The First Time

Today, Mom became too weak to use her walker. As an alternative she chose to use her wheelchair. The first time. A backward step along a road she never intended to travel. Later, she was too tired to finish her breathing treatments : one of eight she must take every day, around the clock.

My mother shook uncontrollably today and was no longer able to hold a glass of water. I purchased a cheap, cellophane bag of bendable straws from Walgreens. Now I hold Mom's glass of water for her, gently guiding the plastic straw towards her pale, parched lips. This is the first time.

The Hospice nurse came today. My mother had to sign papers to allow "In-Home Palliative Care." This is the first time she had to face her most important decision. She agreed that CPR would not be given if her over-worked heart stopped beating. A devastating reality.

Walking the nurse to her car, I said, "I have siblings who live out-of-state. What should I tell them?" I needed to hear the answer aloud in order for it to be real. "Tell them to come now," she responded with round brown eyes full of empathy.

The nurse went on to say that Mom "might" live through Thanksgiving, but that "she was definitely in the end stages of life." Mom's heart rate was extremely high; she no longer desired food; she was horribly weak; she was sleeping more and more; her lips were pale blue; her body extremely emaciated. I could go on and on. The signs of the inevitable never end.

Six months ago my mother was diagnosed with Stage 4 Lung Cancer. Since that day I knew she was going to die. Each time I traveled to Arizona to be with her, I saw the decline in her health. I've seen her, spent time with her, taken care of her and loved her. Never once did I truly see the end. Was I in denial?

I cried on my father's shoulder tonight, and he on mine. My mother's ending life is no longer deniable. It is coming faster than either of us want to believe. As much as we'd like, we can't stop the train of death. It is very, very near.

The doorbell rang at 7:00 this evening. A prescription was being delivered through Hospice. The young delivery boy's words did not resonate with my father. "No, it's not for us," he said to the boy. Tenderly, I reached for my father's hand. "Yes, Dad," I said. "It is for us. It's Mom's new prescription."

In that instant I saw fear flash within my father's eyes. The reality of Mother's illness is beginning to hit him now; a hard punch to the gut. He too, is losing her. His friend, his lover, his wife, the mother of his five children, his partner of nearly 57 years. My heart aches for him; a prolonged dull pain that will not go away.

I reached for the prescription, thanking the delivery boy as I closed the door behind us.

"What is the prescription?" my father asked. "Morphine," I replied, flatly.

The first time.