Its 8 a.m.  My mom’s in the hospital. I’m watching her sleep. Usually she can sense when I’m in the room and her eyes pop open, but not this morning.

I’m here to talk with her surgeon. We had a meeting scheduled for yesterday but he was two hours late and I eventually had to leave.  

I forgave him later when he called me at home to apologize with a soft southern drawl.  

Soft southern drawls melt me.  

He’s late again. Today I don’t care, I’m here for the duration. Today my mom will be wheeled away to surgery and when she’s back here in her room, it’ll all be different; a new chapter in my mom’s life at almost 92 years old.

In all the years of my nursing career, I’ve seen more horrendous sights than I care to remember. Sometimes I couldn’t help but identify and wonder…..what if this was happening to me?  Of everything I’ve dealt with over the years, it was the thought of a colostomy that I didn’t think I could ever accept.

Yesterday I had to tell my mom if she wanted to heal, she’d have to agree to a colostomy.  I had to bury all my personal feelings, explain the procedure and try to make it sound like a good thing.  That’s almost like allowing a Python to be wrapped around my neck and then smile for the camera.

I stressed that the ultimate decision was hers.  

She’s suffered through so much pain over the past three months and all she wants is for it to go away.  A colostomy is the only answer.  There’s really no choices. It needs to be done. 

A very young man has entered the room.  I recognize his soft, country drawl when he asks if I’m the daughter.  This is who’s gonna put a scalpel in his hands and perform surgery on my mom?  He barely meets the criteria for being a young man. A visual of Doogie Howser enters my mind.  This guy looks even younger than Doogie.

He explains the procedure to my mom.  She cries.  She’s quivering.  She’s scared.  She turns to me and asks me to explain.  I bring it down a couple notches so she can comprehend. She cries some more. I’ve forever thought that old people shouldn’t have to cry. I swallow the lump sitting in my throat. I promised myself I’d get through this morning without one tear. I don’t know why. I guess just to be brave for my mom. The promise has already been broken earlier as I drove to the hospital so no more tears. I think of a goal my dear friend and I have worked on for years…..total acceptance. That’s what I want kept at center stage today…..total acceptance.

The nurse hands me a Surgical Consent Form. I’m overwhelmed that it’s me who has to give the OK to do this to my mom. It’s my hand that quivers now as I sign. And now it’s a done deal, we just wait. No particular time, they’ll just fit her in sometime about 11 a.m. this morning.

I watch my mom make the sign of the cross and say her three Hail Mary’s. The same three Hail Mary’s that have gotten her through one crisis after another in her life. When our hunk-of-junk car wouldn’t start, three Hail Mary’s and we were on our way. It always worked! I remember thinking when I was a little girl….it’s a magic Catholic car.

Three Hail Mary’s have always been her hallmark. Whenever anything goes wrong, whenever anyone wants something real bad…..my mom says three Hail Mary’s.  Those three Hail Mary’s won’t stop when my mom leaves this planet.  I have a couple daughters who’ll always remember and say grandma’s three Hail Mary’s.  

There’s nothing left to do but wait. She tells me how scared she is and I see it on her face. She tells me it’s not the surgery she’s scared of, it’s the pain. She doesn’t think she can handle any more pain. I assure her as well as I can without lying that I think the worse pain is over.  

My mom didn’t get to be 92 years old by being a wimpy weakling. She’s a bull-dog.  She’s tough and she’s determined. But the pain she’s endured the past few months has brought her almost to surrendering. Yesterday she confided to my daughter that she was thinking of giving up. That’s not like my mom. She’s never been a quitter.

This morning she tells me she wants a little more time on this earth. She wants to shop the mall with me some more and go out to lunch like we did before all of this happened. She wants to come spend the day with me at my house, celebrate birthdays and holidays with family and friends and spend time on the patio where she lives.  

It was a neglected patio when my daughter, Melissa first found it; lots of potential but obviously in need of care.  Melissa has an amazing “green thumb” and love of gardening…neither inherited from me.  he brought it all back to life. It’s full of colorful flowers now. She named it “Grandma’s Garden.” My mom loves sitting out there and admiring all that her granddaughter did in her honor.  

People are coming in and out of her room now…a respiratory therapist gives her a couple snorts on her puffer…an RN hangs a bag of IV antibiotic…and a clerk goes over  a check-list

Dentures…check

Glasses…check

Hearing aids…check

Jewelry…the only jewelry she has on is her “magic bracelet.” She had to make a wish when I gave it to her and put it on. It’s a string ofglass beads.  When the string breaks, her wish will come true. The nurse promises not to take it off. They’ll cover it with tape.

