By Lisa Alber
It’s a surreal time right now. I haven’t been writing — at all. I feel like I could never write again, and I’d be fine with that. My two sisters and I are hanging out with each other in Mom’s house more now than we have in the last few decades. N is like an Energizer bunny. She has trouble sitting still and is out for a run now. K is mellower. She’s plugged into her tablet, watching a movie. Me, here I am. It seems that when the chips are down, I do continue to write, don’t I?
Thus far today, we’ve opened the door to the hospice chaplain and social worker, a hospice delivery of more morphine, a guy from the funeral home, and even a Catholic priest to issue last rites.
I say “even” about the priest because although we’re solidly Catholic on both sides of the family, we Alber sisters weren’t raised with religion. We figured it would be nice for Mom to hear the sacraments to help her along the process of letting go these mortal coils. Couldn’t hurt anyhow.
To my surprise, the ritual of the sacraments comforted me. I’d never heard them before except in movies, never seen a vial of holy water before, never shaken a priest’s hand and said, Nice to meet you, Father.
Fawn, my eight-pound dog, spends most of her time curled up against Mom’s shoulder. I’m amazed by her instinct. Mom’s oblivious — constant morphine now — her breathing noisy and a tad erratic. She hasn’t consumed anything since yesterday morning. I keep wondering why she’s hanging on. What’s holding her here? How do we help her let go?
We have no control over this, of course. We’ve each had our alone time with her to say goodbye and let her know that it’s OK to move on.
There’s so much people don’t warn you about when it comes to end of life. Like how much pain there is with the littlest of touches. Like how pain itself can anchor people too much to this life — that our bodies naturally resist death. We’re giving her morphine every hour now to lessen the resistance. It seems like a lot, but, man, I’d do anything not to see her get a frowny face in sleep and to help her relax into the next stage, whatever that may be. No one tells you that morphine aids in the process of letting go but in itself isn’t what causes the heart to stop.
This is where I am today. I wonder about my writing. Wonder if it even matters. I’m going to make chocolate chip cookies in a little while because we have the makings for them. Seems like something to do to pass the time. That’s another thing people don’t warn you about — the waiting. Death takes its own sweet time.