We talk to her - she hasn't had any pain medication but she's not moaning and whimpering like she had been. She's able to actually converse with us, although she sort of drifts off a little now and then. My brother has to leave for a bit, and while he's gone, I sit by her side, holding her hand and talking to her. She say she's cold, so very cold, so I keep bringing blankets in from the linen cart in the hall. She's buried under a mountain of blankets. Suddenly she turns her head to me. "Does Dad know?"
"Does Dad know what?" I ask.
"Does Dad know I'm dying?" I'm gutted. No one has even implied that in her presence, awake or not.
"Dad knows you are very sick. Do you want to see him?" She nods. "Okay, when my brother gets back, we'll talk about getting Dad here."
We talk about inconsequentials. I tell her about visitors that came the day before, when she wasn't awake. I pass messages on to her from cousins across the country who have been following her progress via email, messages and social media. She smiles to hear some of them.
I have to tell my brother what she said when he returns, and I can see that he is as gutted as I was to hear those words. His face crumples. "She wants to see Dad. Mom, do you still want to see Dad?" She nods.
She says, "I don't want him to cry. Tell him not to cry."
Before either of us can leave to get Dad, the the hospitalist comes in. She talks to Mom, makes sure that her words are understood, and asks her what she wants to do. Mom looks from my brother to me, and says "What do you think?" as though it is as mundane a decision as which paint color to choose, or which fabric on a recliner. "What do you think?" she says again, and again. And we tell her, "It's up to you. You tell us what you want, and we will see to it. It is not for us to decide for you." Offered her options, stop this, keep doing that, some combination thereof...she tells us she wants to stop dialysis. To be clear, I ask if she knows what that means. "Yes," she says, "I'll stop."
"You'll stop what, Mom?"
"My heart. Will stop."
"Is that what you are asking for?" She nods.
My brother leaves to get Dad. I text Himself, because now she is asking to see The Boy. The family begins to come together. I sit with her while we wait, and she keeps asking me to send in Dad, send in The Boy and I keep telling her they are on their way and they will come in as soon as they arrive. She then changes to reminding me that she doesn't want Dad to cry. Out of the blue she says to me, "I want to roll over." and I'm shocked - rolling on her side when they change her bedding causes her a great deal of pain.
"Are you sure you want to roll over? That usually hurts you."
"No. I want to go over."
"Go over where?"
"I want to go over." and she dozes a little.
I find the hospitalist and tell her we want to proceed with moving to the palliative care floor. They have a room waiting and just needed our word to go ahead. The palliative care coordinator arrives and I tell her that I think we're getting the signals we need from her. We agree to keep the antibiotics going another 24 hours and watch for any improvement.
Dad arrives first, and I talk to him in the hallway. I have to tell this man, who has been with her for more than 6 decades, that she isn't doing well and she is worried he will be upset. I have to ask him to be strong for her. We take him in and get him set up next to her bed, holding her hand. She turns to him and tells him she's dying, and he cries, of course he cries. He denies her - "No you are not, you're going to get better and come home." She is insistent, and he looks at me, pleading with his eyes, to make her stop saying that she's dying. I can't.
Himself arrives with The Boy and it's finally hitting home that she's called us all together to say goodbye. I have to explain this to The Boy and ask him to hold it together, and go in and see her. She doesn't come out and tell any of us goodbye, but you know while talking to her, she's staring at your face, listening to your voice and storing that all away. My sister-in-law arrives, and the staff come in to move Mom to the new bed for transport. They have to close the door to her room so her cries are muffled as they shift her...but we can still hear them. Once she's settled in her new bed, my brother gets his daughter live via FaceTime and grandmother and granddaughter see each other again. My mother says, "I will always think of you." and her face is alight. She is smiling. No, she is beaming, she is so happy to see her granddaughter...and my niece is crying. We're all crying but we're trying not to show it, so we don't make it worse for each other or make her feel badly about all of this.
<continued>
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