I was caught off guard. Shocked that just one day prior things were somewhat fine and normal, and the next they were so far from fine that every single thing outside [the situation] was suddenly viewed as insignificant, unimportant.
It's been five and a half months today. Five and a half months since my mom died. It's still hard to believe. I'm completely amazed that the world did not stop turning. I was sure it would, but not even a pause.
I don't know what's normal when something like this happens but I'm still having a hard time. It's not that I'm angry. It's that I miss her terribly. The tears still flow without much notice.
She was in the hospital for three weeks. I didn't go to work. But school - I felt (at the time) I couldn't get out of. It was an online writing class and I didn't finish, but while I was trying - I wrote about my mom, and the situation.
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(This is the rough draft I submitted, seems I've misplaced the final version - oh well.)
It's after 3 o'clock AM on Tuesday, August 22, 2006. I sit in a chair, feet propped on the air vent beside a hospital bed. The room is stark, mocking our circumstance. Curtains hang on curved gliders left there to divide the room. A white board keeps track of the date and the name of the night nurse, Jordan. A clock, another reminder of time – ticking away.
I made the move to Seattle three years ago. My mom had been hospitalized, the emphysema was acerbated; I was too far away. The year before she had chosen to make a work-related move here alone, far from the family. Still I needed to be closer, just in case. In the past few months, we have reached the ‘in case’ phase of the journey.
Tonight, as has become the norm, the rhythm of her breathing is irregular. I've adjusted to the sound, that’s what we humans do; we adjust. Soon they will be in to administer another breathing treatment. She'll grumble, but comply. Yes of course she'll comply; she wants to keep breathing.
Our day has been rough, a series of intense moments. A grim picture was painted early on. Most days you can count on people to edit their words, soften the tone. Today we were plainly told that my mom is teetering on the edge. Her lungs have not worsened, but her body is becoming less able to compensate for their shortcoming. Her breathing, at rest, would compare to you or I constantly climbing a staircase without stopping 24 hours a day. That's how hard she has to work for each breath; no rest stops. The longer she climbs the harder it gets.
Current hope rests on a machine called a bi-pap ventilator. It sits beside her hospital bed on a shiny, tray-like stand with five wheels circling. Hope for her future, a hero. Mom thinks it’s a villain, a bully. It forces air through a tube, into a mask -- like a wind tunnel. Its job is to push air into her lungs and hold them open so that she can breathe and her muscles, relax.
Best-case is those muscles will repair from the marathon they've been running. Worst-case they don't and we have to move to intensive care -- where the options are few.
This is the news I relayed, by phone, to my brother in Indiana. He was silent -- I wondered if I had lost the call. But I knew my words were to the point and hard to hear. I continued, telling him that mom had cried when the doctor left the room. And how I tried not to cry as I attempted to soothe her fear, all the while still absorbing the doctor’s words as they bounced around in my head. I repeated what I had said to her, hoping it would also resonate with him, "It’s okay. It's better that we know now, it's better. Knowledge can soothe the fear of the unknown". He broke through to ask when he should fly out. I said I didn't know.
Similar phone calls were held in a series to other family members, mom's siblings. Each reacting in their own way, as individuals do. It felt odd to be the messenger, all ears available to the youngest. Questions, there were plenty – answers there were few. This is where we are, my family and I. Caught in a wind tunnel, holding on for life.
I had peppered the doctor with questions though, admittedly, I had a hard time pairing what he said to thoughts in my mind. His words were clear, but somehow not making sense. I think I’m asking him the same questions every day. Though there’s no mistake his words were meant to prepare us for what’s ahead.
The day moved quickly and I’m losing chunks of time. I’ve taken to making lists of what happens each day so I can prove to myself time didn’t pass without action. I have no idea how long I can deprive myself of sleep. It’s necessary right now, since some of the medicines cause anxiety and it rips me up to leave her here, alone and miserable.
It’s been said that there’s nothing I can do for my mom. That's not a phrase I can digest, I always think there’s something. That statement, “there’s nothing you can do”; it’s a trigger for me. Brings either tears or anger, occasionally both. In this case, it’s true – I can’t breathe for her. Only be there for her, that’s what I can do.
Southwest view from the South Beach Trail ~ Discovery Park, Seattle ~ 09.23.07
West Point Lighthouse ~ Discovery Park, Seattle ~ 09.23.07
Plant life ~ Discovery Park, Seattle ~ 09.23.07
West Point Lighthouse ~ Discovery Park, Seattle ~ 09.23.07
Puget Sound ~ Discovery Park, Seattle ~ 09.23.07
Surf @ the beach ~ Discovery Park, Seattle ~ 09.23.07
Driftwood structure on the beach ~ Discovery Park, Seattle ~ 09.23.07
