My mother is dying. Not because she said so—truth be known, she first made that announcement in the mid-70’s.
But because the hospice nurse said so.
Ten minutes after my brother called saying things were bad but stable, my phone rang again.
“You’d better come home.”
The projection is an unofficial one day to two weeks. It’s no longer something that will ultimately happen; it is happening.
As the morphine drips and the oxygen pumps, she sleeps.
Peacefully, presumably unaware of our presence in the darkened room, she sleeps.
As a lifetime montage of events cruises through my mind, she sleeps.
Hal and I were there this morning with Caroline. We watched her doze; we reminisced; we sat.
There was a rhythm to the visit. There was a peace to it. We exited together as we have for years….me kissing her forehead, and he enthusiastically saying “OK, Mom, we’ll see you later!”
But this time her eyes were closed and she didn’t hear.
This time we lingered invisibly.
And all the while the oxygen pumped.
And the morphine dripped.

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