Home At Last

Mom died peacefully at five-twenty this morning at the Hospice House with Dad by her side.

One Week

Today makes one week that Mom has been in the Hospice House. It's also her birthday today. Seventy nine.

Dad and I met with Minister B. at the church and were kindly driven up to the House to visit with Mom. We arrived a little after noon. She was sleeping. We greeted her, she seemed to slightly acknowledge our presence.. a little bit of (closed eye) movement, her mouth moved a little, sometimes her brow furrowed. I kissed her and spoke with her, told her we were there.

I had grabbed a hymn book off of her piano before we left, and Dad sang a few hymns to her, Minister B. singing along, too. We spoke to her. I read a little bit from another book I brought up.

The nurse and CNA on duty, new to us, checked in with her and us several times. We spoke with the doctor, too. He admits he doesn't know why Mom is so unresponsive, except that I suspect he's gently trying to tell us what we already know. They are doing their best to keep her as comfortable as possible.

Just before we left, around two, the CNA and nurse shifted her in the bed. She grimaced while they did it, maybe even moaned a little bit. Before we left, we told her goodbye, we kissed her. Driving home, I realized I forgot to wish her a happy birthday, but in retrospect, it didn't feel very appropriate anyway.

We have decided to stay home today, to take care of some business. This still could change.. we feel like we are on call. I have an appointment tomorrow at eleven-thirty, and I'm trying to decide to keep it or not.

My cousin from Maine called me last night, offering any help needed, as well as condolences.

I read back some of the earlier posts of this blog late last night. It has given me more perspective. It feels like it's been a long goodbye, but it still doesn't make it any easier.

Me and Mom in 1966

Waiting Again

It was an emotional weekend with my siblings and nephew and in laws visiting Mom at the Hospice House. They were very shook up seeing Mom so unresponsive and frail.

Dad and I stayed home on Sunday (well, he went to church, and I took the day off from my gig), and I did a lot of weeping off and on all day. Dad and I shared a meal alone on Sunday night.

The doctor told us on Saturday that it appeared to him that Mom may die within the next few weeks. She has been taken off of Haldol all together. Mom has eaten very little, mostly on a liquid diet. She hasn't been eliminating.

I am not a care giver anymore. Just a close family member at the mercy of this passing of time.

Dad and I are going up shortly. We are meeting the minister from his church, who has offered to drive us to the House from there and back.

I am behind on my bills and my banking and my laundry and my kitchen is cleaned out of food. Tough time, this waiting.

Present

I left my home a little after ten in the morning yesterday and arrived at the Hospice House at eleven-thirty. Mom was in the same position as I saw her yesterday. I greeted her but she did not respond or acknowledge my presence, or maybe she did but it was very subtle. I settled in my stuff and picked up the book of short stories by D.H. Lawrence and began to read the story "England, Oh England."

And naturally, I began to cry. Damn it, I said softly but aloud, not hiding it from Mom. She did not respond.

After a few more false starts and wiping of tears, I got into a flow with the reading -  trying to follow the story more then to see myself alone in a room reading to my dying Mother. The CNA popped in and waved me on. Then the nurse who has been with her for a while came in, and we chatted. She said Mom ate a little ice cream yesterday, but mostly she's only drinking fluids. I didn't see her eat or drink or urinate or open her eyes the three hours I was there.

I read some more. Then the social worker Dad and I had met with the day before, Jamie, came in and asked if I'd like to talk with her. We went into the very zen -like reflection room and talked more about the decisions made in the last twenty-four hours - Dad decided it would be best to arrange for a nursing home, and made some calls to a very reputable one only half an hour from our house. I told Jamie I stood behind anything he needed, at this point, and I'm positive my siblings would as well.

Sadly, or maybe, not sadly, the bottom line is that it appears that Mother is shutting down and there is a strong possibility she will not leave the Hospice House. The moment I walked into the facility I realized that, and I told Jamie I would not feel remorse if that will be the case. In the meantime, Dad has gotten enough straightened out for the temporary future enough so that now, Jamie urged, it is time for all of us, but especially Dad, to simply just to be in the present regarding Mom. She wondered if I could tell him that, and I said yes. I did later when I got home. He gets it.

