ROOM 312

The last week was difficult as I waited with Mom through her last days.  Here are my reflections.

ROOM 312

When it’s my time, I’d like to go to bed and not wake up in the morning or be hit by a car or even electrocuted while changing a light bulb. Anything quick. I suppose that’s what we all want. We don’t always get what we want.

Now I sit in Room 312 waiting for Mom to finish dying. Even though she is almost 92 and had a stroke three years ago, which left her with aphasia and slower reasoning skills, she has enjoyed life. She has adjusted to reduced mobility, not being independent, and more recently, needing oxygen all the time. Wednesday and Thursday, she was noticeably weaker and fell several times. I had to call the fire department to have them lift her into bed.

Friday, Mom was in screaming pain and running a fever. This time they took her to the hospital. By afternoon, I knew she had pneumonia, with a lot of fluid around the lungs, but no broken bones. The doctors were trying to find the source of 102° fever. They admitted her at 4 o’clock, but it was after six before they moved her upstairs to Room 312. She was in and out of consciousness, but she knew who I was and where she was. It was 8 o’clock before I left the hospital and drove home.

 

I knew this episode was serious. The doctors and nurses all told me so. Even if they hadn’t, I knew. Mom was not going home – at least not to our home on Wade Hampton Drive

The next day, I returned. Mom was making no sense most of the time. When I held her hand and spoke to her, she recognized me. “I love you,” I said. “Love you, too,” she replied, then returned to her delusions. Later that morning, Tom and Kay stopped by to visit. Mom was incoherent. But when they took her hand and spoke her name, she opened her eyes, looked at them, and smiled. They told her their names, then Mom looked at Kay and asked “How’s your knee?”

 

Mom hadn’t seen Kay in months, the last time being Christmas day at church. I mentioned to her in January that Kay was having knee replacement, but hadn’t said anything more about it for two months. I wasn’t even sure she knew who Kay was. And then, “How’s your knee?” Those were her last words of lucidity. They expressed her familiar care and concern for others. Then her words returned to jumbled, unconnected phrases, alternating with cries of pain.

I knew she would not be leaving Room 312 alive, even before the doctor came in. He told me she had two different kinds of bacteria in her blood. They could continue to treat the infection with antibiotics, as they had been, or stop them, IV fluids, and all other treatments. Rather than trying to heal her, we could change the plan to comfort care.

I had known what I would say before he asked. I would follow Mom’s wishes and what I thought the kindest. Mom had signed a Power of Attorney in 1986, one year after dad died; a health care power of attorney, a DNR, and a Desire for Natural Death Directive in 1992; and prepaid her funeral in 2002. Several times over the last six months, as her strength weakened and her ability to do things had decreased, Mom told me to put her out in the backyard or let her die. She was tired, she was ready.

A few times on Friday and Saturday, she uttered the word, “Home.” She had said that before, when we were home. Sometime she meant her chair in the living room, other times she meant her bedroom. I had asked her from time to time if she meant heaven and she looked at me with incredulity. “No,” she said. Yet when she said it in the hospital, I hoped that was what she meant.

From that time on, they used Dilaudid and Ativan to keep her calm and pain-free. She would cry out in pain when they moved her and occasionally if the medicine wore off, otherwise she slept. Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday were long days of waiting, made bearable by a continual influx of friends from my church at Waters Edge. I told stories about Mom. We laughed and sighed.

In the times I sat there alone, I thought how ironic life can be. Mom lived in over a dozen places, walked beaches and malls, trekked to and from schools, sang, danced, and drove around the eastern half of the country. She loved being on the move. After her stroke, she came to Pennsylvania to live with me, then back to Beaufort after I retired. I took her to restaurants and the beach. She enjoyed going for rides, if only to get out of the house for a while. We even took refuge in Charlotte for a week after Hurricane Matthew.

But after we returned from Charlotte, she didn’t seem to care about going out anymore. Her life became more limited. At home, she went from bedroom to bathroom to living room and back – about 30 feet. Now she lay without moving in a hospital bed in Room 312, about 12’ x 15’ in size. Here, she would die. Here, her journey would end. And begin again.

As I sat there, I imagined we were waiting in a train station. Waiting, as corny as it seemed, for the train to glory. For three days, I waited for the train, so I could see her off. I knew it was coming and wondered why it was delayed. Mom wasn’t concerned. Her breaths were deep and regular, although slightly more labored. Her face showed she had no worries except for the occasional spasm of pain.

I fretted. In my mind, I walked down the track, trying to see around the bend. Why wasn’t Jesus coming for her? Her work was done. What else did she need to do? Where was the train?

I left at about five on Tuesday. Through the Osher Lifelong Learning Institute, I was going to dine that evening at three of Beaufort’s best restaurants. I met new people and enjoyed casual conversation around an appetizer called gnudi (don’t ask), drunken shrimp, and white chocolate cheesecake with blueberry and caramel sauces. It was the first evening in three years that I had been able to be out having fun without worrying about getting home to take care of Mom.

The phone rang at seven in the morning. The nurse told me Mom had died about 20 minutes earlier. I dressed and drove to the hospital. Mom’s chest was motionless, her arms and face still warm. The lines on her face had been erased. A look of peace gazed silently at me. She was not there. She was gone.

As I stroked her arm, I told her about my evening. I told her how good the food was. I told her I would miss her, but I hoped she was with Dad and John. As I sat there, I wondered if the train had come several times over the last three days, but she had refused to get on. She knew I was looking forward to that dinner night. She wanted me to enjoy myself. When the train came by again on Wednesday morning, Mom knew I was safe at home. She left station in Room 312, and, welcomed by Jesus, got on the train. At last she was on her way home.