(no subject)

I have lately been keeping fairly quiet on the subject of my mother's illness. It had seemed like she took a small turn for the better, right after all the black nastiness of late September when we truly thought any day could be the last.

Over the past few weeks, she has been more of herself then she has been in a long, long time. I've been taken her outside to sit in the sun and smoke with me. We've been talking a bit more. I've bought her clothes and she's gotten dressed every day. We made tenative plans to bring her home for Thanksgiving dinner. Miss Robin and the Engineer join me for frequent visits.

It was...nice, for lack of a better word. Visiting the nursing home still depresses and drains the hell out of me. It's a vile place, full of piss stink and despair. But, with her acting the way she was, it was a bit more bearable.

This week, things have largely shot right downhill. While she hasn't gone back to that bleak place of not knowing who I was, she has definitely changed for the worse. The past three days, she's been able to move herself around in her bed. And she's been incredibly needy and clingy, to the point where I've gotten calls yesterday and the day before, her asking me if I can come up early.

I haven't behaved in the best of manners, myself. Everything has been weighing on me more heavily then usual and and 'feeling vaguely sick' has been the best description of me for the past few days, which generally means I'm going to be snappish and petulant with everyone around me. I got very mad at Mom yesterday when she couldn't tell me over the phone what was wrong (she was having a hard time breathing).

There isn't too much I can do. My hands are tied, I am completely helpless in the grand scheme of things. Not to mention being totally overwelmed by it all. An attempt to curb myself and any bad behaviour is made, but it isn't always very successful.

I get very little rest and very little ME time. I've been sleeping about four hours a night, roughly, and if I'm not at work, then I'm at the nursing home. When I come home at night, I take care of my animals and then stare blankly at things (sometimes the television, more often a book) until I'm so exhausted I have to go to bed. 'Going to bed' translates into 'lying in bed awake for hours', mind you. I get nervous, paranoid and excitable far too easily when I'm deprived of sleep, so you can imagine the state of my brain right now. I have hysterical giggling fits and morose crying jags, both over the most inane things you could think of.

I've chiseled out small moments for myself, here and there. Last Friday, I went to the city for a concert. Most Thursdays, I go to the bookstore to see my friends. Every so often, I manage to fool myself into thinking that everything is the way it used to be and nothing hurts. It's all brought back to me the second I walk into her bedroom and see my belongings strewn across her dresser and vanity. Last night after I had taken a shower, there was a brief moment of hesitation before I turned on the light in her bedroom because I had successfully deluded myself into thinking that she was in her bed, asleep, and that the light would wake her up. Then I remembered.

I'm feeling ready to gnaw my own arm off, just to escape from this bear trap. Keeping it all to myself has been a protective measure. Only small bits are released for general consumption. It's nothing against anyone, I just can't always deal with discussion. It's too much. I have to explain things time and time again. Sometimes, I tamp it so far down inside that I don't even realize it's there until I sit down to write. I discussed pieces of it with the Engineer and Miss Robin and the Unibomber V. 2.0, but I generally run myself around and around in circles.

The phone rang a short time ago and on the other end was one of the hospice nurses, calling to give me a report. She's seen a noticable difference in my mother in the past three days. Her skin is sallow. Her breathing is laboured. She's anxious and confused.

There is a discrepancy in her living directive. One part of it states that she doesn't want CPR or artifical respiration, another part claims that she does. When the nurse asked her what she wanted, she informed her to go to me for that decision. Now I have to give the final word on what's to be done, although I'm not even sure of what to say.

Great. Ask one of the most indecisive people in the world to make an extremely important decision. Give me a week and I could wemble on either side of the fence without coming to anything even slightly resembling a valid conclusion. I'd wager a fine ham and a large ball of yarn that by the end of that week, the subject would even have been changed. I'm not a good decision maker, too prone to debating and too easily distracted. I wasn't called 'Magpie' by more then one person in my life for no reason.

The discussion about all of this was fairly brief, with the nurse struggling to keep it on track. I explained to her about how things were in September and how my mother seemed to rally herself together. She told me, gently, that she believes that to have been the last sally forward. I wish I disagreed, but I don't. Not really. Most days, I wouldn't be surprised if I got The Phone Call.

It's no longer a case of never-ending 'Ifs'. We've moved into the realm of 'When'.

The nurse told me that she asked my mother if she was aware of what's going on and my mother replied, "I'm dying."

She says it to everyone, but me.