I went back to the room and read some more. On the way back, I waved to Doctor A., who was consulting with people in the main office area. I was told Dad was on the phone, so she told me to let it ring when I got into Mom's room, and then I could talk to Dad. I said to Mom, who was in the same position as before, "Dad's on the phone, here he is," and I put the phone up to her ear and I could just barely hear Dad say, "Hi sweetheart," and that was the only time I saw Mom respond at all. Her eyes fluttered and she just barely whispered "hi."

It was a touching moment to see. I let her listen to him talk some more, then he and I talked for another minute and hung up. I went back to reading the story, when Doctor A. walked in. He asked if Dad was with me, I said no.

He told me she had had a tiny bit of morphine the night before. He doesn't think it's the morphine or the Haldol that is making her like this. He said we was going to skip the next dose of Haldol to see if her agitation returns. Then he said, "I'm sorry." Twice.

I shrugged. He left, I went back to reading. The CNA came in and asked if I was staying all night, I said no, but we were coming back tomorrow. She said take your time, I'm gong to give her a sponge bath after you leave.  Okay.

I finished reading the story. I said goodbye to Mom, talked to her like she could hear me, told her who was coming to see her this weekend. I told her to hang on until then. I love you, and I know you love me. Then I just stood there and looked at her from the foot of her bed. She did look comfortable, and this brings me peace for her. She's been agitated for so long.

Last night, Dad called to tell me that he had called and had a good talk with the nurse there. They've decided to gradually take her off of the Haldol all together, down to .5 mg today, and no Haldol at all on Sunday. That way, he says, we'll know, if it's the drugs or...  nature taking it's course.

At nine-thirty at night, my sister, older brother, and nephew came over for an hour visit. We sat outside by the campfire and talked. I was feeling strong and have been concerned about their feelings. I've had a lot of time to spend with Mom and grieve, but they haven't. It's a crappy feeling to try and squeeze it all in in a short amount of time and with so much distance between them, I can imagine. I should not have been surprised when my brother suddenly broke down in a ravaged fit of tears. My sister and I told him it was okay to cry.

Dad and Don and I will get rolling in about an hour, and the other three will follow up later. The social worker will be available for the others if they should like to talk at all.

My girlfriend Lynn, who lost her mother in early February to this disease, said to me in an email yesterday, after I had filled her in on the where we were at,

"I think I would weigh on the side of caution and plan to spend as much time as possible with her now - I don't know of anyone that has come home from hospice - but what do I know." 

Visit With Mom Today

Dad and I left at ten in the morning, arriving at the Hospice House at eleven-thirty. Mom was in bed, resting comfortably, with a little smile on her face. She did acknowledge our presence to a point. We were informed that she had complained of pain earlier that morning, so she had been given a small dose of morphine. I had brought a framed photo from their house that had been taken about ten years ago. It's a line up of her and Dad, with us four "kids." She mostly kept her eyes shut, but I think she saw it. I put in on the table by her bedside.

About twenty minutes after we arrived, she somehow communicated to me that she needed to pee. I flagged down the on-call CNA, and together, with much effort, we got her out of the bed. We quickly realized she was too weak and unable to walk, so the CNA brought the portable commode over and placed it right next to the bed. We plopped her down on that, and after a while, she finally peed. We got her back in bed and propped her back up again.

A little after twelve noon, the Hospice House social worker, Jamie, knocked on the door. We three left Mom's room (she was snoozing anyway) and went to another room for a meeting that lasted nearly one hour. We mostly talked about getting Dad signed up with Maine Care, which would help him pay for more help once Mom got back home. Maine Care would pay for up to thirty-two hours a week for extra help. We mostly would need evening help, which makes it a little harder, as we live in such a remote area. Also, the home health workers (which would be separate from our Hospice agency), are not allowed to administer medications. If Mom was to wake up in the middle of the night, Dad would have to be awoken in order to administer the medication.

After our meeting with the social worker, we went back to see Mom. It was a little after one.

By this time, we had run into our friend, Debra, who also happens to be a nurse on our Hospice team. She had had a monthly meeting there at the facility earlier in the day and stuck around in order to spend some time with us. On her free time.

As we hovered around Mom in her bed, the afternoon nurse was in and out, filling us in on some of the last few hours with Mom as well as questioning us more about Mom and her life. As Dad, Debra and I were happily opining on Mom and her many life achievements and accolades (cutting each other off with each new memory of wonderfulness), the team chaplain, Lissa, swung by and joined the crowd. Mom continued to lay there, half doped-up, half ravaged by her disease, her eyes closed but dancing in her sockets, grabbing at as many of the words and trails as she could.