The lab tech is here to draw more blood. The chaplain shows up to pray with her.

A nurse comes in to ask if she’s in pain. She says “no pain.” Then she looks over at me, smiles and says it again, “no pain.”

She asks me what time is it.  It’s 10 a.m.

Sometime during the past three months she’s forgotten how to tell time, how to read, how to play her electronic Solitaire game and how to do her beloved Word Search books.

When she was in the ER in May for severe dehydration, I mentioned this new problem. They did a C/T Scan of her brain and the results were no stroke. I haven’t been able to accept that. She acts like a stroke. She has expressive aphasia. The words are all in her head, she knows what she wants to say but they sometimes come out jumbled and in the wrong order….but just sometimes. She’s aware of this problem, it makes her nervous when she’s trying to get the words out and then she stutters and stammers. Sometimes, she stops, puts her head down and I can see a tear trinkle down her cheek.  

Yesterday the ER doc and the hospitalist both finally agreed with me that she very probably had some sort of small stroke.   

A young man comes in to empty the trash containers and mop the floor. This is a beautiful hospital with an amazing calm, Zen-like feel. The rooms are all private.  Lovely upholstered window benches convert to beds for family who wish to spend the night. A large chalk board on the wall at the foot of her bed tells her the date and names of her nurses on each shift. This is an all RN hospital. The walls are paneled with a combination of blue and brown coloring. One comfortable chair is bed side. It rocks. My mom wants to take it home with her. Her bed has a flotation mattress and she told me it was super comfortable. There’s of course a TV and a vanity-sink area and a private bathroom with a shower. The food is tastefully served, smells and looks great and the little she’s tasted, she raved about.  

It’s quiet in here now. The whirr of the bed’s mattress motor and my mom’s sleeping rhythmic breathing are the only sounds. I can hear the muffled voices of the nurses sitting just outside her door. I close my eyes, remember when it was me sitting, charting at a nurses station and it brings a smile.  

The hospitalist comes in. Hospitalist is a concept that had not yet been invented  when I  was a hospital RN. Family docs no longer follow their patients once they’re admitted as they used to…a hospitalist takes over. I ask him how long we have to wear gowns and gloves while we’re in her room. He tells me probably the entire time my mom is here due to the highly resistant bug that’s in her urine causing a Urinary Tract Infection. It’s a pain gowning and gloving each time we enter. I guess we’re lucky we don’t have to mask also.

He wakes her up and asks her if she remembers him from yesterday. She smiles and nods her head yes. He listens to her heart and lungs, wishes her well with her surgery and he’s on his way. She falls back to sleep.

I sit here and look at this pale, very vulnerable looking little old lady. Her forehead is colored with shades of black, blue and a little purple. She bruises easily. She was required to lie in the prone position during yesterday’s scans. Her forehead must not have been on anything soft. She touches it often and asks me why it hurts.  

I sit in quiet and watch her. This is my mom…the only mom I ever get. I think of so many things…some good, some funny and some bad. Much of her life was tough and her stressors were many. It hardened her, but I’m sure that’s how she made it to 92 years old.  

Two RN’s come in to take her vital signs, put a clean gown on her and reposition her.  She’s quiet and lets them do their job. She hurts when they move her, I can tell. Soon as they’ve finished, she falls back to sleep.

It’s lunchtime now and I’m hungry. Missy brought lunch but I can’t eat it in her room. She hasn’t had food since yesterday. Maybe she’s not hungry but no way can I eat in front of her. We go down to the dining room and out on a patio. It feels so good to be outside in the sunshine. On the way out of the dining room I buy a bag of Gummy Bears. I would have liked a smaller bag but the $6 size is all they have.  I’m addicted to gummies and I already know I won’t stop til I’ve eaten about $4 worth and then be ready to puke!

We go back to her room and we wait.

3:15 p.m., finally time to go.  She’s wheeled to the OR and we wait with her in a little holding area. She’s scared. I turn on the TV for diversion and it’s ELVIS IN HAWAII. We sing and I dance for her. She laughs and for a moment, I think she forgets.

