On Tuesday morning, my dad met me in the driveway as I was moving toward my car. He was upset and having a little difficulty telling me what was wrong. But I knew. It's been expected for some time. We fool ourselves when a patient, a parent, a loved one rallies towards the end. I watched this with my grandfather. He was conversational, he was alert, and by morning he was dead. The folks at the hospital, and my parents had informed him that before he could come home again, he was going to have to spend some time in a nursing facility - a big man, there was no way my mother and father were going to be able to help him bathe and care for himself. He always said he would die first, and die he did. My dad thought my mother was dead.
He wasn't sure, he asked me if my mom was breathing or not. He didn't know what to do. Should he call 911 or not? Who should he call? Could I just check, see if she is breathing? Can I fee a pulse?
My mom does wear an oxygen tube so the air he felt coming from her could have been that. He couldn't tell. But, it wasn't. She was breathing on her own, but it was very shallow. He pulse was thready and she was unresponsive. What do you do? He called 911, and the operator there took me through the paces. Having taught for the Red Cross, I knew the drill.
Other things I know: I know that my parents do not want to be hooked up to tubes and wires. My brothers and I know they do not want extraordinary procedures involved. My mother's health has been sketchy for many years, following a bout with Hodgkin s Lymphoma just after their 50 anniversary. They have been married over 59 years now.. time marches on when we are busy doing other things, it seems. I know they don't like a fuss, and I know my father holds his independence tightly - and loves my mother above and beyond any other love. Even as children, my brothers and I knew that my parents were committed. Her children - me and them - were secondary. But what to do now? A piece of my dad wants to let go, but there is another part that screams - "Not now! I'm not ready! I'm still here!".
To the hospital we went. And a few hours later, having made the decision that it was time to stop the pain, stop the tubes, and stop the intrusion, we took my mother home. It is what she wanted, and at this point in her life, my father will tell you that this is all that matters. It is her life. It is their life. We get to gather. We get to talk and listen. We get to give my mother that backward glance at her life with children. As she informed us last night, she may not be responding, but she can hear us. She is listening.
Sixty four years with someone is more than a lifetime. It is also an incredible journey. It is one of deep abiding love and commitment. And now, as we move toward the end of existence on this planet, my mom and dad need to know it has been for a purpose. She needs reassurance that we will be ok. She needs to know my dad will be ok. She has cared for him and about him for so long. What she hates most is leaving him here. Alone.
What woke my father and made my mother jump up at 4:45am on Tuesday was the defibrillator, the one implanted in my mother's chest. A few years ago, following a small heart attack, the decision was made to put one in. Neither of my parents were ready at that time to say goodbye. But, it was the first time we all consider that my mother's life was not going to get better. Sure, we had good days - a lot of them - but some decisions and discussions were going to begin. The What-if was on the table now. What if? And so here we are. Having reached a decision and a consensus, today we will have the defibrillator deactivated. And as my mother's heart slows to a stop, we will be here. Together. It may take a day. It may take a week. But I know she is ready to go and I know that I am glad to have these end days.
He wasn't sure, he asked me if my mom was breathing or not. He didn't know what to do. Should he call 911 or not? Who should he call? Could I just check, see if she is breathing? Can I fee a pulse?
My mom does wear an oxygen tube so the air he felt coming from her could have been that. He couldn't tell. But, it wasn't. She was breathing on her own, but it was very shallow. He pulse was thready and she was unresponsive. What do you do? He called 911, and the operator there took me through the paces. Having taught for the Red Cross, I knew the drill.
Other things I know: I know that my parents do not want to be hooked up to tubes and wires. My brothers and I know they do not want extraordinary procedures involved. My mother's health has been sketchy for many years, following a bout with Hodgkin s Lymphoma just after their 50 anniversary. They have been married over 59 years now.. time marches on when we are busy doing other things, it seems. I know they don't like a fuss, and I know my father holds his independence tightly - and loves my mother above and beyond any other love. Even as children, my brothers and I knew that my parents were committed. Her children - me and them - were secondary. But what to do now? A piece of my dad wants to let go, but there is another part that screams - "Not now! I'm not ready! I'm still here!".
To the hospital we went. And a few hours later, having made the decision that it was time to stop the pain, stop the tubes, and stop the intrusion, we took my mother home. It is what she wanted, and at this point in her life, my father will tell you that this is all that matters. It is her life. It is their life. We get to gather. We get to talk and listen. We get to give my mother that backward glance at her life with children. As she informed us last night, she may not be responding, but she can hear us. She is listening.
Sixty four years with someone is more than a lifetime. It is also an incredible journey. It is one of deep abiding love and commitment. And now, as we move toward the end of existence on this planet, my mom and dad need to know it has been for a purpose. She needs reassurance that we will be ok. She needs to know my dad will be ok. She has cared for him and about him for so long. What she hates most is leaving him here. Alone.
What woke my father and made my mother jump up at 4:45am on Tuesday was the defibrillator, the one implanted in my mother's chest. A few years ago, following a small heart attack, the decision was made to put one in. Neither of my parents were ready at that time to say goodbye. But, it was the first time we all consider that my mother's life was not going to get better. Sure, we had good days - a lot of them - but some decisions and discussions were going to begin. The What-if was on the table now. What if? And so here we are. Having reached a decision and a consensus, today we will have the defibrillator deactivated. And as my mother's heart slows to a stop, we will be here. Together. It may take a day. It may take a week. But I know she is ready to go and I know that I am glad to have these end days.
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