I DIDN’T STOP ONCE ON THE DRIVE from Raleigh-Durham airport to New Bern. I was surprised how quickly I ticked off my usual checkpoints—Smithfield, Goldsboro, Kinston. One minute I thought I might be too late, and that Barbara would call and tell me Mom had died. The next, I thought Mom would be fine, and I’d be heading back home in a day or so.
As many times as I’d been to New Bern, I always got confused about which way to turn at the top of the exit ramp. This time, I turned right—the correct way for Barbara’s house—without a thought.
Barbara met me in the driveway with a big hug.
“How are you doing?” she asked.
“I’m fine. I just want to see Mom.”
“All right, let’s put your suitcase in the house and go right over. Do you need a snack or anything?”
“No, let’s go.”
As we drove to Homeplace, Barbara told me that the hospice had started Mom on a low dose of Lortab, a form of codeine, for overall comfort.
“Mom’s heart rate was elevated this morning. Tammy, the hospice nurse, said she might be in some kind of distress, but Mom denied any pain, even though Tammy asked the question all different ways.”
“Did you see her after she took it? It’s an opioid, a narcotic, so it can make her sleepy until she gets used to it.”
“I don’t know if they’ve started it yet. Tammy said they were prescribing a low dose, but on a regular schedule, and they’ll adjust it to keep her comfortable but awake. And honestly, she’s often kind of drowsy anyway. She’s really changed since you last saw her.”
“I know. Don’t worry. I get it.”
And then we were there, in Mom’s room. She looked up from her wheelchair perch and smiled at me. I wrapped her in a big hug.
“I’m so glad to see you,” I whispered to her.
“Me too,” she whispered back, though it came out as “misha.”
Mom was in bad shape, but I was neither surprised nor alarmed. Barbara had prepared me well. Mom’s left arm was swollen and useless. Her left fingers were permanently bent inward to meet her palm. Her right arm and hand trembled with any effort, and calmed only when held or resting on the arm of her chair. Mom’s eyes searched my face, and while she looked somewhat confused, there was no doubt she knew me and was happy to see me. I was filled with a melting tenderness for Mom, and for Barbara.
It turned out Mom hadn’t been whispering to me. As she tried to say something else, I realized her speech was nearly inaudible, and she could barely form words. With difficulty, we understood her to ask if we were going to Barbara’s house for dinner, as was customary when I visited. I looked at Barbara, silently asking if such a thing was even possible.
“We were thinking we’d do that tomorrow night,” Barbara said to Mom. “But we’ll stay and keep you company here while you have dinner.”
As if on cue, one of the nursing aides came to get her for the evening meal. Everyone acted as if Mom was still her old self, though clearly she was not. She didn’t complain or seem distressed, so I joined in. She was still among the living; we would treat her as such.
We wheeled Mom to the dining room, and talked with others at the table until Mom’s plate of pureed food arrived. She accepted a few bites of a spinach and egg mixture that I offered on a spoon. She ate without any apparent interest or enjoyment.
“Are you hungry, Mom?” I asked.
She made a sound that I recognized as “No.”
“Alright,” I said. “I won’t force you.”
Letty heard me, and she came over to encourage Mom to eat a little more. Mom said something I couldn’t understand.
“She wants something to drink,” Barbara interpreted for us.
Letty got her some thickened juice. Mom finished all of it, and then we went back to her room, where she asked for water.
Barbara and I sat with her for a while, offering her water and chattering to fill the silence. I talked about my work, my friends, and a book I was reading. After a while, we took Mom to the living room where she always spent her evenings, telling her we’d be back in the morning.
On the way out of Homeplace, I asked Barbara if she had the makings for a Manhattan at her house.
“Bought it all yesterday,” she replied, without looking at me.
That was Tuesday.
At 8:00 the next morning, Barbara and I stopped in to see Kathy, the Homeplace/Seasons Director.
“How is your Mom doing?” she asked.
“She’s very weak,” Barbara said, “but we’re hoping to take her to my house tonight for my famous beef stew.”
“Is the hospice working out?” Kathy asked.
“They’ve been great,” Barbara answered.
“Kathy,” I said, “Can she stay here, even if she gets worse? I mean, is it okay? Can she die here?” I wiped away a tear. “I want her to be in her own place.”
“It’s fine,” Kathy said, passing me a box of tissues. “This is her home.”
Barbara and I found Mom in her room. She was dressed and propped up in her chair. I had planned on a quick “hello” before going to the gym, but as we hugged Mom and sat down, Tammy, the hospice nurse, arrived. She checked Mom’s blood pressure, pulse, and respirations, and asked her if she had any pain.
Mom said, “Muh,” which meant “no.”
“Mom, can you see all right?” I asked. “Your glasses looked smudged.”
I took her glasses, breathed on them moistly, and then wiped them with my t-shirt. I put them back on her face.
Mom smiled and said, “Let there be light!” clearly enough. We all laughed, and I gave Barbara a knowing look. See, my eyes said. She’s still in there.
“This might make you kind of sleepy,” Tammy said to Mom as she gave her the 9:00 a.m. dose of liquid Lortab.
“I’ll stay with her,” I said. “I can go to the gym later.”
Barbara and I had brought two cars so we could go our separate ways. She returned home to cover a work call.
As Mom drifted off to sleep in her chair, she called out softly, “Help, help.”
“Mom, are you alright?”
She nodded.
“Did you know you were calling out for help?”
“Muh,” she mumbled.
I hugged her gently as she slept. I thought about all the times she’d lain down with me at night in my tiny twin bed to help me fall asleep. I felt sad, and inexplicably calm.