Little by little people come out to check her. The anesthesiologist promises her she’ll be sleeping and will feel no pain. My mom asks her if she’s Catholic and she says yes.  My mom asks her if she’ll pray with her.  They bow their heads together and quietly say three Hail Mary’s. Missy cries. I swallow the lump.  

Finally time to go in. My mom is petrified. She makes the sign of the cross, tears fall from her eyes. She whispers to my daughter she wants her broken family to be happy and all together again. 

We hug her and kiss her goodbye and tell her we love her. We promise we’ll be waiting for her when it’s over.  

Missy and I take a little walk, use the restroom, get more ice for our water containers and then go to the surgical waiting area.  

Within five minutes the surgeon appears. My heart sinks to the floor. The few seconds it takes for him to reach us seem like an eternity. He’s so sorry but he can’t do the surgery now!!!!! He’s a trauma surgeon and he’s been called to the ER for an incoming trauma. We’re in disbelief. What’s this gonna do to my mom’s head when she wakes up? This is horrible. He promises he WILL do the surgery today…probably in about two hours. She’s already been given Versed so she’s comfortable.  But………. what about us?

She’s already back in her room when we get there. She’s sleeping. I hope she sleeps the entire time we wait. 

Two hours pass…nothing. Then three hours and the word is 7:00 p.m. is the new time.  Now it’s 7:00 p.m. and the nurse comes to tell us it’ll be 11:00 p.m. Missy and I decide to go home until 10:30. We tell the charge nurse we’re going home for a bit and we’ll be back at 10:30 p.m. and please call us if there’s any changes.  

10:35 p.m., I meet Missy in the parking lot. She has a broken foot and I help her on to the scooter apparatus that’s she’s using to get around. As we’re approaching my mom’s room, we see the doctor and a nurse coming toward us at the end of the hallway. The nurse introduces herself as the OR RN. The surgery has been put off until 2 a.m.!!!!!  Missy and I blow. This is way past any point of tolerance. We hear all their explanations, it’s been a horrid night of trauma but we’ve just lost our patience. I tell them NO. I don’t want my mom operated on at 2 a.m. The OR RN promises us tomorrow morning at 8 a.m. Missy and I peek in on my mom. She’s still sleeping peacefully. I walk Missy out to her car, help her load the scooter thing and we hug good night.  

Sunday morning, it’s 7:15 a.m. and we’re back. The day shift is on and they all know what has transpired. They all feel bad for us. We’re trying to just keep our spirits up and be polite. Missy and I are a bit “giddy” with not enough sleep and too much stress.

My mom is awake and a bit confused but in excellent spirits. I explain there was lots of trauma last night so the procedure had been put off til this morning. She understands.

7:45 a.m., here we go. We’re in the OR waiting area. My mom’s scared. She wants me to tell her exactly what they’re doing once more. I try.  

Last night’s questioning begins again…an RN comes in to check her arm band and asks her birthday. She gets the month and day right but uses my birth year instead of hers. I tease her, telling her she just made herself 22 years younger.

8:12 a.m., a different anesthesiologist than last night comes to introduce himself and once again go over the routine. He lists the risks and complications which is enough to scare anyone and again, she made him promise she’d be asleep.  He promises.

8:18 a.m., we escort her gurney to the OR door. She’s nervous and whispers to Missy that she’s forgotten some of the words to the Hail Mary so, like a good used-to-be Catholic, I pray the Hail Mary out loud and she follows along.  

The doctor told us it was a 30-45 minute surgery. There’s no clock in the surgical waiting room. That’s a dumb inconvenience! I check my cell phone time every 3 minutes.

9:14 a.m., in four minutes it’ll be an hour since they wheeled her into the OR. We hear an announcement overhead that a trauma patient is on the way with a 2 minute ETA. We hear the helicopter landing. I think to myself that I’m glad when I worked ER years ago, in the older, original version of this hospital that it was just a small community hospital not a large trauma center.  

I look around the waiting room, eight chairs and one sofa. A mom and her teenage son sit waiting while her other son is having leg surgery. A woman on the phone is telling someone where something is located in her cupboard at home. The lady sitting next to me (a bit older) keeps adding tidbits to the cupboard conversation, speaking in what sounds like maybe Russian. Missy is flipping through a magazine and I’m checking the clock again.  

9:25 a.m., I’m trying so hard to accept what’s happening to my mom. She’s in the hands of a very young, hopefully very skilled, surgeon…a stranger doing something so serious and personal, changing her body image forever.

