Exiting

Exiting

Mom sits in her chair, sleeping, in front of the television.  It is as it has been for three weeks: this new phase, this sleeping phase, this shutting down.  There is no wandering about, no blowing the nose, no fiddling with buttons, fabrics, tissues.  There is no interest in food, in what is going on in the kitchen, in who is coming and going.  There is no discussion, interaction (other than my occasional questions as to how she feels or is she hungry, warm enough, or does she need anything.)

How I wish that I could have those things that drove me crazy only a few short weeks ago.  How I want her to get up and follow me as I leave the room like she did before.  If only she would wander about going from one spot to another with her walker.  Could she, would she walk to the door and gaze out the windows to remark about the weather?  Might she comment about the television show we are watching just once more?  Is this the new...maybe the last phase of her life?

I feel empty, resigned, and oh so sad.  Only last month I commented angrily that sometimes I don't like her anymore.  How could I have said that?!  HOW?  Just at that moment, I didn't like who she was.  Just at that moment, my inner child had risen to the surface to speak her truth.  Now I look at this shell of a person -- the mother that I knew is gone, and I mourn her passing.   Still I cling to the small spark of life that still remains within her.  All of my highbrow philosophical pronouncements, my understandings so wisely dispensed melt away as I am reduced to the child who yearns for her mother, her security blanket, her confidant, her cheerleader, her best friend, her safety net, her familial link to her identity, her nurturer, her lifeline.

Shutting down.  Exiting.  Confused.  Disinterested.  Aphasic .  Partly here and partly in another realm...the afterlife?  Is it real?  Is she already seeing glimpses of those who await her, who welcome her as she briefly visits with the promise that she will return to them soon?  I want to tie a rope around her and pull her back...yank hard so that she will return to us a whole person.  Ah, but she is too weak, too fragile, too tired.   It is time.  Yes, I know it and she knows it.  Still she fights it as we all do.  She struggles to rise from her chair complaining that she no longer has the leg strength to do so.  She experiences pain that I do not understand but still hasten to administer drugs to deaden the hurt and bring her comfort.

I cook her favorite foods but she cannot eat them or enjoy them.  She forgets what they are and no longer recognizes the difference between one food and another.  I remind her to finish the small bits of nourishment and encourage her to drink some water.  Another day passes.  Life continues.  Sometimes...well, actually, often, my eyes fill with tears and they spill over just when I least expect it.  I miss her so!  I miss her presence, her laughter, her engaging personality, her exuberance, her joy.  I miss her intelligence, her quick wit and her talents that she used to display.   I struggle to find meaning and purpose to this.  She opens her eyes, briefly, and smiles at me.  I am encouraged for the moment.  I ask her if she would like some tea and she agrees readily.  Before the water is heated she is back asleep.  I sigh deeply, despairingly and then with resignation I go about my day; walking quietly around the slumbering woman who sits in her chair, in front of the television.