strange night

It’s 3 a.m. She’s up. Wants us both with her. Wants to sit at the table and talk and eat. I think she thinks she’s going to die before morning. The cat is sleeping somewhere, hidden, in her room.
So we sit with her, at the kitchen table, and listen as she talks, non-stop, in a voice so weak that we can hardly hear. She wants me to have her hats and some suit that she seems to be fond of. She talks of the past, of people in her past. She cries a little. Thanks us. Says we are angels; knows we’re her kids making up for all the rotten things we’ve done over the years. We give her a Tylenol. She takes nothing stronger than that for pain.
In an hour, she’s ready to go to sleep again. I know that she will be up, every hour on the hour, to go to the bathroom, and we will have to help her. Yawn. So much for a good night’s sleep.
When she wakes close to noon, she seems surprised to find that she’s still alive. She is weak. Unsteady on her feet. She gets up and sits in her recliner for a while, eats some eggs, and goes back to sleep.
I get on the phone to find out how we might be able to get medical help at home. Other kind of help is easier to get, but it’s the medical support that we really need. She doesn’t want to have to go back to a hospital, and we don’t want her to either. We’ll take advantage of the caregiving help, too.
I finally find someone who can explain the process. But, of course, it’s the holidays, so I can’t get to anyone in charge until Tuesday. She has a neurologist appointment on Tuesday, and I have no idea how we will get her dressed and out of the house and into a car.
My cat, Calli, keeps trying to sleep next to my mom, but she doesn’t want my chubby feline on her bed. Calli eats a little, follows me around, keeps trying to sneak into my mother’s bedroom.
I read. I knit. I sit and blog while my brother sits with her. Tomorrow is New Year’s Eve.
This is the way the year ends; this is the way the year ends. This is the way the year ends — not with a bang, but a whimper.

4 thoughts on “strange night

  1. I keep wondering how you muster up the courage to go on and on in so total and dedicated a way. Your mom is blessed to have you, and I hope beyond all the frustration and fear and uncertainty that you also feel in the depths of your soul the truth of you: that no one may ever question your commitment to the right thing. I admire you. Hang in.

  2. ditto myrln’s comment. It is all so very sad. Endings. The inevitable. I am glad to hear she seems, in some ways, happy. Grateful. Even if she feels you are “making up” for previous wrongs. 😉
    All of you deserve some peace. I am glad you are finding help.
    I hope that when the time comes, I can live up to the example you have set for caring, compassion, patience, commitment — well, for family.

  3. these heart hurts, like the one you are going through now, they are precious points in time.
    turning points.
    ======> life’s lessons bring us turning points.
    this is the first time i’ve read your entry and read the one yesterday—when you cooked all that food for yourself … i was pleased to see that you did that
    : )
    though your mother can’t eat the way she used to, it is the memories of her … shared spaces, memory markers, foods and stories we share with one another that keep people alive.
    i had the honor of tending to people i loved while they were dying and it is a really precious time … we are given the opportunity to say and do things that some people never get to share with the people they love … make certain that you and your brother also do things to tend to your own needs/souls. please do t a k e care.

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