One by one, the crowd gracefully thinned, and again, it was just me and Dad left in the room with Mom. When Mom called for me and expressed she needed to pee, I paged a nurse. We began to move Mom in order to rise her towards the portable commode, but she began to moan in pain, so we let her rest some more. More time went by, then she expressed she really needed to pee. I paged for help again.

A different woman came this time, and we realized we needed the bed pan. With more effort, the nurse and I rolled and shifted Mom onto the bed pan. But she couldn't pee. We tried different methods, we waited, but nothing happened. I asked this nurse if this was common, and she said yes, that sometimes it's hard to get used to. With no luck, we got her comfortable again, and she dozed off, sort of. Then it was time for Dad and me to go. She did not make much of a fuss when we said goodbye. I had told her earlier we would be back on Saturday, with the siblings and a small birthday celebration.

On our way out, we ran into the doctor. He stopped us and told us that Mom has had two calm nights of sleep. She only made a fuss the first afternoon after we left, which was quickly resolved, and then this morning, when she complained of pain. That's when they gave her the small dose of Morphine. She's only been on the 1 mg. of the anti-psychotic drug, Haldol. He said she is not eating much. I said you have to coax her to eat. He stressed that they were.

Then he summed it up. He said "it doesn't look good."

He thought maybe Mom was hovering around stage 6c or 6d of the disease.

I called my sister and sister in law when I got home. My sister, older brother and nephew will come up tomorrow night, and we will go visit Mom on Saturday. My younger brother and sister in law will come up Saturday night, and go visit Mom alone on Sunday. I might go up tomorrow alone, because I wonder how much time is left. And maybe I could read to her a little bit more.

Facing Fears

Yesterday, Mom was very groggy in the morning hours. Dad had had to give her one extra Haldol and later, one extra Ativan, in order to get her to settle in and sleep all night.

A home health worker came at around eleven-thirty and gave Mom a little sponge bath and change. Mom skipped lunch all together, opting for more sleep. I read a lot to her, though I'm not sure how much she really heard.

The hospital bed arrived around twelve-thirty, and the man very quickly and efficiently set it up and showed us how it works. An early email report from Dad today reports that Mom slept fairly well in it last night (Friday night), and he had no need to give her extra medications.

A little after one-thirty, I think it was, the sun was beaming and warm, and I was able to convince Mom to go sit outside on the side porch off their bedroom. Just as we settled down, I saw our next appointment drive up. Lissa is a chaplain who works on the team at the agency, and she joined the three of us outside on the porch for awhile, and explained her part of the network of supporters.

After about twenty minutes, we went back inside and Lissa sat close with Mom and asked her if she was afraid of dying. Mom began to cry and said yes, that she didn't want to not go on living. It was heartbreaking to see Mom express herself so, but it was really good that Lissa broke the ice a little. She got Mom to "face" the fear and Mom yelled out the big scary word DEATH. Then she became very upset and asked to be helped to stand up. Dad got her up and walked around with her, giving Lissa a chance to ask me about a few things. Then she mentioned that if I got a chance, to ask Mom if she was afraid of dying or afraid of being dead. I said I suspected it was the former, but I said I would ask her if the opportunity came up.

Lissa left, leaving us her phone number so that we could call her any time to make an appointment to talk, and promised to call next week to check in, either way. Then Dad went down town, and Mom was calm again on the couch. I continued to read aloud from Little Women (it's one long book.) When Dad came back, it was my turn to go down town. Back home, I went back over to Mom and Dad's at five.

I had purchased an Easter Lilly and brought it over, and Mom enjoyed that. Dad had to run back down town to get some pills (they weren't ready earlier), and so I stayed with Mom for another thirty-five minutes or so. Mom asked me how I liked "the woman that came earlier today." I said I liked her.. then we were able to talk some more, and I was able to ask Mom the question, and she answered as I thought she might. That allowed me to assure her that, if she should pass away before any of us, we would all be very sad but okay, as she has surely left her mark on all of us, and she would still be alive in our hearts forever. She seemed to hear that, and she did not get upset again.

Well, a little later she did, but that was just the usual old sundowners cropping up.. but I got her up, offered her a glass of wine, and before we knew, she was calm again, in her chair, watching the news and sipping on her wine. I was happy to have Dad come home to that scene.

I left while the getting was good then. Another emotional day to mull over.

