Dying
I was standing in the hallway of the Intensive Care Unit, filled with anxiety and sadness. I watched as nurses attended to patients, offering care to those with CHF, end stage cancer, heart disease, and stroke victims.
Tears were streaming down my face as I walked down the corridor towards the room that held my mother. My father was waiting for me just outside the room. We hugged each other; we both knew this was the end. There were suddenly so many phone calls to make. I spoke to my younger brother from the second floor as I overlooked the empty lobby. There were no people milling around it was an oddly empty hospital. Next, I called my older brother while standing at the end of the corridor just outside the double doors of the ICU. She was still alive at that time and had less than 24 hours to live, but we didn’t know that.
I spoke to my sister-in-law, down that corridor, away from my mother’s room, because I didn’t want her to hear me. She had spoken to mom’s doctor and learned more details than we had previously known about her condition. There was not full disclosure until just that moment. Mom hemorrhaged and medication kept the bleeding under control, her lungs collapsed and tumors had taken over. The doctor suggested that it’s time to call in the family, and was also surprised that we hadn’t chosen hospice sooner.
I was still tearing as I went to see her. I was surprised that mom was awake and through her oxygen mask, and gasping for air, she told me not to cry. So, I stopped. For the next 12 hours I attended to my mother’s needs as her body continued to fail and shut down. I was scared and kept saying that I don’t want to do this. My brothers were making arrangements, but wouldn’t arrive for another 12 – 18 hours. BP and core temperature were dropping. She agreed to hospice. She told me she was done and couldn’t do this anymore. But a mere 5 days prior she was playing cards and looking forward to my visit.
She was lucid, in and out of consciousness and speaking to me, which made it all the harder. I thought, or hoped, she would tell me she loved me, or she was proud of the woman I had become, that she respected my strength and resolve to overcome adversity. Anything. But what she did say is that she wanted to leave the hospital. She wanted to sit up. She couldn’t breathe. She asked for me and Christa to help her sit up. She asked me if she would ever wear clothes again? She asked me to get her yellow flip flops and turquoise pants. She asked me to stay by her side, which I did. She pulled my hair to get me close to her and then whispered that “the nurse is a bitch” and that I shouldn’t leave her alone overnight. I told her I wouldn’t. She was annoyed that my younger brother hadn’t come sooner and that this is what it took to get him to see her. She complained that my hands were too cold, but then she tried to tuck them in next to her to warm them up, under the heating pads that were keeping her warm. I guess that was her last motherly gesture.
Part of the dying process is dishonesty. Not because someone is a liar, but because they are truly in denial. When the body can no longer fight off a terrible beast within, then the battle is lost. Family members, not understanding or denying to acknowledge critical medical issues, prevents them from seeing a way forward, attending to reality or even making plans. I was a witness to the ugliness of denial, critical illness and death. My dad was in complete denial and perhaps shock. I helped him through the hospice and DNR paperwork, explaining that is the point of palliative care and there is no further treatment for her end stage cancer.
The dying process is compartmentalized. After the final hospitalization, there was a transfer to hospice. I promised not to leave her side and I insisted that I ride in the ambulance with her as we made our way to hospice. Hospice was unreal. And immediately upon arrival I requested morphine so she would no longer suffer. Animals are treated better than we care for humans. I walked down the corridor of the hospice care hallways to see people in their rooms waiting to die. A stretcher passed me carrying a sheet covered body of the person that just passed away. I thought that this could happen to my own mother very soon. I watched as her breathing changed. I knew it was coming soon, and then it did. She took her last breath. I was holding her leg and sitting on the bed next to her. I kissed her forehead and told her I love her.
There are matter of fact issues that need attending to during the end of a life, just as there are in the beginning. Certificates need to be issued; birth and death. Clergy need to be contacted for a bris, baby naming, memorial service and burial. Social gatherings, birthday party and shiva, need planning, food needs to be ordered, house needs to cleaned, paper cups bought, and thank you cards written.
The final part of the process of death includes a will, family, and picking up the pieces.
Helen Haber, my mom, died August 5, 2018, approx 2:15 pm.