9:27 a.m., I hear voices in the hall, it makes me anxious. When will this be over? 

Again I go backwards and reflect on life. I think of photographs I’ve seen when my mom was very young.  I think of the two oil paintings from her twenties. They hang on the wall of her room at the skilled nursing facility (SNF). She wants everyone to know she wasn’t always old. Once she was young and very pretty.  

Three young people come into the waiting room. They hug and kiss the two women sitting together. They say “Hi Grandma” to the Russian speaking woman.  

Two doctors come for the mom and son. They’re smiling. I guess that surgery is over and was successful. They leave.

9:32 a.m., my stomach is getting sick.

Lots of pillows and blankets are scattered around in here. We’re told there were seven traumas last night. There must have been lots of family or friends spending the night in here. I heard Russian grandma and the other woman say they slept in the car all night in the parking lot. It sounds like they were just passing through Roseville when they were involved in a motor vehicle accident.

9:36 a.m., my stomach really hurts.

9:41 a.m., my thumb is numb from writing, I run it under hot water.

9:43 a.m., my daughter Julie calls from Southern California to check on her Grandma.

9:45 a.m., everytime someone walks past the door, my heart sinks. I feel like I could puke.

9:53 a.m., two more family members come in with Russian grandma’s family. It sounds like it was Grandpa who was hurt.  

One granddaughter tells grandma that she can’t afford college so she’s joining the Air Force. She says she lost 15 pounds and if she can do it, anyone can.  (Thanks Air Force girl, I’ll remember that.)

One grandson is wearing the worst T-shirt I’ve ever seen…..ever! It’s a close-up of Marilyn Monroe; both eyes are blacked out, her nose is a skeleton nose, her teeth are blacked out and she has scars on her cheeks. It’s all in black and white and just GROSS! He’s loaded with tattoos. He has a kind of cute girlfriend with him. He doesn’t introduce her to anyone and it’s obvious they don’t know who she is. She looks at the floor and picks at her nails. Tattoo guy is talking to everyone about how wonderful Montana is and he and girlfriend are moving there.  

There’s another grandson with another cute girlfriend who obviously no one knows. He must go out into the back forty for a smoke (it’s a non-smoking campus) and leaves her there with a bunch of people she doesn’t know.  Nice shot smoker boy!

10:00 a.m., what’s happening with my mom? That ridiculously young doctor said 45 minutes. It’s now been ONE HOUR and 45 minutes. My hands begin to tremble when I think of what’s going on and what could have gone wrong.  

10:04 a.m., WHAT’S TAKING SO LONG? I see my mom in my mind’s eye. It’s like a motion picture from when she was younger and independent. I see her pulling up our driveway in her green car every night after work for a sit and chat at the dining room table. Sometimes just a quick visit, sometimes she stays for dinner.  The girls run in for a hug when they see her car. Julie always wants to wear her glasses. My mom tells her for $100 she’ll let her wear them. Julie calls her “Hundred Dollar Grandma.”  

10:09 a.m., I’m sick.

10:23 a.m., I call the recovery room and speak with Ann. She tells me that OR called her 15 minutes ago and said my mom would be taken to recovery in 20 minutes. That means it’s over and she’s alive. A huge lump comes to my throat. I really don’t want to cry. I’m tired of crying. I feel like I’m gonna have a panic attack. I take in deep, slow breaths of air. I talk to myself…..CHILL!

A very sad looking young woman joins Russian grandma. I hear her say her husband was riding the motorcycle in the accident and his leg must be amputated. She looks like she’s in her late 20’s. Sad.

10:38 a.m., still nothing.

Ewwww, I get a good look at Montana Man’s left arm. It’s 100% tattooed. Not real attractive.  

10:51 a.m., still no word. I’m pacing the hallway. It’s way too noisy in the waiting room.

11:01 a.m., still nothing.

11:06 a.m., this just SUCKS! I call recovery. My mom’s there! The nurse will call me when we can go in.

11:30, a.m., “Doogie Howser” appears at last. He tells us my mom had lots of scar tissue he had to get through but it was successful and it’s over and she did well. I tell him I want to see my mom NOW! He makes a call then escorts us to the recovery room.

