Today sucked . . .

Today sucked for my BFF.

There are no other words to put it that wouldn't cross the line into being obscene. 

Today, her mother-in-law died.  She was 90, had lived a long life, and had been in declining health for the last several years.  My friend has been a faithful caregiver to her.  She had her times when she was tired of the job, when she got frustrated and let off steam; but always, always, she went back and did what she needed to do.  Because she loved her, and part of loving her was caring for her. 

They'd known since Thursday that this might be coming.  My friend's mom in law went back to the hospital after coming home, and little by little, her body just gave out.  My friend and her husband were at the hospital when her mom in law died. 

My friend had barely slept since Thursday, hadn't showered, hadn't changed clothes.  She was not sorry to be there, not sorry to be with her husband and give him the support he desperately needed at that point. 

As I write this, they are back home, trying to get some sleep and trying to prepare for what will be a very difficult week ahead.  The funeral will be next week.  My friend's mom in law will be buried next to her husband. 

Losing a family member is bad enough for a day to suck, even when you know it's coming and you're just waiting for it to happen. 

That's not the entire reason today sucked.

Not only did they lose a mother and mom-in-law, they lost a family pet at the same time. 

Their dog was acting oddly, so my friend's son took him to the vet.  And that's when they discovered that the dog had a bleeding tumor in his abdomen. 

The vet recommended he be put to sleep. 

So he was. 

And this was all happening at the same time.  Not one happening in the morning and one in the evening, but both in the evening, both around the same time. 

It does occur to me that maybe their beagle went to keep my friend's mom in law company. 

But that above sentence is poor comfort when you lose two family members, a human and a dog, in the same day at the same time. 

My friend said she was reminded of Job wanting to curse the day he was born, because she was tempted to curse today. 

I don't blame her.

Today sucked.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Room 34 Magnolia

My mother will die in Room 34 Magnolia. 

This is her room in the Suncoast Hospice Center in Pinellas Park, Florida, where she is being cared for during her last days.

On Friday and Saturday, I saw her for the last time.

My sister prepared me well for how she would look.  She's no longer wearing her wig.  Her hair is gray and wispy.  She's lost weight.  And the leg that has given her so much trouble is discolored.

She can no longer speak.  But she will turn her head towards voices.

I played some Roger Williams music for her.  He is a pianist that she enjoyed listening to.  I showed her Matthew's graduation picture.  And I read some of my past blog entries to her.  (Whether she enjoyed those or not, I can't say. :-) ) 

Saturday I fed her applesauce and gave her water.  I watched as two nurses' aides repositioned her, and listened as she moaned in pain afterward.  There's no way you can move someone in her condition and not cause them pain.  She finally got some pain meds, and that helped her. 

I had dinner on Friday with my sister, her husband, my niece, and her boyfriend.  (The boyfriend won me over when he asked me to let everyone know when I got back home.) 

Between seeing my mother and having dinner with my family, I went to the cemetery and told my father and grandmother that Mom would probably be joining them soon.

The next day, I had breakfast with my best friend, who drove all the way up from Sebring.  I was fed so well that the next meal I had was at the Chick-Fil-A at the Tampa International Airport.  We talked, and she assured me that the feelings I had were very normal. 

That Saturday, I also saw my uncle--my mother's brother-in-law, also the man that gave me away at my wedding in place of my deceased father--for a few moments.  I gave them some alone time. 

And then I went back in and told my mother that I had to leave.

I told her I loved her.  I told her thank you for everything she'd done for me.  And I told her that if she wanted to go see Daddy, she had my permission.

Then I had to leave.

I saw my sister and niece before I went to the airport.  My sister's still cleaning up after the hurricane (dealing with some property damage) and when I got there, I found my brother-in-law operating an excavator. 

My sister, niece and I sat and talked. 

Then I headed for the airport, was whisked through the TSA pre-check (a nice surprise there!), ate dinner, recharged my electronics the best I was able to. 

At 7:25 p.m., I boarded a Spirit Air plane back to Atlanta. 

We took off at 8:14.

I landed about 9:20.

It was nearly 11:15 by the time I got in the door.  My husband had picked me up at the MARTA station, got me home, and made sure I got into bed. 

Now the waiting begins.

Mom could die today.  Or maybe next week.  We don't know.

I am glad I went, though.  I think I would have regretted it if I didn't take one final time to say good-bye.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Season of dying

Fall is a season of dying. 

It's the season where the trees, after one final blaze of colorful glory, drop their leaves.  The leaves die and the trees stand bare, waiting for spring and their annual resurrection.  

The grass lays brown and dormant, and in some parts of the world, frost attacks plants and early snow covers the ground.

This is the season of my mother's dying.

Last week, I learned that my mother was back in the hospital with another blood clot in her leg.  This is the same leg that's developed blood clots before.  It was blood clots in her leg that sent her to assisted living two years ago.  

In March, she fell and hurt her shoulder.  Ever since then, it's been a slow march downhill.  

I've only watched her dying from afar.  My sister has been coordinating her care, advocating for her rights, and trying to make her as comfortable as possible. 

Yesterday--in fact, nearly 24 hours ago--during my ladies' group, my sister texted me and told me that after a meeting with a doctor, they'd made the decision to transfer our mother to hospice care.  She's sleeping a lot and no longer very responsive.

Tomorrow afternoon I will get on a plane, the first airplane flight I've taken since my son was a baby, and fly home to tell my mother good-bye.

I have no illusions.  My mother probably will not know I am there.  The person I'm going to see will not be the mother I knew.  

Dying is ugly, grotesque, and disgusting.  This season of my mother's dying is cruel.  It's cost her her cognition, her independence, her speech, and soon it will cost her her life. 

She's lived for 79 years, 10 months, and seven days.  She lived 35 of those years married to our father, and then, nearly 25 of those years without him, the man she called her "best friend".  She's had two children and two grandchildren.  She cared for children, an ill husband, took in my sister and her child after a divorce, cared for her mother. 

Now, in this season of her dying, with her body worn out, it is time for her to be cared for. 

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.