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I think today may be my mother's last.

Together with my father, we were up every three hours last night trying to keep her as comfortable as humanly possible. The hospice nurse came about midnight because Mom was in a crisis. My intuition told me beforehand to call her. I'm so glad I did! Upon her arrival, she changed Mom's medication orders and stayed with us until Mom relaxed enough to fall asleep.

Throughout the night I gave my mother her new medication (liquid drops under her tongue). At the same time, my dad held the breathing inhalation in front of her nose: a much easier way for mother to take a breathing treatment. That night, for the first time I saw my dad collapse on their bed afterward and cry like a wounded soul. My heart aches for him in much the same way as it does for my mother.

This morning it all began again about 6:30. My mom is wracked with pain and suffering. Very early, as she lay on her bed I gently bathed her lightly with a soft cloth. Her body reminded me of a new born baby bird: bald and featherless. Her skin felt smooth and fragile. My sister, Brenda caressed nearly every inch of her body with delicate lotion. Together we changed her night gown. Per Gods plan, Mother will leave this earth much like she entered it. And so it is with each and every one of us.

Mom wanted to get out of her bed. We could barely understand her words yet the last bit of her spirit was strong and mighty. She willed us to comprehend every thing she wanted us to know. Mom fought to sit in her favorite chair even though her body ached with every minuscule movement. I believe she knew this was her last ounce of any possible control. She knew if she stayed in bed that she may never get out of it again. Perhaps she didn't want to die there; in the bed she had long shared with my father. It would be too difficult for him afterward.

My mom is fighting with all her might. Her ending journey is not easy. How I wish we could do something to ease her suffering. We love our mother so very much. How we wish we could keep her here: healthy and alive. But, that is not to be.

None of us are ready to let her go, and yet we must. It is close.

My One and Only Mother

Today was the worst day of my mother's life. The shear abundance of excursion put on her shrinking body is unimaginable. Every breathing treatment taxes her system to a point of near collapse. Some of them take over three hours before she even begins to feel relief. This is all in spite of the morphine I put under her tongue 24/7.

Mom no longer wants to move. At all. "My body hurts all over," she says, aloud. This is the first time I have ever heard her complain. Her courage continues to amaze me. Would I ever be so strong? Could I ever be as courageous as my mother? I doubt it. How could anyone be?

Tonight was a very long night. Mom continuously bore an inconceivable amount of pain in spite of the tremendous amount of medication I gave her. Nothing seemed to help. It is the hardest thing I have ever had to witness in all of my life. My mother's never ending suffering. I am losing my one and only mother as each second passes. I cry, yet feel humbled and honored to be here with her. Helping my mother during this end stage of her life is the very last thing I will ever do for her. To help her now is a gift from God that I will never be able to repay. Regardless of the pain, I will treasure this time with her forever and a day.

I was wrong when I said there "was nothing more I could do for my mother." Now I realize my role. I am here to see that she gets the proper doses of medication at the proper times; to comfort her; to bathe her fragile skin; to apply lip balm to her dry, blistered lips; to help her take a cool drink of water; to hand feed her if she will eat (a bite or two); to hold her hand; to lie in bed with her; to make her to smile (even now); to simply love her.

My one and only mother.

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.

"Second" Gifts

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.

Breaking Hearts

It's not yet noon but already I've had a full day. I awoke to my mother screaming in pain and struggling to breathe. My dad was lying next to her in bed, trying to calm her down by gently rubbing her back. Usually, Dad is able to help Mom relax by using this method but this morning it took longer than ever before. My mother is wearing herself out simply by going from her favorite chair to her bed, or from her bed to her adjoining bathroom. This morning is the first time she's ever said, "I don't want to get up to take my breathing treatment." It's much too hard on her. She knows she will surely die without her breathing treatment.

I know my mother will be bedridden very soon. Any movement she takes turns into a painful, minute-by-minute fight for breath. Seeing her like this slowly chips away at my heart; carving away a small section at a time. No one should ever have to go through this. Not my mother: not anyone.

Mom asked me to call her doctor today. She hates going to the doctor. Asking me to call him makes me realize that she knows how much worse her condition has become Her next appointment wasn't scheduled for another two weeks. I called the doctor. This afternoon at 2:45, together with my father, I will take Mother to see her doctor.

"I'm afraid he'll put me back in the hospital," Mom said. "I don't want to go back there," she added, breathlessly. "Let's just see what the doctor has to say," I answered, cupping her child-like hand into mine. "I promise that I won't let you go back to the hospital. There are other things we can do to make you more comfortable here at home."

The word 'Hospice' was never used, yet we both knew what I was talking about. Hospice is needed. Hospice has been needed. There is nothing more I can do. Nothing more my father, sisters, or brothers can do to help Mother. Although I hate to think of this, there is probably nothing more her doctor can even do. Hospice will help her. She can't go on suffering like this. There is no need to.

My aunt (Mother's oldest sister) called for an update. When I shared our morning, she broke down in tears. She literally had to put the phone down. I heard her crying from afar: trying to gather her emotions. This is very, very hard on her. As the oldest of my mom's siblings, she has taken care of (and witnessed the agonizing deaths) of their mother, their father, and their younger sister, who died of brain cancer at the age of 34. Now, my aunt must go through this cycle of life once again. She asked to see Mom for a few moments before she left for her doctor's appointment. My aunt won't stay very long but she needs to be with her. This breaks her heart, too.

I will know more today after Mother's appointment. Please say a prayer for us.

Oh, Christmas Tree!

We did it! Mom's Christmas tree is up and lit! Dad placed it near the hearth of their fireplace where Mom can take in all its glory from her favorite chair. This afternoon she fell asleep, submerging herself in the newness of its beauty. The tree's frosted white lights cast a shadowy glow among its full branches, as though they were just dusted with freshly fallen snow. Mom doesn't want to decorate it until my sister, Brenda comes in later this month. So, for now, 'Oh, Christmas Tree' waits patiently for its final touches of freshly strung popcorn, dancing ornaments, and sparkling splendor.

Finally, Mom has a little something to look forward to............