Transitioning

Since I last wrote, each day has brought a tremendous amount of change in my mother. She did not want to get up to her chair Tuesday or Wednesday, managed to sit in her chair for about 45 minutes yesterday and 20 today. She's stopped eating, but asks for sips of liquids or a bit of something smooth to "wet her whistle" from time to time. Swallowing is difficult and often invokes these little coughing spells where Mom cannot seem to comfortably clear her throat. For a while now she's had some audible congestion in the back of her throat, and found some relief with nebulizer treatments every few hours.

Confusion has been subtle, but pops up out of nowhere. She and I were talking yesterday afternoon and she said, "I'd like to take a vacation with my brothers and sisters." "That sounds lovely, where do you want to go Mom? Block Island?" "No. Too close. Too boring." Well okay then. We settled on a cruise to Chile. This wasn't even so much confusion as a sign that Mom was slowly transitioning to a place where she is more inside of herself, dreaming of how the next stage will be. These types of conversations about going away, vacations, changes, etc. are often a way in which the dying can express their desire to move on.

Today, she sleeps. Quietly and comfortably, Mom is snoring gently and listening to the Nutcracker on her iPod. Paul, Gwennie, and I had a meeting with her hospice team and we discussed the fact that she is truly starting to make her transition in to the dying process. This afternoon we will access her port and start morphine. Morphine is a miracle drug that serves many purposes, the most commonly known being pain, however morphine is excellent at treating respiratory distress. When people are passing away, they can experience what is known as "air hunger," which is a sort of gasping and rapid breathing when the body shouts to the brain "I need oxygen, breath MORE." Morphine blocks this function, allowing someone to be pain free, and breathe comfortably. If at any point Mom seems at all uncomfortable, she can get a small dose of morphine to relieve the symptoms almost immediately. For anyone who's lost a loved one in hospice, they're probably well aware of what a gift morphine can be.

We are all hanging in there. This isn't easy, but this isn't our mother, and that is so much harder to bear than the prospect of losing her. In the past few days especially, Gwennie and I have been able to make our peace and say our goodbyes. In our counseling with the staff here, they've all instructed us on the five steps of letting go, which are:

1. I love you.

2. Do you love me?

3. I forgive you.

4. Do you forgive me?

5. Thank you.

We've had the conversations at length and on many occasions, and she knows she has our permission to leave whenever she is ready.

In the meantime, I've thrown her schedule book out the window. We're setting up shop in the hospice family room, pulling together snacks, kleenex, family, and friends. The French do nothing quietly. Mom always said to me that when the time comes, she wants to be surrounded by those she loves and those who love her. Done and done.

We were visited by some chorus members from The Cobb School, Montessori where Gwennie and I both attended as children. They entered the hallways singing carols with a holiday arrangement and huge card for Mom. If only I could do justice to the look on the faces of the residents here. An impromptu holiday concert lifted all of our spirits, and even if Mom wasn't able to enjoy it herself, she made this happen by just being who she is.

Now we wait, talk, hold hands, cry, laugh, and eat Beth Holland's cookies (thank you!!!). Mom is at peace. We are at peace. Casey is lying right in the doorway of her room blocking the way: all is as it should be.