When I arrived midweek, late in the evening, Mom was “waiting up” as usual, now she was in a hospital bed.   (The “H” word we had avoided for many months since she loved her double bed and pretty bedroom, but when she finally had a fall that made her now bed- bound status apparent, she agreed to the hospital bed in the living room, smack in the middle of all the activity and entertainment). Nearly midnight, I could see the fatigue written on her face.  Her skin was thin, dry, and translucent looking, and I thought to myself, “She’s becoming more transparent”… still that lovely smile that reached her eyes, and gathered you into her warmth and love. 

We had visitors and family in and out- everyone flitting around and landing next to the bed to hold that kind hand and hear the whispered words.  She was still feisty, and told me that she was feeling good inside, but getting a “little tired of it all”.  We’d  had many gatherings in her living room, often centered around food, and she would try to eat bits now and then, but the alien life force within her body refused any offerings of nourishment.  I had explained to our loving family that we could no longer talk about, plan, and execute meals in mom’s house, she couldn’t eat, and it simply wasn’t fair to eat in front of her (and the food odors weren’t helpful, either).  Mom always denied being nauseated, but the minute she made an attempt to eat what someone prepared, up it came.  For a family that for years had been physically nourished by their mom’s wonderful cooking, with every one of the kids going straight to the refrigerator when they entered mom’s little place, this was an adjustment for everyone.  Still, from the six children and their spouses to the 18 grandchildren, some of their spouses, and seven great-grandchildren, it seemed there was non-stop visiting and caretaking, and the walls of her small living room bulged with love and laughter those final weeks. 

On that final trip, the clinical signs of impending death were more obvious to me, and I spent some time that last week before mom’s passing sharing the things to expect and what I saw happening with my siblings. Mom would speak quietly, tiring readily, and breathing in little gasps if she tried to talk much.  With no solid food and minimal intake the last 10 days or so, signs of dehydration were evident (her catheter drained very concentrated urine, and her skin was very dry, making little pillows if you pinched it carefully).  We kept mom’s mouth moist with tiny sips of fluid, mostly just to swish around (she hated the swabs supplied by Hospice, the taste made her even more nauseated). 

Mom had only a few brief moments of what could be described as paranoia, she whispered to me that night as I tucked her into bed “some of them are trying to kill me”- speaking of her daughter-caregivers, and she worried about the medicine, how much and when they gave it. As a nurse I was able to tell her in a rational way what the medicine did, and what it prevented, how her disease had progressed, and the changes that were occurring- all part of this thing called Dying.  We had some conversations about the physical process of dying, she was curious and wanted to know what I had seen, how most people died.  Even though Mom had cared for Dad during his fight with cancer, and watched her parents die in the hospital many years before, she wanted to know what to expect when “it was really happening” to her.  We talked about the “shutting down”of her body, a little at a time, and the likelihood that she would reach a state of unawareness before her heart and lungs stopped working.

She graciously accepted all the things “done” to her, knowing they were out of love and concern.  As her world narrowed, she worried about small things like the amount of laundry that was done, “Oh you girls make so much work”.  Putting on a clean gown and bed baths and linen changes become a part of the daily routine, and she admittedly always felt better after the morning ritual.  She complained good- naturedly about her bossy daughters, and we tried to honor her wishes as best we could and lighten those moments of indignity and embarrassment.  Bathing became a time of laughing and singing “washing” hymns and her wonderful hospice bath aide was truly an angel.

Although she had talked a long time about being ready to go, the going wasn’t easy.  Our last visit down, only ten days before, mom had looked around at all her kids, and their kids, her crazy family, and said to a granddaughter who sat with her, “This is heaven on earth”.  Not an easy task to leave so much love, and the center of her existence, this loving family.

Her daughters gathered Friday night for a “slumber party”.  Mom loved seeing all “the girls” together; being stupid and silly, drinking wine around the kitchen table… “There are my caregivers, getting drunk” she would tease. Our practice for months now had been singing songs at night to “tuck Mom in”.  How roles reverse in our life!   All the wonderful songs mom sang to her children, over all the years: most of them we carried on to our children, who now sing them to their little ones.  We finished Mom’s night time routine, and as she fell asleep, we sat whispering at the table together.  There was only one glass of wine, and as we started sharing it, we realized this was a healing moment, we forgave each other our differences, our pettiness, our words spoken and thoughts shared of who did what, the “shoulds” suddenly didn’t matter.  We all had been here for Mom and each other, some more, some less, for the past nearly seven months.  We shared communion together and laughed and cried together, and the Lord cemented this sisterly tie that had never actually disappeared, just faded in light of cancer’s harsh reality- stoma care, wound care, emptying commodes, doing laundry, staying “up” when all you felt like doing was crawling in a hole to weep and lick your wounds.  And in-between doing all the “chores”, remembering life would be empty soon of this beautiful woman that  had graced your life.