Although I don't do it often, I occasionally ask my mother outright if she's ready to die.
    It's been at least a year, maybe longer, since I've asked her this. This morning I had occasion to do it again. Although it's obvious that she's recovering from something, probably pneumonia, and the antibiotics are enhancing this recovery, maybe even making it possible, when I was finally able to rouse her at 1430, a good hour and a half after her 12-hour-sleep mark, she was so lethargic and so not into getting up, combined with what is obviously a difficult "healing" (if that word can be used with any veracity at this point in my mother's life) journey through this pneumonia-like episode, after she'd asked me, twice, "why" she needed to get up, to which I'd responded, "Because, it's a new day, and, anyway, it's time for food, fluid and companionship," with which she was not impressed, I was prompted to ask, calmly, directly, "Mom, are you ready to die?"
    She's heard this enough so that she knows what I'm really asking her is if she's at a point where she wants me to leave her alone and allow her to dwindle through what would obviously be final days. This morning she responded, "Yes," with what I thought might be a touch of irony but wasn't sure, then she settled deeper into her pillow and closed her eyes.
    I was startled. I'd never thought about what I'd do once I received "yes"es to this question. I had to take a moment to think.
    "Mom," I continued, carefully measuring the tone of my voice, "are you really? Are you sure ? Is this 'it'?"
    She opened her eyes and glared at me. "Goodness, child! What do you think!?!?"
    I suspected she was disgusted that I had the temerity to ask such a question, she always is, but she's never beat around the bush about it. I decided that I'd get her up on her ass so we could talk eye to eye.
    After manuevering her into sitting position, she struggling a bit against my effort, I said, "Mom, I'm guessing you're not, but, this is important. I need a clear answer."
    "I think I made myself perfectly clear." Purely indignant.
    "Mom, I've got to explain something to you. You're on Hospice. You have lung cancer. It's not being treated, so it's not going to go away. Although it's happening so slowly it's barely detectable, you're getting weaker. Right now you're fighting a lung infection. I know you're tired. It's important, now, for me to know how tired you are. That's why I asked if you're ready to die. In the not too distant future, you will be. At that point I'll need to change the way I take care of you. That's why I'm asking now. Is this that time? Believe me, at any time you'd be well within your rights to decide to pursue a different course in your life."
    She gave me a "Blah, blah, blah" look. It told me all I needed to know.
    "Okay, then, if you're not heading toward the grave," I said this with decided jauntiness, "then you're headed toward the bathroom. Stay on your ass, there, I'm going to get your breathing treatment."
    When she takes her first breathing treatment of the day, always immediately after she rises from a laying to a sitting position, since the treatments last about 15 minutes I spend the time in final preparation for bathing and breakfast: Choosing clothes for the day with her, getting the ham started, starting the electric water pot, making sure the bathroom is in order. So, I'm exiting and entering her room and having bits of conversation with her, often about and/or with the kitties, who are hyperactive during this period. This morning as I moved about and kibbitzed with everyone I couldn't help but wonder, with a woman like my mother, how will I know where we are on her journey toward death? Will she make a sudden sharp turn catalyzing a wholly different caregiving procedure or will she round the bend slowly, having days, here and there, when she's hard to get moving interspersed with days when she's sitting upright on the edge of her bed when I enter to awaken her? Will I figure it out? Is it okay to, for instance, allow for days here and there wherein she's sort of "practicing", I guess, for the final path out of here and into "there", where ever "there" is? Days when fluid, food, movement and camaraderie are severely diminished sprinkled among days when she's heartily Here and thirsty, famished and obviously in need of her regular medications?
    Before today it hadn't occurred to me that she'd been traveling anything other than a "smooth road home". But, you know, I guess I need to expect bumps. I remember reading about a woman in Dancing with Rose who was on and off Hospice eight times, I think, each time appearing to be securely in "the dying phase"; then she'd revive. My mother might do this. I guess I will need to depend on her sturdy will to tell me when she's in one of those periods...and when she's decided to bounce back, for a bit.
    Dying, I guess, when you have time to think yourself through it, isn't the most straightforward of journeys. But, then, neither is living.
    I just hope I have the intelligence to follow Mom's living-while-dying prerogatives, especially as they might include turn backs, rather than trying to second guess what she's doing.
    This is going to be weird; and interesting.
    Later.
[Accidentally published in wrong journal at date and time below. Switched on 9/29/08 at 1015.]
- posted by Gail Rae @ 20:57   email  this post