The Last Monday

February 26, 2007

I'm so glad I came when I did. Thursday and Friday Mom has several moments of clarity, I receive hugs and "I love you’s”.

Over the weekend at her request, we bring out her jewelry box and she ceremoniously gifts us its contents. She gives me her original wedding and engagement ring. This is such a treasure because it was THERE when my parents received the Sacrament of Matrimony, because it represents all they hoped for and built upon when they united in marriage.

"It cost $7 a week out of your father's paycheck," she tells me. "Your father only made $40 a week. It was very expensive."

It brings me to tears.

"I hope you like it. I wish I had more jewelry to give you girls."

"Mom," I reply through teary blinks, "YOU are our jewel."

That makes her smile.

I've gotten smiles and hugs. They are all but gone now.

She has transitioned from calling out for us, to calling out for those already passed. She cries out at night for her sister Jean, and Jean's husband Jimmy.

Then she calls out items of food.

"Chicken!" she cries. "Chicken and beans!"

She catches herself at certain moments, and looks sheepish and apologetic for sounding foolish. But that was two days ago. Now, she is more there than here. "Jean! Jean!" Go to Jean, Ma. Jean can't wait. Go to Jean.

Her other sister Carm comes for a visit earlier today, and I resent that her three older sisters are still alive and relatively healthy, for Italian women under five feet tall in their eighties, though their complaints would indicate otherwise. I resent that it's MY mother that fell ill, that I will have to exist without a mother, my children without their grandmother.

Resentment turns to sympathy when my little aunt's shoulders shake with sobs, when she says goodbye to her baby sister. I think I hear "I love you too" mumbled through my mother's lips. Oh, God, can I choke back any more tears?

I watch today, as my nephews file in throughout the day, clumsy and awkward, respectful, but clearly uncomfortable. We do our best to coach them.

"Tell her you love her," I tell my godson Joey, my sister's son, a broad and handsome college student.

"Hi Nonnie," he says loudly, holding her tiny waxy hand in his, "it's Joey, your favorite grandson." It prompts a small brief smile. One of the last.

We watch breathing patterns.

We take her pulse.

We see blue patches travel, from her ear now, to her fingertips, then back to her face, around her lips.

Watch and wait.

Pray for sooner than later.

If the medication is not right, there is agitation and pain. "Pull me up," she mumbles. "I want to sit up." There is significant pain in trying to position her at these times. We are changing her "pad", the dignified term for the diaper she wears, with less and less frequency. Her fluid intake is down to sips a day.

I swear her heart will pop right out of her chest. It averages about 120 beats per minute. Her hospice nurse tells us hearts can't beat like that for long periods of time, and, God forgive me, I hope she is right. I find her suffering unbearable to watch.

We take turns, my sisters and I. There are three of us, and two need to be "on duty" leaving one to get a good night's sleep. Tonight it is my sister Leslie, who has come down with the flu spending a good part of the evening vomiting in the bathroom. We try to find humor in this situation, what else can you do?

It could be a long night, based on the last several. However with so little interaction today perhaps it will be just waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting.

I count my blessings, my family, my sisters, my friends. We enjoy a fabulous mostaciolli cooked by my best friend's husband, with red wine, garlic bread, salad. I find myself playing my mother's role, setting out the plates, warming the dishes, making the salad, cleaning up. I find enormous comfort in these tasks.

My heart goes out to my brother, who has existed in a state of denial until yesterday, when Father Bob came for the Sacrament of Last Rights, holding hands around her bedside, reciting prayers, commending her spirit to the Lord. My brother sobbing in the bathroom afterward, and then sitting dazed in a chair in the corner of the living room, looking at my mother in the hospital bed. Her jaw slack, she is so thin, so pale. I see him again today, and I am tender in my approach. He is still raw and upset. He stays only briefly.

This time is sacred, a dear friend reminded me at the onset of this trip. It is extremely accurate and validating. Sacred is exactly what this is.

Only God knows the timing of what is ahead of us. We have all said our prayers to Him expressing that we are ready to let her go, that she deserves the riches and treasures of Heaven, that she is not to stay on our behalf.

We continually encourage her to tell Him she is ready.

That is all that can be done. The rest is in His hands.

We wait.