Sunset:: A Mother's Day Tribute by Bonnie Lee Swain
May 03 '04
The Bottom Line It's been 14 years now, and I've had my own bypass, and can't say I miss her one bit less.
"I don't know how she manages to hold up so well...." "Oh, she's just in shock now." "Poor thing...it's really going to hit her hard later."
I heard these words dozens of times the day my mother was buried. At the funeral home, at the graveside, at home. Everyone knew how close I was to Mom, how she was my best friend, and I hers. No one seemed to understand that the funeral was a piece of cake. The hard part was the last full day of Mom's life, the day we stopped "heroic measures." The day I spent by her bedside in ICU, saying goodbye to a mother who was already mostly gone.
Years ago when Mom was diagnosed as having atherosclerotic heart disease and had to retire permanently, she was not considered a candidate for surgery. But 12 years after retirement, when her chest pains became more frequent, her doctor urged her to have another cardiac catheterization done. She really dreaded that test - she'd had an allergic reaction to the dye they used when she had the same test years before, and the test itself has some serious risks. I helped persuade her that with all the advances they'd made in open heart surgery now, she ought to go for it. Maybe they could fix her up to feel a lot better than she did now, so that she could even walk around the block without tiring. As I mentioned, we were best friends. She agreed to the test.
About 15 years earlier, my Dad had a triple bypass. Despite some scary moments shortly after surgery, he recovered well, and a few months later he seemed to be a new man, returning to his job and doing pretty much exactly what he had been doing before any heart trouble. I just knew it would be the same for Mom. Dad was in his 40's when he had his surgery; Mom had just turned 61 but was still in good health otherwise and relatively young for this type of surgery.
I went with her for her cardiac cath, and they decided they would operate in a few days, and admitted her. I stayed with her a couple more hours, then left when school let out for my six-year-old son. Late that afternoon Mom called to tell me that the doctor had scheduled her bypass for two days later. She was a little scared, a little hopeful, happy to get a nice dinner after a long fast, and still trying to sneak a cigarette in the bathroom. She was tired enough that she told me not to bother coming back to the hospital that night - we'd visit the next day.
But around 10:30 p.m. she called back. In a voice now filled with fear but trying to sound hopeful, she told me that her doctor had come back and told her they'd decided to do her surgery the next morning. That meant they'd had to bump someone who'd been waiting longer for their surgery, and it seemed to mean they were concerned about Mom's immediate need for the repairs. I told Mom to be thankful it was just going to be over that much sooner! Who needed an extra day in the hospital dreading the surgery, right?
When I saw her early the next morning she was in pretty good spirits, and I guess I felt sort of indulgent about her fear - of course she was afraid, that was natural. But I KNEW everything would turn out fine. I had absolutely no doubt about that. We talked mostly of mundane, silly things, up until time to go down the hall to the operating room. Then she said, "And I don't have to tell you I love you, honey. You know that. And you've always been there for me....Oh, you know that already, too, don't you?" As I walked - or jogged - beside the gurney, I didn't even give her a "good luck" kiss, afraid she'd mistake it for a "good-bye" kiss - I just cheerfully told her I'd meet her in a few hours in CCU (Coronary Care Unit).
Hours passed. Too many hours. With every fearful thought that passed through my head I made a conscious effort to thihk positively. Finally one of the surgeons came to explain that there had been complications. She was finished with the surgery, the bypasses were technically successful, but her arteries kept going into spasms. She "arrested" during and after the surgery, but they got her heart restarted; she wasn't really stable yet, but should be getting better. He said I could see her "soon." After he'd gone I replayed the conversation in my mind. His tone of voice somehow seemed more negative than the actual words. Guess he believed in preparing you for the worst, and letting you be relieved later, I thought. I made a few phone calls, then the nurses called me back to see Mom. Only because I'd been through this before with Dad was I able to handle the CCU with all the tubes and monitors, and the dreaded ventilator. Actually, I thought Mom's color looked pretty good. I was sure that was a good sign. Of course, she was still too heavily sedated to know I was there, but I kissed her forehead and squeezed her hand and told her "I love you" and that her surgery was over. On my next visit a few hours later, she squeezed my hand slightly, and she opened her eyes briefly, though it was easy to see she was too doped up to focus.
From there, it was all downhill. She had more "arrests" or codes during the night but was resuscitated. Then it became apparent that she was having strokes, leaving her with a loss of kidney function, then motor function on the left, then the right, and finally she stopped even opening her eyes when we'd call her name. In a week she went from normal, active, alert, to comatose, vegetable. Each day I thought that she would get better, her systems would kick in and start repairing the damage, but instead each day a different doctor gave me a new, worse assessment, until finally, a doctor who specializes in critical care gave me the whole picture. Her chances of living through the immediate crisis were very slim - maybe 5%. Then, if she should survive this crisis, the chances of her regaining any kind of reasonable brain function, of reading a book or watching her beloved birds, were less than 1%. (So, doc, are we talking pulling the plug, or what, I wonder.) "You may want to sign a 'No Code' order - if she has another arrest they will not resuscitate her. She's been having several per night."