Scrambled Emotions

Yesterday was a tough day for all three of us. Mom, she's, I think, pissed that she's dying, or maybe still thinks she can get out of this mess, and all the "extra attention" is getting on her nerves. Dad, struggling himself with this mortality stuff and trying to squeeze the most out of his life, which is really hard to do when you're not getting enough sleep. Me, burning out. All day over there, reading aloud, worrying about her every move, not living my own life, really. In the afternoon, when she starts up, "home, home, home, home..." I lost it, tears streaming down my face, the look of desperation on her face so heartbreaking. I made Dad take her out for a drive around the "block," just to get her out of the house for a few minutes. It seemed to help.

We were expecting the hospital bed yesterday afternoon, and it never came. We had already stored the twin bed upstairs under the eaves, and so by six o'clock, after a phone call or two with the agency, it was clear they were not delivering the bed and so we had to bring the twin mattress, box spring and frames back down the stairs, and make the bed again for Mom. It didn't take too much time or effort, but added up with the whole stress of the day, the situation, it was really aggravating. We should get the bed today.

Mom had a visit from Michelle in the morning, then from our Nurse Corrin at one in the afternoon. We discussed more sleep management action plans, and I think Dad feels even more support in that area. Nurse Corrin stressed how vital it is for Dad to get good sleep, because he is Mom's primary care giver.

This Saturday and Saturday night we should have a bit of respite with my brother and SIL, and Sunday my gig has been cancelled. I'll have my gig on Saturday night.. I think I need to get away for a minute.

Today, we meet with a chaplain provided by the agency.

Changes

Today, my friend and fellow musician Stephen is driving down to assist Don, Dad and I in the bed switch. We've decided, in order to get a hospital bed (provided by the hospice agency), we first need to move the two twins beds from an upstairs guest bedroom down and the queen sized master bed up in their place. With this, we hope to provide more comfort for Mom and Dad.

This will require a big change over in the way things have been.

The last three days, Mom has been very subdued. The usual afternoon "sundowning" has even seemed less brutal. Sunday afternoon, I felt comfortable leaving Mom in the loving care of Chris, who made a quiche for their supper while she was there. Chris also has an interesting theory about why Mom makes these odd humming noises, especially if we have to get her up and walk her to the bathroom. She thought it might be something called "toning" which is something she had done to help alleviate labour pains just before she gave birth. I say that that makes perfect sense. The humming, which sometimes, when I join her, turns into a sort of melody that we improvise as we go along, is a way to cope.

Monday, Mom was very very groggy and sleepy all day. Dad had had to give her a second Ativan over night, to keep her in bed and sleeping. She woke up for a while when the home health aid came to give her a little sprucing up, then back to the couch she went. Dad ran out to do errands, and I began to read from the "Little Women" book, but it wasn't long that I could tell she was really asleep.

Then the phone rang and it was the social worker from the agency, calling to try and get a first meeting in with us. I told her to come on by, and the timing worked out well. Mom stayed in the couch, half awake, half asleep, while the three of us sat at the dining room table and had a very good and eye opening discussion. One of the things I'm glad we decided was to cancel the six month follow-up appointment with the neurologist, Dr. D. I was dreading the thought of dragging Mom into the car and driving an hour there and back, just so that he could talk with her and see how much she has deteriorated. Also, now that we are officially under hospice care, we are no longer trying to "save her" life, so to speak. He may have wanted to prescribe another drug, in his dual interest in learning more about what works for this disease, as well as helping Mom to be more functional.

Just after the social worker left with a promise to come back in about two weeks, our primary hospice nurse, Corrin, showed up. She agreed that canceling the neurologist appointment was the right thing to do, so Dad went down and made the call and that was no problem. Then she checked Mom's vitals, all good, looked at Mom's healing (finally!) ankle bone and her elbow scrape. She wanted to ask Dr. N. of it was okay if Mom started using Robitussin for her extra mucus, which is making her a noisy sleeper and also cough a little bit more, but Mom heard that and flat out refused! It was funny, the old Mom rearing her head. Corrin, being a sweetie, respectfully agreed that she would not bring it up with the doctor after all.

She also spoke with the doctor about any other ideas for helping Mom to sleep through the night. She called back later in the afternoon and Dad was told that if Mom was still restless at bed time, he was allowed to give her one more .5 mg. of the Haloperidol.

