The first time I sat beside someone I loved as they passed away was my adoptive daddy. He was dying of heart disease--something that had eaten at him the last decade or more of his life. I watched him pop nitro-glycerin tablets as if they were Pez candies.
But sitting beside someone in an ICU unit is much different than allowing the dying process to enter your home.
Mother and I were let in hourly--for ten minutes at a time. We sat in the orange vinyl chairs, or hovered over his hospital bed rail. I never felt as if I could get close enough.
And the nurse came and got us, told us he was going, and we stood by as he gasped his last breaths.
Sad, I know, but this too, is a part of life.
My mother's passing was different.
She passed away in my home. I sat in a recliner next to her bed. There was carpet, and although she was in a hospital bed, it was still homier. I had weeks to watch her die. Yes, it was excruciating, but it also gave me chance to climb down the mountain with her.
I've climbed mountains, real mountains, and I've learned it's not the uphill, the incline that's so hard. It's the decline when your quads are shaking, your balance is wonky, and you feel completely off kelter.
I wrote every day my mother lived with us. It kept me sane, helped me work out the enormous pressures and concerns I carried in my heart.
I allowed my family to keep living--going to swim practice, to part-time jobs, for my husband to go to work.
Life doesn't pause much, not even for death. But I sat there, that late spring, and I allowed dying to take up residence.
I wrote in my book, Mothering Mother:
Where are you, Mother? What’s going on?
I’m tired, but I’m more worried than tired. You won’t eat and it’s hard just letting you lie there not eating. The hospice nurse said not to force it and it felt fine when we were talking about it, but it doesn’t feel fine now.
Are you dying? Is this it? Are you taking those final steps or is this just another dip and turn? I don’t know; maybe it’s not for me to know. I’ve been back to your room two dozen times this morning. I can’t stay,
I just keep pacing, adjusting your pillow and cover like it’s going to help. I brush your hair back and look into your eyes, wondering if I’ve lost you for good.
I'm ironically grateful for this experience. I've sat beside my mother. I've read her Psalms, moistened her lips, bathed her hands and forehead. I didn't know if I could do it--sit there like that--but I did.
It's not even as painful to think about now as I thought it might be. It's soothing in a way. It's closure.
As a caregiver, you have to eventually realize that your loved will eventually die. It's tough to face, I know.
I hope whether you're in a hospital, in a hospice facility or at home, that you too, will have the priveledge of sitting in the quiet and experiencing life--and all that it has to offer.
Carol D. O'Dell
Author of Mothering Mother: A Daughter's Humorous and Heartbreaking Memoir,
available on Amazon and in most bookstores
http://www.mothering-mother.com/
But sitting beside someone in an ICU unit is much different than allowing the dying process to enter your home.
Mother and I were let in hourly--for ten minutes at a time. We sat in the orange vinyl chairs, or hovered over his hospital bed rail. I never felt as if I could get close enough.
And the nurse came and got us, told us he was going, and we stood by as he gasped his last breaths.
Sad, I know, but this too, is a part of life.
My mother's passing was different.
She passed away in my home. I sat in a recliner next to her bed. There was carpet, and although she was in a hospital bed, it was still homier. I had weeks to watch her die. Yes, it was excruciating, but it also gave me chance to climb down the mountain with her.
I've climbed mountains, real mountains, and I've learned it's not the uphill, the incline that's so hard. It's the decline when your quads are shaking, your balance is wonky, and you feel completely off kelter.
I wrote every day my mother lived with us. It kept me sane, helped me work out the enormous pressures and concerns I carried in my heart.
I allowed my family to keep living--going to swim practice, to part-time jobs, for my husband to go to work.
Life doesn't pause much, not even for death. But I sat there, that late spring, and I allowed dying to take up residence.
I wrote in my book, Mothering Mother:
Where are you, Mother? What’s going on?
I’m tired, but I’m more worried than tired. You won’t eat and it’s hard just letting you lie there not eating. The hospice nurse said not to force it and it felt fine when we were talking about it, but it doesn’t feel fine now.
Are you dying? Is this it? Are you taking those final steps or is this just another dip and turn? I don’t know; maybe it’s not for me to know. I’ve been back to your room two dozen times this morning. I can’t stay,
I just keep pacing, adjusting your pillow and cover like it’s going to help. I brush your hair back and look into your eyes, wondering if I’ve lost you for good.
I'm ironically grateful for this experience. I've sat beside my mother. I've read her Psalms, moistened her lips, bathed her hands and forehead. I didn't know if I could do it--sit there like that--but I did.
It's not even as painful to think about now as I thought it might be. It's soothing in a way. It's closure.
As a caregiver, you have to eventually realize that your loved will eventually die. It's tough to face, I know.
I hope whether you're in a hospital, in a hospice facility or at home, that you too, will have the priveledge of sitting in the quiet and experiencing life--and all that it has to offer.
Carol D. O'Dell
Author of Mothering Mother: A Daughter's Humorous and Heartbreaking Memoir,
available on Amazon and in most bookstores
http://www.mothering-mother.com/
No comments:
Post a Comment