Oh my poor mom. She’s moaning and crying. “It hurts” she keeps saying. I promised her it would be better and it’s not. It’s so hard to see my mom cry. The RN gives her an IV push of Fentanyl. Minutes later I tell the nurse she still hurts. She gives her more Fentanyl. Still no relief. The nurse in me pops out. Could the IV be clogged I ask? They check and discover yep, it’s clogged. Her pain medication is not getting through. She hurts real bad. IV Therapy is called to restart an IV and one nurse leaves to find Doogie Howser to get an order for an Intra Muscular (IM) pain injection. She hurries back with the order and gives my mom a shot in the arm. My mom screams and cries. I can’t stand it. IV Therapy comes and starts a new IV.  The Nurse administers medication through the IV. She becomes better almost immediately, she’s quiet.  

We walk alongside her gurney to her room. Missy and I wait until she’s in her room and settled. We each kiss her goodnight. She’s sleeping and out of pain.

7:30 p.m., I want to go back and see my mom. I decide to call first. Her nurse tells me she’s sleeping soundly and out of pain. I ask her to call me at home if my mom wants me.  

11 a.m., Monday, August 12th. She’s sleeping but she feels me in the room and wakes up. She’s pretty drugged. She’s talking a lot. She tells me she’s been given way too many pills. My mom is very aware of her daily pills and questions them if they aren’t the right color and right number. I guess she thinks she’s at the SNF.  She’s telling me the only pain she’s feeling is on her belly. She’s gently touching right where her Colostomy is. She rubs it softly. She’s talking lots and very funny.  She wants a sandwich and wants to go outside.

11:20 a.m., I ask her to look at the big clock on the wall and tell me what time it is.  She says, “11:20”. Hooray!

11:50 a.m., she’s asking for pain medication. They give her 2 mg of Morphine IV push. I see immediate relief.

12:00 noon, lunch is delivered. I tell her that she used to feed me when I was a little girl and now it’s my turn to feed her. She’s happy with this. She eats half of her mashed potatoes, 2 green beans, 2 small bites of chicken and a spoonful of sherbert.

12:45 p.m., she’s sitting up in bed taking note of her surroundings and asking me lots of Colostomy questions. I answer as simply and cheerfully as I can. She says it’s gurgling. She makes a gurgling noise to tell me how it sounds. I laugh at her and  she laughs at me.  

5 p.m., I kiss her goodnight and I go home. I’m pretty tired. We have an early, easy dinner and I fall asleep on the sofa. I love my husband!

2:30 a.m. Tuesday August 13, I’m awake. I can’t sleep anymore. Too many things rolling around in my head. I want my mom back so I can talk and laugh with her like we do. I wonder how she is. I consider getting dressed and going over now. I decide to wait and spend a bit of the morning with my darling man. I’ve seen him for only minutes during the past few days. I decide to catch up on my computer, zip through the house and straighten up things and walk my dogs who’ve been dog-walk-neglected. 

I’m in her room before 10 a.m. She’s sitting up with her eyes closed.  Her breakfast looks like maybe a bird pecked at it. She opens her eyes and is happy to see me…I’m happy to see her. The nurse tells me she had a restful night. They gave her Morphine earlier and then did her dressing change. I ask how it looks.  Not good, she tells me. 

10:30a.m., the ostomy nurse is here. She removes the bag and explains the surgery to me. It’s not a “rosebud” which I’m used to, it was a “loop.” She cleaned it and put on a new bag. It gurgled, my mom laughed. She calls it her friend! That’s my mom…..amazingly resilient.  

I sit and watch her doze. Lunch is delivered at 11a.m. I feed her more mashed potatoes and gravy and a couple small pieces of turkey. She doen’t want anything else. I go down to the cafeteria for an order of French Fries and a bottle of water at noon. I bring them back to the room. She eats one teeny fry. Just one! She loves fries! 

I have a 1:30 p.m. MD appointment for myself which I made weeks ago. I need to go, I can’t cancel it. My doc is a sweet man and when I see him, I fall apart and sob.   

When I arrive back at the hospital, the hospice RN is looking for me. We go outside and sit at a patio table in the shade. She’s a warm soul, perfect for hospice. She starts slow, carefully bringing me to the real subject at hand. She’s reviewed my mom’s chart, had a conference with the caregivers and it’s most probable that my mom’s wounds are not going to heal. The “big gun” antibiotics they’ve been giving her have helped the UTI but nothing as far as healing the wounds. The wounds still look bad.  

I have choices…send her home and continue the course of IV antibiotics for a couple more days and then wait. Very probably the wounds aren’t going to heal, the pain will return, the SNF is obligated to return her to the ER where she will be poked, probed and not made comfortable for quite a while, possibly admitted for control, then back to the SNF to start the process all over.  

