Sunday 30 March 2014

Final Moments

I think this will be a post that requires many rewrites... many backspaces and rewording, and yet I still won't get it quite right.

Pulling in to the driveway at home, I find my children all waiting for me on the deck.  Graysen has a small leaf in hand that he'd like to show me, and the others are just overly excitied to see me - not unusual for a sunny day reception.  I stepped through the mesh door, quickly say hi to Reno and begin to rant about my daily perils.  He approaches me, phone in hand, and I can tell by the expression on his face.  "Your dad called...", he begins.  That's all I need to know.  I grasp the phone and make the call, my fingers trembling and my heart racing.

Dad explains that she's been in a coma since he found her that morning.  She's resurfaced enough to fight them throughout the day, but that's as far as it's gone.  She's not been able to speak or verbalize anything, but one thing was for certain, this was the toughest fight now.  I knew when I spoke on the phone that this was it - there was no coming back, but in my heart I held a little bit of hope.  Hope that this was just some big mistake.

When dad called at 11:15 PM to say that they were stopping efforts to fight for her to live and were going to make her comfortable, he broke down.  I knew I needed to leave.  I needed to see her and be there for dad before there were no more chances.  I climbed into my car, armed with a bag of clothes randomly grabbed, a box of protien bars, and a large cup of coffee. 

I arrived in Lloyd at 2:48 AM, and was completely unprepared for what I was about to see.  I had envisioned her to be laying there, looking peaceful in a coma.  What I saw instead was my mother looking like she had just been through a marathon, laying tense - her body working desperately trying to breath.  My stomach churned and I felt nauseous.  I held dad's hand and mom's and cried with him.  We were about to go through the hardest thing we'd ever been through.

I don't think I'd ever seen my dad cry so much.  His hands were hot to the touch, and a bright red color.  He didn't let go of her hand for longer than 5 minutes at a time.  We talked about how this was what she wanted, but it was still difficult to watch.  There were moments  where her breathing would get more difficult and the nurses would come to her aid.  I found myself scared in those moments - frightened they were the last... angered that the nurses didn't react in a more speedy manor. 

My brother, Russ, arrived shortly after I did.  At the moment he arrived, we hugged - tightly, and with more sincerity than ever before.  He sat by mom's bedside and stroked her hair.  I watched the care and tenderness on his face as he looked at her.  He felt for her - we all did.  We knew her pain.  We knew her struggles.  We knew this was the last step towards freedom.

Mom began to struggle again with her breathing, and a nurse came to provide some assistance.  She could see that mom was starting to slide slowly to one side, so she tenderly lifted mom's head and repositioned her.  Dad softly said thank you to the nurse.  That single act I think will stand out to us both as a genuine, non-medicinal, non-regimented approach to making her more comfortable. 

I'm not sure if it was because of the repositioning, or if it was just time, but mom never took another breath.  It stopped completely, and just by the movement of her body, I truly believe if she had been able to speak, she would have uttered good bye.  We sat with baited breath, watching as her heart continued to beat in her chest, gradually slowing until it stopped.

We all cried uncontrollably - wailed even.  We knew at that instant that her pain and suffering was done.  We also knew we would have to leave that tiny room without her.   I kissed her forehead - aware that she no longer felt me, but relieved that she no longer felt pain.

With time we walked away - together - with bond of pain to be reckoned with, and memories to hold us together.

These were her final moments, but they will live for an eternity in me.

No comments:

Post a Comment