(no subject)

[thejunipertree]

An attempt was made this evening to have a discussion with my mother regarding her living directive. Not much progress was made, as she was fairly out of it. Either from the drugs or the disease, I can't say. But, she frequently wasn't there when she opened her eyes and I only got vague answers when she was. She didn't smile when I walked through the door and she dozed off and on the entire time I was there, without moving.

At first, she wanted me to direct that CPR is only to be administered under certain circumstances. But, I explained to her that you just can't know if someone is going to need artificial respiration after they've gone into cardiac arrest. She didn't know what to do with that information, so I asked her if she wanted me to make the decision. She nodded and I spent the next fifteen minutes debating to myself which road to take.

DNR is definitely the kindest option.
It's also the one I choose.

At this point, it would be foolish to believe that she's going to magically pull through this. That tomorrow, when I come to the nursing home, she is going to be miraculously free of the cancer that's currently eating her from the inside out and I'd take her home to the cats and rats and ferrets and she could again sleep in the bedroom I'd staged a mild takeover in. That she would get better, strong enough to return to her work that she misses so much. That she'd be able to sit up and read the books I lend her. That we'd go to zoo and the ocean and the art museum. That she'd live to see the dedication page I promised her so many years ago.

I'd held onto that faint hope for far too long. Even when my brain was saying, There is no chance of recovery, my heart was screaming that I couldn't possibly give up hope. That to give up hope was throwing in the towel and admitting defeat. And I never admit defeat.

My heart is a naive twit, by the way. It also still believes in fairies, sea monsters, and the inherent goodness in all mankind.
And hope is a fragile-limbed opium addict that blows false pipe dreams in my face.

The hospice nurse called me back about an hour after her previous phone call. She wanted me to know that when I stated there was no hope left and she agreed with me, that she didn't want me to think her callous. That the hope I had spoken of had changed into the hope for no more pain. The hope for my mother's recovery had become the hope for the end to her misery.

I agreed with her as my heart beat its paper wings frantically, crying that this was not the end. This was not the end. This was not the end.

But, it is.
And seeing my mother this evening confirmed that.

I called my brothers and patiently explained everything going on. Answered their questions over and over in a mechanical voice. I gripped the steering wheel of the Eldorado with cold, stiff fingers and pushed back the shrieking urge.

I half-way resent those handful of weeks that I had a bit of my mother back. I almost hate the fact that seeing her spring back from the edge of death lulled me into a fake sense of security. But at the same time, I'm glad for those small moments.

And even now, despite everything I've said and with tears on my face and endless cigarettes, there's one thing running through my head:

Maybe tomorrow will be better.

I have my doubts and they're strong, don't mistake me.
But, there's still that maybe.
Always that goddamn maybe.