It was very much an undertaking to get Mom to the doctor. It was to painful for her to get dressed, so I heartily agreed with her. I changed her nightgown, slipped her into some clean panties and wrapped her up in her favorite, freshly laundered robe. It was "her" color (sky blue), felt cuddly soft, and smelled of a new born baby blanket. Mom forced a tight smile. That was more than enough for me.
As soon as we arrived at the doctor's office, I went in first to get a wheelchair and oxygen. In the waiting room I was able to meet with the doctors' long-time assistant, Bonnie. I told her how bad my mother was, and that I thought the doctor would surely want to admit her to the hospital. I knew my mother didn't want to go to the hospital. S he wanted to be home. Bonnie assured me that she would relay the message to the doctor before he ever saw her.
A few seconds later, Bonnie went to help get Mom out of the car. She turned on the oxygen, helped her into the wheelchair, and steered right past everyone else who sat in the waiting room. Bonnie could easily see how dreadful Mother looked. She could hear her battling for every necessary breath.
Mom's doctor came in, took one look at her and asked her if she wanted to go to the hospital. "No, I want to be at home with my family," she struggled to whisper. The doctor went on to explain what "Hospice" meant. By sheer luck the coordinator happened to be in the office at that very moment. She kindly came in to speak to us.
Thankfully, Mom agreed to everything the nice woman said. Mom was ready. Her body told her how very sick she was. She knew.
Tomorrow is another day. Nothing can be planned in advance. I take one day at a time and am thankful for every second I spend with my mother. Each and every one of them is a gift.
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