Yesterday, Mom did exhibit three of the signs that the hospice agency uses to help determine if a person's body is beginning to die. Lack of appetite and food intake, sleep almost all day, and lack of interest in what is going on, or a withdrawal. Now, some days are more like this than others, and sometimes I do wonder if it especially on the days when she's had a lot of the "mild sedatives." Plus, she's on more Haloperidol, too. Maybe we've just sedated her so much that it looks like she's dying.. I sometimes wonder about that. It takes a lot for a person to die. How much fight Mom has left in her, I can't say. It's all very mysterious, and as the social worker reminded us, each journey is different.

I will be interested to see if Mom is perkier today, and how the night went, too.

Waiting

I didn't get over there in time to see Maria yesterday, but I could tell she did her usual great care on Mom. When I showed up, Nurse M. was just finishing up with Mom. She began to tell me what she had been speaking about with Dad, which is the possibility of long term hospice care. She wanted to be sure that I understood the criteria, one major one being significant and drastic weight loss, and that the doctor estimates that the person has six months or less to live. There are more, but I'll spare myself writing them down here.

This was being said in front of Mom, who was in her usual position on the couch, listening but unable to really comprehend what we were saying. At last, however, she began to moan (which she has been doing more and more lately.. a moaning whimper), so I helped her up and took her away from the conversation. As we rounded the corner near the front door, she cried out to me, "I don't want to die!" and cried some more. Naturally, that made me tear up, but I told her we were planning for long term help for her care. Which we are.

So, Nurse M. said that it may be as early as next week that we meet a new person (nurse?) to do the "evaluation" for the long term hospice part of the service. She left, and I hung around. Dad went for a walk. Mom was napping. I picked up the handful of brochures on the dining room table that Dad brought from the residential home he visited last week. I read about the services provided from two different hospice agencies. They offer on going care, equipment, counseling before and after death of your loved one. The agency we work with have a home in a city an hour away that we could bring Mom to for a period of time if we needed to.

April 6, 2011

The I picked up a brochure that went more into what to expect when the person is dying. When Dad came home from his walk, I made sure he read that. Reading that reminds us that these very well could be the last few months of Mom's life. She is showing signs of shutting down and preparing to die. I reminded Dad of this, that these could be times to treasure.

Of course, I could be wrong.

We've also discussed the idea of bringing the two twins beds from the upstairs guest room down to their bedroom, and bringing their double bed upstairs. This way, not only would Dad maybe get better rest without Mom's "twitching" in bed, but also it would make it more comfortable if, say, I or somebody else volunteered to sleep in the bedroom for a night, so that Dad could sleep in another room. Mom has been getting up a little more frequently in the middle of the night, sometimes wandering out in to the living room. I'd like to prevent any future falls. At first Dad was against the idea, but now I think he might be warming to it. We can't do it until my brother comes up to help, the large mattress and box spring look pretty heavy.

Mom has been bringing up "wanting to go home" much more frequently. She wants to go home. I'm pretty sure it means she wants to feel normal again. It's so fucking sad.

Hitting Close To Home

I have an extra hour this morning. The choir director at Dad's church is on vacation this week, so they are not rehearsing. Dad will just go in for the service, and I can go over a little later. Of course, he offered to take her to the service with him, but she said something about not being able to get up to "dress code." In other words, she looks pretty crappy, compared to usual. It's hard enough to get her to bathe once a week with our helper, Maria. Towards the end of the week, her hair and clothes get pretty messy. So, she'll stay home, but a couple of the lady's from church are coming over a few hours after church to hang with her, and that should be nice.

This is going to be a tough week. Monday (with some snow coming), Dad and Mom have teeth cleaning appointments at the dentist. Dad has called ahead to let them know of her condition, and they said it would be okay if Dad sat with Mom while she gets her teeth cleaned. I will come along, too, and sit with Mom in the waiting room while Dad gets his teeth cleaned. That should be interesting. We may bring along the mild sedatives in case she gets too wound up.

Then, Tuesday morning, she has her appointment follow up with Dr. N., her primary care physician. I'll go along with them for that, as well.

Wednesday morning, Maria comes for bath day, and then Mom has been invited to a lady's luncheon with the gals from church. She has said she would attend, but who knows, by then, she may be too exhausted and refuse to go. Actually, she's exhausted all the time, even though all she does is rest. She's tired because of her brain.