When Mom woke up about twenty minutes later, she wanted water. I thickened it as Barbara had taught me, and she drank it through a straw. Then she wanted to go to the bathroom. I didn’t trust myself to help her now that she was so weak, so I found the nurse’s aide.
As the aide wheeled her out of the bathroom, Mom said she wanted to lie down. She curled up on top of the bedspread, and I covered her with the crewel-work afghan she’d made twenty-some years earlier. It was decorated with fanciful mushrooms and vines, and edged with hand-crocheted fringe.
“You did such beautiful needlework Mom,” I said.
“I love you,” she murmured, as clearly as she could. Her words caressed me like a soft spring breeze.
“I love you, too, Mom.”
Once she fell asleep, I decided to run errands and go to the gym. I pulled up the bed rail and let the staff know she was napping. I told them I’d return in a few hours. Dena was due to arrive at noon.
I drove to UPS and dropped off a package of tax documents for Mom’s accountant. As far as he knew, she had just signed her Form1040. I stopped at Target to buy more Pull-ups for Mom, spent forty-five minutes pounding on the elliptical trainer at the gym, and went to the house for a snack. While there, I composed an email to Bill, my friend who had postponed his Florida visit.
Mom seems generally in good spirits, I wrote, and very accepting of help. Yesterday, she said she “feels old,” and “It’s hard to be old.” She is getting great care, and I’m so glad I am here to just be with her. I don’t know when the end will come, but we are all as ready as we can be. It may be months, but not many. Tonight, we will bring her to Barbara’s house for dinner.
A short four hours later, my message would have been very different.
I headed back to Mom’s at around 1:00 p.m., planning to drop off the Pull-ups, have a brief visit with Dena, and then go back home for a shower. Mom was up in her chair, and after hellos and hugs and I love yous, she drank some water.
“She asked me to call both you and Barbara,” Dena said.
Mom looked at me and I saw confusion, or maybe fear, in her eyes.
“Mom,” I said. “What’s wrong? Are you hurting?”
She made the sound that meant “no.” Then she gestured for more water.
Dena made conversation, asking if I had been to the gym, though it was obvious from my workout clothes and stringy hair.
“Yes, I know I need a shower. Probably smells like a good idea,” I joked. “Right, Mom?” I chose to see a little smile on her face.
When an aide came and took Mom to the bathroom, Dena grabbed my hand.
“She told me she’s dying,” Dena said.
“Well, I think maybe she is,” I said. “What do you think?”
“Sometimes she seems good, but not today. She’s always in my prayers.”
Mom lay down under the afghan again. She continued to ask for Barbara, so I called the house and told Barbara what Dena had said. When Barbara arrived, Mom woke up.
“I’m here,” Barbara said.
“Good,” Mom said, then asked for water.
After giving Mom a drink, Barbara asked her, “Is everything okay?”
“Okay,” she said, closing her eyes.
Dena, Barbara, and I sat together, watching Mom sleep, listening to her breathing and chatting quietly. I sat next to the bed, occasionally stroking Mom’s arm if she whimpered.
After an hour, Barbara and I encouraged Dena to go home, assuring her we’d stay until Mom woke up.
“You call if you need me,” Dena said as she blew a kiss to Mom. We nodded.
Mom slept fitfully for another couple of hours, her regular breathing punctuated by frequent, very soft cries of “Help, help.” She woke every twenty minutes or so wanting water. Barbara read poems to her in a soothing sing-song while I stroked her back and legs.
“Everything will be alright,” I whispered, hoping it was true. “There’s no way we can take her to dinner,” I said to Barbara. “I’ll go to the house to shower, and come right back. Then you can go home, finish up the stew, and bring some back for Mom.”
“Sounds good. I’ll tell the nurses that Mom won’t be going to the dining room tonight.”
As soon as I walked through the locked door out of Seasons, I started to cry. Ducking into the restroom, I locked the door and yanked out a handful of paper towels. I buried my face in the stiff folds, letting myself wail. My life with Mom was ending. She was moving on without me. I knew it was time, and I knew we would both be fine. I swam in a pure, clear lake of sadness—no islands of regret or weedy tangles of anger, no longing to alter the course. After a few minutes, I took a deep breath, washed my face, and walked to the car.
When I got back to Seasons, Mom was sitting up in bed, wearing her nightgown.
“Melly will stay here while I go home and get the beef stew, okay?” Barbara asked Mom. “We’ll all have dinner here in your room.”
“Shoo,” Mom said, which we took to mean “sure.”
I turned on the television and watched the news. I pulled the chair up next to the bed and held Mom’s hand. She seemed more awake, though her eyes were often closed. Each time I offered her water, she drank some.
Barbara was back within half an hour, bringing the stew, bowls, and spoons. She’d prepared a special portion for Mom, chopped fine and thickened with tiny pieces of bread. Mom lit up when Barbara came in presenting the picnic, but when I offered her a spoonful of stew, she took the smallest bit on her tongue, chewed a bit and then let it fall from her mouth.
“Do you want something else, Mom?” I asked.
“Wal,” she said, her sound for “water.”
“Maybe you’ll be hungry tomorrow,” I said, as I reached for her water glass and straw.
After one more trip to the bathroom, the aide tucked Mom into bed. Barbara and I hugged her and she fell asleep. We stayed for an hour or so, nibbling on room-temperature stew. Mom slept quietly without waking or calling out.
“Do you think we should stay all night?” I asked Barbara.
“She seems pretty peaceful right now,” Barbara answered. “Maybe we should go home and get some sleep. We may need to start staying with her soon.”
We told the night nurse to call if there was any change, or if Mom asked for us. Barbara and I both slept with phones by our beds.
That was Wednesday.