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holding pattern
Sep. 11th, 2004 04:47 pmWell.
She is still here, though it's unsure how much longer that will hold out. We sit in that little room and try to make her comfortable, listen to the nonsense she rambles out ("Tara, tell them to stop putting on clothes."), make sure she takes her pain medication, and just...wait.
It's a holding pattern.
And I hate it.
I spoke to both of my brothers today about what can be done. The nursing home contacted me the other day about a "care conference" they wish to hold on Tuesday, the 14th. All three of us will be attending, as we have a lot of questions. The eldest wants her out of her pain and misery (as we all do), but out of all of us, he's thinking the least clearly. I tried to explain to him that just disconnecting the feeding tube and letting her starve to death is probably the worst way to go. Even in her advanced state of deterioation, it could take weeks.
I had the idea that if her nephrostomy bags were taken away, she could just go the route of kidney failure. I'm told that this is painless and relatively quick. But, I want the medical people to tell me that there is absolutely NO hope whatsoever. Even of just a partial recovery. I want it concrete. I want to be slapped with those words. I want a definite.
So does my middle brother. He agrees with most of the things I say and even though he wasn't against the idea of removing the nephrostomy bags last week, he seems to have changed his mind.
I had to tell the eldest, in no uncertain terms, that I am the only one who can make these decisions. That I have power of attorney, that I am the first listed on the living will, that I am the one that Mom asks for, that I am the one Mom knows can make these sort of decisions.
I don't like this fact, but it is a small truth. My exposure to all of this, the every day exposure I go through, has made a tiny numbness begin to grow. I am now able to separate my emotions from my practicality for enough time to make rational, clear headed decisions. Again, a small truth that I don't much cotton to.
More sitting. More waiting.
Every night, I take a pill to sleep. A small bottle of them was granted to me by an illicit fairy godmother. I hate relying on them for rest, but I've already experienced non-chemical attempts at sleeping and well, they just don't work out. I would just lie there, wide awake and usually crying, running everything through my head. Over and over again.
A friend of mine said in his journal the other day, There are things worse than dying.
Despite the fact that the context was completely different, I couldn't agree more. I wouldn't wish this, be it the experience on my end or my mother's end, on my worst enemy.
She is still here, though it's unsure how much longer that will hold out. We sit in that little room and try to make her comfortable, listen to the nonsense she rambles out ("Tara, tell them to stop putting on clothes."), make sure she takes her pain medication, and just...wait.
It's a holding pattern.
And I hate it.
I spoke to both of my brothers today about what can be done. The nursing home contacted me the other day about a "care conference" they wish to hold on Tuesday, the 14th. All three of us will be attending, as we have a lot of questions. The eldest wants her out of her pain and misery (as we all do), but out of all of us, he's thinking the least clearly. I tried to explain to him that just disconnecting the feeding tube and letting her starve to death is probably the worst way to go. Even in her advanced state of deterioation, it could take weeks.
I had the idea that if her nephrostomy bags were taken away, she could just go the route of kidney failure. I'm told that this is painless and relatively quick. But, I want the medical people to tell me that there is absolutely NO hope whatsoever. Even of just a partial recovery. I want it concrete. I want to be slapped with those words. I want a definite.
So does my middle brother. He agrees with most of the things I say and even though he wasn't against the idea of removing the nephrostomy bags last week, he seems to have changed his mind.
I had to tell the eldest, in no uncertain terms, that I am the only one who can make these decisions. That I have power of attorney, that I am the first listed on the living will, that I am the one that Mom asks for, that I am the one Mom knows can make these sort of decisions.
I don't like this fact, but it is a small truth. My exposure to all of this, the every day exposure I go through, has made a tiny numbness begin to grow. I am now able to separate my emotions from my practicality for enough time to make rational, clear headed decisions. Again, a small truth that I don't much cotton to.
More sitting. More waiting.
Every night, I take a pill to sleep. A small bottle of them was granted to me by an illicit fairy godmother. I hate relying on them for rest, but I've already experienced non-chemical attempts at sleeping and well, they just don't work out. I would just lie there, wide awake and usually crying, running everything through my head. Over and over again.
A friend of mine said in his journal the other day, There are things worse than dying.
Despite the fact that the context was completely different, I couldn't agree more. I wouldn't wish this, be it the experience on my end or my mother's end, on my worst enemy.
