The worst of it started Tuesday night when I arrive at Mom's to pick up Lydia. As I enter the door I can hear Mom's screams. "Owwww! Don't TOUCH me!" I hear her wail from behind the bathroom door. Lydia is standing in the kitchen with a river of tears falling from her cheeks. She tells me Essie is trying to clean up Mom. I know what that means, but Lydia shares the details anyway. More screaming and pleading fills the house. The other residents are no where in sight having retreated to their room to escape Mom's wailing. Lydia and I hunch over the kitchen counter and try not to wince with each wail. Lydia tells me that Essie is very good with Mom. Lydia tells me that she could never do what Essie does. Lydia tells me that she can't bear to hear mom scream and cry.
I nod in agreement.
Essie eventually gets Mom into bed and Lydia is the brave one, going into her room to kiss her good night. I remain lurking in the hallway, me and my spineless shell.
Wednesday is spent waiting. Waiting on the nurse to come and examine Mom. Waiting on the doctor to call with his recommendation. His recommendation is to transport Mom to the clinic so he can examine her. We wait for the clinic transport bus. Then we wait for his call telling us how he can help. When he finally calls, he says he cannot help as she won't let him examine her.
No <fucking> d'oh!
He sends Mom to the emergency room. And there Lydia and I wait while, again, listening to our very scared mother cry and plead with everyone to not touch her. She begs us to take her home. She says she'll pay for a taxi. She'll buy the gas. We cajole. We sing songs. We sit in numb silence waiting. Never once does she curse or threaten or call anyone names. She is a lady who knows her manners throughout the cursed ordeal.
At the hospital we are told her hip is fractured. Her wails of pain and pleas to not be touched are real. Not her dementia. Rat bastards.
I feel the rage seep into my veins.
She is admitted and given pain meds.... fifteen hours after our initial call to the nurse. Rat bastards.
The next day is a swirl of activity trying to find a place for Mom to die. Finally, a place is settled upon and it agreed she will be transported there the following day.
The following day is another day filled with waiting. Waiting for the new facility to bring the papers we need to sign. Waiting for the new facility to transport Mom. Waiting. Waiting. Mom is on morphine now. She isn't screaming or crying, but hallucinations have taken hold of Mom's brain. She asks about the man with the wheelbarrow. Lydia discovers a three course meal packed inside her cheeks. Mom has lost the ability to swallow.
Three o'clock Friday afternoon Mom is finally in her new room at the hospice care center. This facility is an oasis after a desert-filled hell. The doctor there consoles us and says we three sisters look shell-shocked - - we are the walking wounded, she says. We are too wary to speak, lest we break down in that moment. The, "should haves, would haves, could haves" taunt us. We console one another, but silently damn our own selves.
I feel the guilt of my inadequacy as a caregiver seep into my veins.
Lydia and Martha opt to stay with Mom. I kiss my now very medicated mother good bye and go home to celebrate Valentine's Day. Yeah. Rrrrright.
Fourteen hours later Martha's phone call awakens me. The sun is just touching the horizon when Dan and I arrive in her room. She is face up in bed. Her mouth is gaping open. I kiss her forehead goodbye, grateful she isn't altogether cold yet. We stand around her bed as Martha leads us in the Lord's prayer. We don't hold hands or hug as we say these words. It seems each of us is in our own private place of pain and sorrow.
Two days have since passed. Lydia is back in Texas now and I have the day to myself . I welcome the endless sadness that now seeps into my veins.
See you next time, Mom.
