The next chapter begins.
The next chapter begins.
Thank you, everyone, for your prayers and support.
As of 3:20 this morning, Mom is no longer suffering or struggling. We were all there with her throughout the day and night: me and my wife, my brother and his wife, and Dad. We also had two family friends - one a retired nurse and one a priest (and my best friend since the 4th grade) - with us until it was over. She held on much longer than seemed logical, as shallow and labored as her breathing was and with blood pressure that was as low as it could be and still sustain.
It was the single most terrible and sacred experience I have ever witnessed. The last minutes were the most trying, and though we'd been waiting for those moments the entire day, they still came with an indescribable weight. I don't know where we go from here, except forward in some sense of the word.
It's been almost exactly a year since she was first diagnosed. The cancer she had is not only virulent, it is very rare in the US. Most people who are diagnosed with this cancer succumb to it with in 2-4 months. Mom outlasted that prognosis by about 8 months, possibly the longest survival of this particular cancer.
So we stayed with her. We told stories, a few bad jokes, and shared an abundance of laughter and tears, often within the same moments. Mom was completely unresponsive through it all, on a constant drip of morphine and bi-hourly doses of Ativan. The goal was comfort for her, freedom from pain. One of the LPNs said that hearing is the last sense to go, so I think she shared in our joy and in our grief nonetheless.
And I truly believe we kept just enough of a spirit irreverence in that place. Had Mom been awake and able to react, she certainly would have rolled her eyes, shaken her head, and secretly enjoyed every bit of it.
She died with all of us gathered around her hospital bed, holding on to her and holding on to each other. When it was all over, I cried my fair share with the family. But I felt unreasonably good. Perhaps it was adrenaline from a long day, or the coffee and tea that I'd ingested knowing that we were in for a long night. Maybe it was a sense of relief. Whatever it was, it's gone now. It's 9:00am. I've been home since about 4:30 and have slept maybe three hours, and I feel (physically) awful. It's all sinking in, too.
And even though it's over, it isn't over. About three hours before she died, I leaned in and whispered into Mom's ear, "Don't hold on for us. We're going to hurt for a long time, but that's our job and it's a good thing."
The funeral, coming up in a few days. Thanksgiving. Christmas. New Year's. And what would have been their 42nd anniversary in March. We have a long road ahead, but we have more amazing friends out there than we could ever hope for.
So again, thanks for your kind words. And thanks for letting me ramble about this here in the Café.
Peace,
Alex
The next chapter begins.
Thank you, everyone, for your prayers and support.
As of 3:20 this morning, Mom is no longer suffering or struggling. We were all there with her throughout the day and night: me and my wife, my brother and his wife, and Dad. We also had two family friends - one a retired nurse and one a priest (and my best friend since the 4th grade) - with us until it was over. She held on much longer than seemed logical, as shallow and labored as her breathing was and with blood pressure that was as low as it could be and still sustain.
It was the single most terrible and sacred experience I have ever witnessed. The last minutes were the most trying, and though we'd been waiting for those moments the entire day, they still came with an indescribable weight. I don't know where we go from here, except forward in some sense of the word.
It's been almost exactly a year since she was first diagnosed. The cancer she had is not only virulent, it is very rare in the US. Most people who are diagnosed with this cancer succumb to it with in 2-4 months. Mom outlasted that prognosis by about 8 months, possibly the longest survival of this particular cancer.
So we stayed with her. We told stories, a few bad jokes, and shared an abundance of laughter and tears, often within the same moments. Mom was completely unresponsive through it all, on a constant drip of morphine and bi-hourly doses of Ativan. The goal was comfort for her, freedom from pain. One of the LPNs said that hearing is the last sense to go, so I think she shared in our joy and in our grief nonetheless.
And I truly believe we kept just enough of a spirit irreverence in that place. Had Mom been awake and able to react, she certainly would have rolled her eyes, shaken her head, and secretly enjoyed every bit of it.
She died with all of us gathered around her hospital bed, holding on to her and holding on to each other. When it was all over, I cried my fair share with the family. But I felt unreasonably good. Perhaps it was adrenaline from a long day, or the coffee and tea that I'd ingested knowing that we were in for a long night. Maybe it was a sense of relief. Whatever it was, it's gone now. It's 9:00am. I've been home since about 4:30 and have slept maybe three hours, and I feel (physically) awful. It's all sinking in, too.
And even though it's over, it isn't over. About three hours before she died, I leaned in and whispered into Mom's ear, "Don't hold on for us. We're going to hurt for a long time, but that's our job and it's a good thing."
The funeral, coming up in a few days. Thanksgiving. Christmas. New Year's. And what would have been their 42nd anniversary in March. We have a long road ahead, but we have more amazing friends out there than we could ever hope for.
So again, thanks for your kind words. And thanks for letting me ramble about this here in the Café.
Peace,
Alex
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