OR….I can order the IV’s discontinued immediately and send her back to the SNF with hospice for pain control ONLY.  

I really don’t want to cry. I’m tired of crying but the tears well-up and pour over my bottom eyelids.  

I can’t stop the treatment. It would make me my mom’s executioner. I can’t do that. I ask that they finish the round of IV antibiotics that were originally ordered upon admit. She asks what if the MD makes the decision to discontinue the antibiotics because they aren’t working? I guess I can deal with that. I just can’t do it myself. She asks me what do I want for my mom. I explain to her that I realize she’s lived a long life and the quality is leaving but until it’s time for her to go, I don’t want her to hurt, that’s all….I just don’t want her to hurt anymore. The hospice RN says that’s a reasonable goal and attainable. I sign a few papers and she gives me a brief overview of what I can expect from their care. I understand. She gives me her card, writes her cell number on it and tells me to call her anytime. I find a thank you smile for her. She finds a wonderful, caring hug for me and that part is over.

I walk back to the nurse’s station and ask if my mom is being discharged today.  The nurse shakes her head no. I’m kind of relieved.  

I sit in my mom’s room and just watch her sleep. She mumbles. I can make out a few words but not many. Every once in awhile she opens her eyes and looks around intently with a fearful expression until she sees me and then I can see her relax again.  

I decide to take a short break and maybe accomplish a few errands that have been pushed way to the back of my mind. I see Missy wheeling her one-footed-scooter towards me. She promised me she’d stay home and rest that broken foot but here she is. We find a private, quiet area with comfortable chairs. We sit and talk for at least an hour. I empty my heart. I know it’s time for my mom to leave and I want to let go of her but……………..she’s my only mom and being gone is forever.  

Missy’s young, but an old-soul and has some WISDOM beyond her years. She comforts me with all the right words. She wants to see her grandma so we go peek in her room. We don’t go inside because we have to gown and glove every time we enter her room and she’s sleeping and we shouldn’t wake her. We walk to the parking lot together and I help her get that scooter thing folded up and in the back seat. Then we decide to drive over to the SNF together and get the clothes my mom told me in a clear moment, that she wants to wear home.  

I don’t think there’s one employee in that SNF that doesn’t love my mom. As they see us, they ask about her. They can read our faces before we answer. From the administrator, to the nurses, the CNA’s, the cleaning and maintenance crew…we get hugs and kind words. When we enter my mom’s room, her favorite cleaning lady is there, leaning up against a wall…crying. She tells me in her broken English….”I love you Mama.” I force a big smile and share a hug, “she loves you too” I tell her.  

I look around at everything and feel my mom’s presence….her bed is neatly made and waiting for her. Her recliner has the special pillow on it that I bought her hoping to give her more comfort. The small dresser next to her recliner has 3 drawers. The top drawer is loaded with her jewelry. My mom loves jewelry. Middle drawer is her food cabinet….cans of Campbells chicken rice soup, small cans of tuna, crackers, biscotti’s, candy, peanut butter, spoons and small plates. Bottom drawer is her junk drawer. Her small refrigerator is on top of the dresser. I open it, toss most of the contents and wipe it clean. She knows every item that’s in that fridge and she’s not gonna be happy when she finds that I’ve tossed most of it. I leave 2 frozen meals in the small freezer, Vernor’s on the top shelf and a tupperware container with sliced ham, turkey and cheese. There’s usually fresh fruit and berries and always something homemade from either Missy, Julie or myself. 

On one wall she has a lovely, small, hand-painted cabinet. It was her favorite piece of furniture from her independent apartment days. It holds all her personal items; make up, perfumes, powders etc. On top are some of her favorite family photos.  On the wall at the foot of her bed is another table from her apartment. We keep half a dozen lovely battery operated candles on it and a vase of fresh flowers that I bring her every week. Her TV sits on that table too. On the shelf under the table are 2 wicker baskets. They hold her winter sweaters, all cleaned and packed in cedar.  

Her walls are decorated with favorites from her apartment; a crucifix above her head, the two oil paintings of her when she was very young and very pretty, a painting she did in an art class she took, and a shelf with two angels, one from Aunt Pearl and one from Aunt Ethel, two of her sisters. That’s a lot of stuff to scrunch into her half of a room but it was important to her and we did it.  

