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Sep. 7th, 2004 12:17 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thejunipertreeIt's beginning to appear as if there's only going to be a handful of days left.
I can't quite describe the feeling which wells up in my throat when I'm sitting on the edge of her bed while she sleeps and counting the seconds which plod by inbetween breaths. There were several times this weekend that I thought a specific breath taken would be the last.
She opens her eyes and looks at me, but it's not my mother there any longer. I don't know where she is anymore, but that's not her in there. Speech only comes when I coax it out of her and sometimes, not even then. I fiddle around with the bed, I straighten her blankets and sheets, I empty her bags and clean off her bedside table.
And then I just sit next to her, so helpless.
It's so strange how many times the words, "It just happened so fast" have come out of my mouth in the past four days. Because really, when you think about it, it wasn't quick at all. It's been drawn out over the past two and a half years. Only before, she was lucid and self mobile. She was able to sit up on her own and maybe walk sometimes. She laughed and spoke to me about the goings on of our lives. She ate (sometimes) and baby-talked my rats and played with the ferrets. We squabbled with each other and cried together. And she teased my friends whenever they came by the apartment. And went for short car rides with me.
Now she just lays there. Her eyes don't light up anymore when I come into the room. They haven't done that for two weeks and I can't even remember the last time she smiled at me.
My brother and I had another long conversation last night, sitting in her bedroom at the apartment. We sniffled a lot and hid our tears from one another as we discussed what we were going to do, what was going to happen to our family. He asked me how I was feeling and I told him: When you're little, your parents are the world. You go to them for everything. When you're hurt, you go to them. When you're sick, you go to them. When you need an answer or advice, you go to them. When you're little, your parents are God. Even if they're not very good parents. I went to Mom with just about every problem I've ever had, even if I knew she didn't know what to do. It's just what I did. And I didn't always take her advice, I actually took her advice very rarely. But now, I don't have that anymore and I don't know what to do. He agreed with me and we hid our tears and sniffled some more.
When it happens, she's to be cremated. It was stated to me, on more then one occasion, that she didn't want to be put into the ground to rot. And she didn't want to be embalmed. And that she wanted bagpipes at her funeral, because they always made her cry. But, in a good way.
When it happens, I'm going to take half of the ashes. Some of them I'm going to take to her garden at my father's house and scatter them there because she used to put so much care and time into that sprawling mess. Some of them I'm going to have stoppered in a pendant because she and I always liked that morbid sort of Victorian fashion. And some of them, I'm going to take to the zoo and stealthily release them at the outdoor tiger enclosure because she so loved the big cats.
When it happens, the fine line keeping my heart and brain together is going to snap.
I can't quite describe the feeling which wells up in my throat when I'm sitting on the edge of her bed while she sleeps and counting the seconds which plod by inbetween breaths. There were several times this weekend that I thought a specific breath taken would be the last.
She opens her eyes and looks at me, but it's not my mother there any longer. I don't know where she is anymore, but that's not her in there. Speech only comes when I coax it out of her and sometimes, not even then. I fiddle around with the bed, I straighten her blankets and sheets, I empty her bags and clean off her bedside table.
And then I just sit next to her, so helpless.
It's so strange how many times the words, "It just happened so fast" have come out of my mouth in the past four days. Because really, when you think about it, it wasn't quick at all. It's been drawn out over the past two and a half years. Only before, she was lucid and self mobile. She was able to sit up on her own and maybe walk sometimes. She laughed and spoke to me about the goings on of our lives. She ate (sometimes) and baby-talked my rats and played with the ferrets. We squabbled with each other and cried together. And she teased my friends whenever they came by the apartment. And went for short car rides with me.
Now she just lays there. Her eyes don't light up anymore when I come into the room. They haven't done that for two weeks and I can't even remember the last time she smiled at me.
My brother and I had another long conversation last night, sitting in her bedroom at the apartment. We sniffled a lot and hid our tears from one another as we discussed what we were going to do, what was going to happen to our family. He asked me how I was feeling and I told him: When you're little, your parents are the world. You go to them for everything. When you're hurt, you go to them. When you're sick, you go to them. When you need an answer or advice, you go to them. When you're little, your parents are God. Even if they're not very good parents. I went to Mom with just about every problem I've ever had, even if I knew she didn't know what to do. It's just what I did. And I didn't always take her advice, I actually took her advice very rarely. But now, I don't have that anymore and I don't know what to do. He agreed with me and we hid our tears and sniffled some more.
When it happens, she's to be cremated. It was stated to me, on more then one occasion, that she didn't want to be put into the ground to rot. And she didn't want to be embalmed. And that she wanted bagpipes at her funeral, because they always made her cry. But, in a good way.
When it happens, I'm going to take half of the ashes. Some of them I'm going to take to her garden at my father's house and scatter them there because she used to put so much care and time into that sprawling mess. Some of them I'm going to have stoppered in a pendant because she and I always liked that morbid sort of Victorian fashion. And some of them, I'm going to take to the zoo and stealthily release them at the outdoor tiger enclosure because she so loved the big cats.
When it happens, the fine line keeping my heart and brain together is going to snap.
