Standing In Place While The World Swims By

My mother weighs less than 80 pounds.


The first thing the nurse said to me at last week’s Patient Care Conference was that she doesn’t know what’s keeping Mom alive. She barely eats–except when she does. That’s a merry-go-round I’ve chosen to put from my mind. There’s no telling what she’ll do on any given day, and I cannot afford to expend energy worrying about it. For weeks at a time, she won’t eat at all and then suddenly she cleans her plate three meals in a row. Or she’ll eat about 25% of her meals … or 50% … or 5% … or not at all. She drinks … or doesn’t. If there’s muscle tone anywhere on her body, it must all be hidden in her heart, because there’s certainly none to see in her flesh. Another nurse told me that she can’t understand why Mom doesn’t have enormous bed sores because there is literally nothing on her rear-end anymore except fragile elderly skin over bone.

Hospice reports that her oxygen level is great (97-98%), her lungs clear, her heart strong, her Bp good (120/70 last time). They now do only bed or chair baths because getting her in and out of the shower caused so much discomfort, she needed additional morphine.  She remains in relatively good spirits. There’s an occasional day when she’s feisty, but in a way that’s comforting — it’s a bother to the staff, but it’s more like her old personality. She usually recognizes me and my husband, although it may take a moment or two. She recognizes the women who care for her, even though she can’t remember their names. I think she gets tired of just sitting, but there’s nothing else she can do, physically speaking, and she’s usually too tired to try. She participates in activities, talks with others, sits and talks to herself.

But, my God, what is she waiting for?

No, I’m not anxious for my mother to die. I’m not standing in the wings rubbing my hands together in avaricious anticipation of my inheritance. (There won’t be one.) I’m just … tired. So is she. I can’t imagine what’s keeping her going.

One of the Hospice nurses, who’s into what my friends and I affectionately call “whoo-whoo” stuff, asked if there was anyone who might find her passing particularly difficult. She suggested that it was that energy holding her back. “Could they be convinced to send her a mental message that it’s all right to leave?” she wondered.

I thought about that, rather than poo-poo it. I’ve had too many unusual things happen in my life to poo-poo much. Of the family remaining, there are only two I can think of who will be particularly devastated when my mother dies. One is my eldest niece, Michelle, who shares a close relationship with Mom that the rest of us have envied. They were (are) “soul mates,” in Michelle’s words, but I know she would do nothing to hamper Mom’s passage out of this world.

The other is my Uncle Paul, my mom’s younger brother, the baby she raised while my grandmother struggled to support the family as a single mother during the Depression. I know her decline has taken its toll on him. He’s in his 80s, not a young man by any means, with health issues of his own. He misses seeing her (he lives seven hours away, does not travel well, and doesn’t like to leave home). He misses talking with her on the phone, touching base for a few minutes, bantering each other about baseball (he loves the Red Sox and she the Yankees). But I can’t ask him to let her go. Even if he were to believe in such a notion (and I don’t think he does), I’m not sure he could take that step. If, by some chance, she were to die right after that, he’d feel guilty. I wouldn’t wish that on him, on anyone.

So we wait.


About Melissa Crandall

Longer ago than I care to admit--although I will--I cut my writing teeth on fanzines and media tie-in novels. Since then, I've moved on to narrative nonfiction, speculative fiction, and essays. I write to explore and understand the world around me, the things I see and experience nearby or from a distance. If I shake myself up, cool. If I shake you up, even better. Not gratuitously--what's the point in that?--but to set what I know, or think I know, on end and realize, "Well, doesn't it look different from this side!" My work is neither sexually explicit nor graphically violent. Let's face it - your imaginations will come up with things far worse than anything I could write, no matter how descriptive. Besides, it's just not my thing. I live in Connecticut with my supportive husband Ed, a cat named Ruby who might just think she's a dog, and an epileptic Australian shepherd named Holly who isn't quite certain anymore who she is, except she knows she loves her mommy.
This entry was posted in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

3 Responses to Standing In Place While The World Swims By

  1. Debbie says:

    Hi Melissa,
    I have been waiting to hear how your mother is doing, and I can’t imagine her still hanging in at 80 pounds! She must not be ready to go yet I guess. Sorry, this must be tough emotionally and physically draining. Hang in there and know you have really looked out for her, perhaps more than any other family member.

  2. marie mccarthy says:

    Hi Melissa. Glad you are not waiting alone. You have friends and family (and us on-line “friends”) who wait with you. I remember you told of a child-like dream a while back that when your mother was ready to go, she would swing up on a pony (or was it a unicorn?) and just ride off. No doubt she hasn’t seen the right pony yet. And in the meantime she is free of pain, being well cared for and perhaps reminiscing about her life. I recall a story of an 80+ nursing home lady who thought to herself: “Thank you dear [nursing home staffer] for trying to get me to play bingo….but I am happy here with my own thoughts and memories. It’s been a satisfying life and I’m content.” I guess each Alzheimer’s patient is different…but your comments are always instructive to those of us anticipating similar circumstances and your humor is always appreciated. Happy Spring!

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s