I‘ll always feel that it’s inhumane to make people share a room with strangers at the last part of their lives. It’s just wrong. I hope the Baby Boomers make a loud enough noise to change so many things about the way we treat our older generations.  

Missy wants to go out and see how “Grandma’s Garden” is doing.    

Every day before the surgery that she could stand the pain of moving, we’d wheel her out to “her” garden. Often it was the highlight of her day. And, the days she hurt too much to move, she’d ask us to go look and tell her how it was doing that day.  

So, Missy and I went out, each grabbed a hose and watered Grandma’s Garden, it was just a quiet, theraputic, think time for both of us. 

Missy suggests we go walk the aisles of Home Goods and just forget about what’s going on for a while. I agree. Shopping is Missy’s theraputic answer to all problems.  I load my basket with things I would ordinarily just enjoy looking at. Purchasing is my theraputic answer.

We shop for a short time and then go home.  

I’m so tired. I’m in a fog. I decide not to go to the hospital but stay home. I get into my most comfy pj’s, visit with my dogs and think about an easy dinner. Later I’ll lie on the sofa next to my guy and probably fall asleep.  

Our usual dinner time is 7p.m..  

 

6:45 p.m., my mom’s hospital nurse calls to tell me my mom will not allow anyone in her room. She’s holding them all at bay and calling for me. I tell her I’ll be there by 7:30. I ask her to tell my mom I’m coming. What’s that thing they say about “the best laid plans”?

We eat a quick dinner, I change back into my clothes and I’m there by 7:30 p.m. The nurse is standing in the doorway talking with my mom but NOT entering her room as instructed by my mom. I quickly put on a gown and those miserable gloves and she’s relieved the moment she sees me. She cries and begs me to believe her. I tell her I will. She tells me about a man who came into her room with 50 or 60 red and blue pills and shoved them all in her left ear and now her ear hurts. My mom gets earaches, I figure she has one. Just at the moment she’s telling me this story, a very nice male nurse walks past her door….she screams and points her finger, “there he is” she yells. I settle her, promise her no one will come into her room to hurt her. I ungown and unglove and go out to tease him. “Did you shove 50 pills down my mom’s ear?” I needed some comedy relief. He feels so bad. He tells me he’d just been in her room and she was sweet to him and then all of a sudden she began screaming at him to get out. He REALLY feels bad. (The next evening when I saw him, he was wearing a surgical cap to hide his bald head and hoping my mom wouldn’t recognize him.) He needs a set of vital signs taken and to administer her medication. I re-gown and glove, go in with the blood pressure equipment and thermometer and take her vitals for him, and I convince her to take her medication. I sit with her ’til 9 p.m. I’m so tired. The Ativan we gave her is working.  She’s sleeping and I think she’ll sleep the rest of the night.  

I‘m home in 3-4 minutes (so thankful I live so close) put on my pj’s, tell my sweet man what happened and then fall into a deep, much needed sleep.  

Wednesday August 14th, another early morning MD appointment for me. The office is on the hospital campus so from there, I go to be with my mom. Her nurse is charting on the computer. I guess they still call it charting. I ask her how was my mom’s night. She says my mom did fine. I gown and glove and go in. She opens her eyes when she feels me in the room. She’s happy to see me. I sit and talk with her while she’s awake and when her eyes close, I sit quietly and wonder WHY in my “Walter Mitty” head. WHY did all of this have to happen to a 92 year old woman? She sleeps. She’s not going home today. I’m glad. She WILL go home sometime tomorrow the second half of the day.  

Three different hospice people have left messages on my home phone. I return them one by one. They just want me to know their role and once again ask my goal for my mom. NO PAIN. I ask the chaplain if he knows the Hail Mary. He says yes.  I ask him to say three Hail Mary’s each time he comes to visit my mom.      

Thursday August 15th, the hospital calls at 11a.m. to tell me she’s returning to the SNF at 12 noon. I’m on the other side of town, I can’t make it back in time to be with her for the transfer. I ask her nurse to tell her I’ll be there just as soon as I can.  

I pull up to the SNF at 12:45 p.m. There’s my mom in her room, resting comfortably surrounded by her things that make her feel at home. I look at her. It’s been a week since she’s been in her own bed and three months of hell since this all began.  She’s aged ten years. (I think I have too!) I just stand next to her, I’m going to lose her soon. She’s on that road of no return. It’s OK. It’s time.  

I give myself permission to cry.