnel collapsing into a never ending black hole. This mind game always left me feeling so unsettled and thankful that I was young and didn't have to die for a very long time. It was only a month ago that I realized my Mom would be dying before I was ready. My Mom is too young to be facing death too.