We finished reading "Sons And Lovers." The end was sad when the mother died. It dragged out for pages and pages, and when I was finishing up that chapter, and we were heading into "sundowners" time, Mom was getting really agitated and upset. But the next day we finished the book, and it was actually me that was tearing up while I read aloud the burial of the mother. Hitting damn close to home, there. Mom stopped me and said, "Are you crying?" And I said, "Yes, so sad. The mother has been an important character in the whole story, it's sad to see her go." "Yes," she replied, and then I quickly read on and finished the book.

I took all of Friday off, as we had to put our old cat to sleep that day. It came up quickly and as a surprise, with two vet hospital visits, the second visit to have him euthanized. I was pretty teary-eyed and sad and tired from all that, so I thought it best Mom didn't see me like that. She was very sweet on Friday night and called to offer to have she and Dad take us out to dinner that night. That's the kind of thing she would have done in earlier times, my partner noted. Of course, we declined, thanking her for being so sweet. Honestly, we were too emotionally drained, and going out to dinner with Mom would have been even more tiring!

Yesterday afternoon, as her "sundowners" kicked in, she once again made a comment about feeling like it was "time to go home, to Mom and Daddy's house." Dad calmly replied, "No, Kate is going home to her house and we are staying here in our house." Then Mom said, "Oh, it must be the disease." She goes in and out of the two realities.. the one we know, and the one that the Alzheimer's presents to her.

A girl friend of mine just lost her mother on Friday to this disease. She was with her right up to the end, and she is full of love and humbled by her mother's strength. Her mother's death hits close to home for me, too. I am constantly reminded of how lucky I am to have these moments with my mother and my father, the good and the bad.

Respite And Gratitude

It's been a fairly quite week with Mom. The cold and snow has kept us all in, with short trips in and out for supplies or events for Dad and me in between our times with Mom.

The re-introduction of the Namenda drug seems to have helped bring her back to a little bit of a more calm state, though she is still panting during movement and sleeping most of the time. I can't wait until warmer weather so we can start getting her back outside for little walks.. I do worry that she's sitting and laying down too much. Her eating is still finicky and light, but at least she eats dinner fairly well, from what I hear from Dad.

One of the biggest gifts Dad and I have gotten the last few days is some respite. Friday night, the twenty-eighth of January, I had a big and important gig to perform in, and Dad wanted to attend the ninth anniversary of the open mic held at the basement of his church. One of the women at the church offered to come over to their house at six o'clock on that night to sit with Mom for a few hours. Mom was not too happy about the thought of it, but from what I was told, once the woman got there, she had a nice time.

Then on Sunday, my younger brother and my sister-in-law, two very very busy people who live almost three hours away, drove all the way up here and arrived at Mom and Dad's on Sunday morning at ten forty-five in the morning! I was practically in tears at their effort! I was able to leave early and have plenty of morning time to get ready for my gig, and Dad was able to linger after church and do some errands in the early afternoon. My brother and his wife left sometime around four in the afternoon.. unbelievable! So wonderful. This is the kind of team work that makes such a big difference in caring for a person with Alzheimer's Disease.

I am about halfway through reading aloud "Sons And Lovers," and though Mom still has to stop me to ask for clarification on characters and events at times, we are plugging through the story and both enjoying the dense, yet beautiful, writing. She still stops to correct me when I pronounce a word wrong.

I continue to have warm, empathetic support from friends. I was introduced to an old friend of a good friend of mine at the big gig the other night, and when I shared with him this life stage I am going through with my parents, his comments were so uplifting and soul soothing. To paraphrase;

"Enjoy these moments. Yes, she will die, so what? That doesn't take away her spirit in you, the memories you have of her. She will never go away in your heart..."

I whole heartedly agree.

Thank you to my family and friends for your help and understanding. It is reassuring and uplifting and it eases so much of the sad emotional burden that could so easily weigh me down. I am quite sure Dad would concur.

Love And Misery

Two things Mom exclaimed at one point yesterday morning;

"ARG! This is a such a crappy way to die!"

("Yes Mom, it really is. But you are not dead yet, and neither am I or Dad, so let's concentrate on living right now, okay?")

"Are they all coming up here for Christmas? I don't want them to!"

(No comment from me.)

Every single breathing moment, Mom is in angst. While the rest of us are busy making plans for the holidays, living our busy lives, preparing meals and decorating our homes, Mom's life is a big warbled swirl of confusion and frustration and misery.. with only slight moments of murky joy.

All I want to do is comfort her in every moment that I can, in any meager way that I can. Love, understanding, empathy, comfort and love love love..

Such a crappy way to die, indeed.