So, OK, we made her a "No Code." Poor Mom. I know her feelings about such things - "as long as there's any reasonable chance that I can be cured, can live a normal, productive life, I expect them to use every darned piece of equipment in the hospital! But if not, if I wouldn't be anything but a vegetable, please don't prolong the misery." Her mother and a sister had suffered through slow, tortuous deaths; Mom didn't want herself - or her family - to go through that.
That night, for the first time in several nights, she didn't have any stoppages. The next morning her doctor explained that he'd had a similar situation with his father, and that we could also discontinue her blood pressure medicines, which at the moment were artificially giving her a blood pressure ("pressors" they were called) and prolonging her life. This measure wouldn't cause her any pain or distress even if she were aware, which she wasn't. OK, OK, if that's what best, I thought. I prayed. I agreed.
Now the CCU staff told me I could stay by her bed all day if I would like, instead of having to wait down the hall to be called in to visit only three times a day for 20 minutes each visit. They urged me to make myself comfortable, and they did a few things to make Mom more comfortable while she was dying, and they withdrew a few steps, allowing us as much privacy as is possible in that closely monitored unit.
You think a funeral is tough? Try sitting with your mother all day, watching the monitors that show how much life she still has in her arteries and veins, waiting for the magic numbers to indicate her decline is irreversible. Try holding the hand that a few days ago was squeezing back, and now is totally still, swollen unnaturally from retained fluid. Try talking to the puffy, swollen face, with permanently closed eyes now, most likely closed ears, too. Mom, I'm sorry I didn't kiss you on the way to surgery. I'm sorry I talked you into trying this - you were scared, you knew it would happen, I twisted your arm. I'm sorry we didn't get to go to the mountains again. I'm so sorry, Mom, that you didn't get to say good-bye to your grandsons - they'll miss you so much. I love you, Mom. I hope I'm doing the right thing. They say you probably can't hear me, Mom, but I don't see anything on that screen that measures a person's soul, you know? So maybe you can hear me, maybe some of "you" is still here. I know you're tired, Mom, and you're not responding. It's up to you. If you want to fight, let us know - respond somehow. If not, if you're tired of fighting, it's OK. You don't have to struggle any more, Mom. Moments later, a nurse blotted tears from Mom's eyes, probably just a natural phenomenon, not a response. I continued talking, to myself now. Already I miss you so much, Mom. Who else will ever love me as totally as you do? Who else will be proud of my smallest accomplishments like you always are? Who'll encourage me to hang in there when it's all gloomy? Who else knows the proper thing to say when you drop and break a teacup? ("The cup is dead! Long live the saucer!" is a family joke.) It's not fair. They do over 1,000 of these surgeries per year at this hospital. Why couldn't the very best doctors MAKE you make it? Why couldn't my prayers MAKE you make it? Why didn't God MAKE you make it? Guess He had other plans, huh? A few days ago you said I had always been there for you, Mom, but I haven't. So many times I was too busy to take time out for you. If only I'd known how little time was left.
I spent a lot of that day just remembering. Golden oldies memories of standing in a chair watching Mom cut biscuits. Remembering how she stood back and admired the table set with her fancy china and crystal for a dinner party in the days before there were too many children and not enough china to have dinner parties. Remembering the times when Mom was there for me - at the hospital when I had my appendix out. At a school assembly where I received an honor. When I found out my "boyfriend" was somebody's husband. When my last boyfriend and I decided to "elope" one night and picked up Mom on the way, and she made a bouquet out of hyacinths from her backyard. When our first son, her first grandchild, was born. Thoughts of death, thoughts of birth.
By the end of the day, by the light of a gorgeous sunset, I noticed that her face looked more serene than it had that morning. Surely it was due to the comfort measures the staff had instituted. But it was also easy to imagine that it was because she was ready. It was easy to imagine that she'd forgiven me of all the failings that were plaguing me, that she had regrets of her own but had to forget about all that now.
The monitors were driving me crazy - danger levels, rally, danger - I gave up watching them. I just watched my mother breathe. I wanted to be with her when she took her last breath; if any part of her consciousness or soul or whatever was operational, I wanted her to know that I was there now at least. But when the whole day passed without incident, when she was more stable than she had been in days, I let them talk me into going home to sleep for the night. At 7 the next morning the doctor called and told me that it was over. It was over, and I wasn't there after all. She didn't know one way or the other, he assured me. Maybe, maybe not; but I knew. And I also knew that the funeral, two days away, would be a breeze compared to the last sunset I'd shared with my best friend.
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
Epinions.com ID:
bonnieleigh
|
|
Member: Bonnie Swain
Location: Isle of Wight, Virginia (USA)
Reviews written: 281
Trusted by: 59 members
About Me:
email goes thru hubby, so if I don't get it, you know who I'll blame!
|
|
|
© 1999-2009 Shopping.com, Inc.