Hanging On

Photo by the repairman on flickr.com.

This photo illustrates how I feel right now - barely hanging on and with a strong likelihood of getting shat upon. I'm exhausted after sitting deathbed vigil with my mother-in-law last night. The care facility where her mother is living dying called yesterday just a little after noon. They urged her to come out as her mother was not doing well. I drove her as I was worried about her ability to make the 30 mile trip safely, either direction.

When we arrived and made our way to the room, I was apprehensive. I had not seen my grandmother-in-law in some time; she would not have known me for the past six months. I did not recognize her when we entered her room. She had the appearance of an adult victim of starvation; gaunt really does not describe her condition. Skeletal? Closer. Aware of our presence? Minimally, at most.

The nurse confided later that she was surprised we made it in time. They had been positive she would be gone within an hour when they made the call. We arrived at 1:30 and sat with her. My mother-in-law held her mother's hands and tried to comfort her. Hourly administration of liquid morphine had begun a week prior to help control the pain. When more than an hour passed between administration of the drops, the return of pain was obvious with loud moans and sharp cries, as well as increased agitation. Her few words were almost impossible to decipher. My mother-in-law reassured her mother it was okay for her to "go home", but her mother's body stayed rigid and tense; she seemed unable to relax.

Shortly after our arrival, I called my aunt-in-law to tell her it was time for her to come. The three of us sat for hours. I got refreshments for everyone except my grandmother-in-law. She could not even have water as the nurses feared she'd aspirate. A moistened sponge could be swabbed around her lips, teeth, and gums, but nothing more. Finally, at 8 pm, my mother-in-law pushed me to return to her house. They were there "for the duration" and she could ride home with her sister. I stressed that they should call when their mother passed, no matter what time, and let us know if they were okay to drive. My sweetie and I could easily return to bring them home.

Quite frankly, I was a bit relieved to go back to the house although I felt terribly guilty for leaving them. I hoped, for their sake, that the other patients in the secure Alzheimer's and dementia ward would settle down or at least quiet down. One man in particular seems to be living in his own private hell. He spends all day and often all night rolling his wheelchair up and down the hallway yelling out, "Die, you son of a bitch, die!" This is usually followed by "Die, you son of a gun, die! Die, you bastard!" Short pause. "DIE!" Listening to this non-stop yesterday was very difficult, yet I could also hear what the poor man said when engaged in conversation by the staff. "I'm so confused. I'm all mixed up." Whether he is reliving wartime terror or some other nightmare, it cannot be any easier for him than those who have to hear him.

I fell into an exhausted sleep at midnight, waking often to see if the lights were still on, and returning to a fitful sleep expecting the phone to ring at any moment. It did not ring until 5 am. It was my mother-in-law calling to say her mother was finally peaceful. Before I could breathe a sigh of relief, she continued. Her mother had finally gone to sleep. Her breathing was very shallow and her body was hot. They planned to talk to the day staff when they arrived at 7 am and then come home.

She got home 20 hours after the initial call from the facility. Her mother was now completely unresponsive but still living dying. She urged us to head for home. She planned to rest and go back to stay with her mother. It is now evening, almost 30 hours after the nurses were positive her mother would be gone within an hour, and we've not heard any word so we can only assume her heart continues to beat. My most fervent wish in the world right now is that the doctors who pushed the family to approve major heart surgery on an 88 year old woman with dementia would be forced to sit there with them now, watching her every breath to see if it would be the last, hoping it would be the last for the relief it would grant. I won't get my wish, but I can wish for a quick and peaceful exit for my grandmother-in-law and some peace for the family.