Standing Vigil

So much to say but no words to say it.

As I write this, it's Monday morning.  Tracy, Alice and I are with my mom in her room in the Neuro-ICU at St. Thomas West, where she has been since midday last Thursday.  Brian Crain is playing int the background on my cell phone.

My mom is not going to survive the massive brain bleed she had sometime late Wednesday night or early Thursday morning.  The three of us made the difficult decision yesterday morning to place her on comfort measures only.  She had an advanced directive and did not want extraordinary measures taken to unnecessarily prolong her life (feeding tube, ventilator, etc.).  We're honoring her wish and just trying to keep her comfortable at this point.  Alice had the nurse turned the monitor off last night.

Waiting.

That's all we can do and all we have been doing.

Mom occasionally opens up her eyes just a bit but doesn't focus on anything or anyone.  She's not tracking voices or movement.  She sleeps, mostly, and occasionally scratches her face.  We've taken turns holding her hand, always holding her left hand.  She alternately squeezes, then relaxes, her left hand as one of us holds it.  Her grip remains surprisingly strong.

Tracy and Alice have alternated staying overnight with her, as I've gone home to be with Jude and my boys.  I'm grateful to them for that.  My cousin, David Clark, has been here.  Jan Baker, one of my mom's best friends for years and years, has been a constant and reassuring presence.

I can't say enough about the staff at St. Thomas West, at least those we have been in regular contact with in the Neuro-ICU.  Patient, kind, respectful and understanding.  We've needed that, as a family.  Dr. Schmidt, the hospitalist, advised me that we will need to move to a private room upstairs today, since my mom is on comfort measures only.  I'd hoped we wouldn't have to leave this room until the end, but I understand.

My hope - and our hope - is that we don't have to move my mom out of the hospital at all and into a hospice situation, particularly with cold weather on the way.  I hate to think about bundling her up in an ambulance and driving back to NHC Place, which is where we would likely go if she continues to stay with us for more than few days.

I feel so strange, in a way, wanting my mom to die sooner rather than later.  But as I've tried to process what is happening over the last few days, I've come to realize it's not about me.  It's about her.  It's time for her to let go and leave us.  It just is.

All I want for her, now, is a peaceful and painless death.  That's what I pray for over and over during the day and night.

Peace for her.

I close friend of ours is a doctor and, in fact, delivered both our boys, sent me text today and I asked if I had any questions.  My reply?

Most of my questions at this point are existential ones.

And there will be time, lots of time, in the days to come for me to ponder and probably write about my ongoing struggle to answer the existential questions.

My mom so loved to read this blog.  As I've said before, for a long time, I was writing it for her.  Then, when she started to lose her memory and her health declined, I began to write about her any my struggle to find an answer to the "why" of it all.  

What I learned, I guess, is that there is no answer.  Sometimes things just are.

I'm rambling, I know, but my thoughts aren't particularly coherent or connected right now.  My mind is going in a million different directions, from distant and more recent memories to imagining a future without my mom.

Thank you for reading.  Thank you for the encouraging texts.  Thank you for replying to my posts on Instagram or Twitter.  Thank you for remembering my mom and my family during this difficult time.  The support we've received has been overwhelming and my heart is filled with gratitude for that.

As my wife, Jude, said earlier this week, "your mom is an extraordinary woman."

She certainly is.

I love you, mom.