the ocean always dreamed blue dreams

I went to visit my mom the last week of July. When I got there, it was apparent she had lost ground and I was worried abut her being alone. My oldest son had been staying with her. I knew the time had come for my sister and I to talk to her about having some help.

When I first got there, Mom was able to get up by herself, but by the middle of the week she needed help. She was surprisingly agreeable to the idea of home health aides, and we interviewed one company while I was there.

We had a good week. I painted a lot. She slept. We watched TV together, or rather I sat with her in the evenings, and she slept. But she was glad I was there, and so was I.

I went home at the end of the week because I had a staff development the following Monday and a few other things to do, with plans to come back the following Thursday. While I was gone, Mom decided on a company to use, one that we had used with my father.

When I got back the next Thursday, she had declined even further; they had used some aides, but they were to formally begin on the following Monday.

One large problem loomed. Anytime she had to exert herself would be followed by a massive flush of heat. We kept ice water and washcloths ready and cold packs. But it was very painful for her. She was very brusque and abrupt, something that was a part of her personality anyway, but now with the discomfort was exacerbated.

That Sunday she even thought we might have to call an ambulance. She finally called an oncall nurse who called her oncall doctor who told her to stop taking her prednisone perscription immediately. The relief was almost immediate and I thought that she would begin to improve.

The next week was very sweet. We were able to be there to see that the aides were responsible and caring. I planned meals, bought food, cooked for her. I got her a new blanket that she liked and that was warm. We had a small party with a dear friend at the end of the week.

And I went home thinking that all was well and planning to go back in early September to celebrate both of our birthdays.

Anyway, I came back to Dallas and work. I called her on Sunday night. We had been watching HGTV Star and I called her after the show, but she had slept through it and was getting ready to start a breathing treatment.

I thought about her every day, but did not call. She really liked long phone conversations, and wasn't much of one for a brief check in.

Then on Friday, August 20, I got a call from my sister. They had taken my Mother to the emergency room. She promised to call back when they knew more. That call came later that evening. They had admitted Mom to the hospital. My sister and I discussed whether or not I should come; finally, I said, "I'm coming. I'll be there tomorrow."

I got there the next afternoon. When I walked in Mom said, "My girls, my girls are here." I sat on her bed and talked to her. I told her we loved her, that we had been happy. My sister told Mom she was going to see my brother and dad. Then my mom said "Dale? Is Dale here?" And we had to tell her no. Several times throughout the day and evening she would shout out "Oh God, let me die." Or "Am I dead?"
At one point she smiled and took my hand, and in one of her last moments of lucidity said to me, "My darling girl."

My sister and I talked to a nurse and among other things we asked her if our mother was dying. She said she did not see any signs of it, such as the skin mottling or agonal breathing. She told us a story about her family. Her husband's grandmother was ill and everyone was wringing their hands; "oh, she's dying." She told them that she didn't see any signs that death was imminent. My sister looked at her and said, "Did she die?" The young woman replied "Yes, she did." There was a pause. Then I asked, "When did she die?" and she said "The next day."

But we went on to discuss whether we should talk to the doctor about bringing Mom home and about putting her on hospice care. They were giving her antibiotics. I thought maybe she could get better.

I went home to Mom's house-so quiet!-and took a shower. Back to the hospital. My sister went home to get some sleep. She had stayed at the hospital the night before. I gave Mom ice chips and watched T.V. I laid down around 1 p.m and tried to sleep. People came in and out. Someone came in to give her a breathing treatment and she shouted out "Is it 3:30 in the the afternoon?" "No," the lady said, "It's 3:30 in the morning." "Is it 3:30 in the afternoon?," My Mom asked. "No," the lady said again. "It's 3:30 in the morning." Then I slept.

The next thing I heard was the RN, who, bending over my Mother, said "Hon, I believe she's dead." I leaped out of my makeshift bed, saying "S****, I knew I should have checked on her again."

We leaned over her, but she was no longer breathing. I called my sister. She came and we sat with her for a long time, then left. It was hard to leave her there alone, you know?

Today she would have been 82 years old. For 17 years she managed a historical home in our town. She oil painted. She wrote. She was so careful abut her writing. She would linger over whether to use on word or another. She was avidly interested in people and sat with her girlfriends for hours on the phone. On the occasion that some drama occurred in our neighborhood, I can still remember her peering out the window. We were craning our heads around her, of course. She was a great storyteller.

Her home life had been difficult as a child; her parents had pretty much abandoned child rearing by the time she was a teenager and she mostly raised her younger brother. She never thought she was beautiful or smart, but she was both. And she loved us, loved us, loved us.

Happy Birthday, Mom. I love you.