My Biggest Fan
It comes for all of us. If we're lucky. Right now, I'm not sure I feel lucky, but I know in the days, weeks, months, and years to come, I will come to realize that I am. Or I was. My parents are elderly, eighty-four and ninety-two. From where I'm sitting at the moment - my mother's hospital room - it's doubtful that my mom will reach tomorrow, much less eighty-five, So here I sit. And write...while my biggest fan lays a few feet away snoring like a freight train. Her snores mean she's still alive so rather than drowning them out with music, I listen, Intently. Because each one could be her last.
It's the drugs - her pain was pretty severe - making her sleep so soundly. These same drugs, the ones that keep the pain at bay, may also hasten her death. Her decision. She's been kicking cancer's a** for the past seven years. My mom's no sissy; she can endure. But this isn't the cancer, the known quantity. This is an aneurysm, a ticking time bomb she's had almost as long as the cancer. This morning that bomb went off. It was supposed to kill her, the rupture. That's what she always said, always thought. It wouldn't be a bad way to go, she'd say. Immediate if nothing else. One minute I'll be watching "Ellen" and thinking about dinner and the next I'll be gone. It didn't quite work out that way.
Mom's still here, palliative care only, no DNR. She's done, over it. And I'm here to be with her when she goes. There was a time today when we weren't sure I'd make it in time, but I did. Now we wait. She hasn't woken up since I've been here; I don't know if she knows that I'm here. I wish she would wake up, have a lucid moment. There's so much I need to tell her. It's not like she'll be around to read my next series of blogs - that's honestly how she's learned (way too much) about my life over the last almost fifteen years. She needs a preview, an advanced screening. Maybe I'll get my moment, maybe she'll bounce back.
It's doubtful. Even if the pain in controlled and she can wake up, there's still the aneurysm. It's either clotted or still slowly bleeding. And it could still rupture completely. There's apparently no way to tell.
So, when I finish this blog...when I post it...she won't find it in the morning while drinking her coffee. That's what she's done for ages, especially when I was writing a lot more than I do now, daily at least. She'd sit down with her coffee and pull up my latest blog on MySpace (She was Stacee's Mom). Mom likened it to reading her favorite column in the newspaper back when the morning paper was "the thing." Once upon a time, she called me "the next Andy Rooney." She was a fan of his, too. I doubt she ever emailed Andy or her favorite columnist to tell them to delete something, like often she did me. She chasten me and tell me that I shouldn't write drunk and that I did NOT need to write everything that popped into my head nor did I need to post everything I wrote. Over the years, she learned a lot about the lesbian lifestyle and once commented that she knew more about lesbian sex than she ever imagined there was to know. You're welcome, Mom.
She read my novel bit by bit, chapter by chapter, every short story, every everything. The good, the bad, the borderline inappropriate. And now...it's impossible to imagine - my biggest fan is fading away.
She's resting as comfortably as she can be, I guess. She looks relaxed. Her snoring is more regular, breathing consistent. That's good because the little stoppages, the hiccups are torture. Has she breathed her last? Was that it? She doesn't have monitors. When you don't want any extreme measures they dispense with all that. She has a med pump and a fabulous nurse. And me. I'll be the one who'll have to tell, know. I'll push the call button. Set it all in motion. She brought me into this world and I will be here when she goes out. I suppose that's the way it's supposed to be. If we're lucky.
I've often I wondered about my luck. But, you know, not everyone can say their mom is their biggest fan. I can. At least for tonight.
It's the drugs - her pain was pretty severe - making her sleep so soundly. These same drugs, the ones that keep the pain at bay, may also hasten her death. Her decision. She's been kicking cancer's a** for the past seven years. My mom's no sissy; she can endure. But this isn't the cancer, the known quantity. This is an aneurysm, a ticking time bomb she's had almost as long as the cancer. This morning that bomb went off. It was supposed to kill her, the rupture. That's what she always said, always thought. It wouldn't be a bad way to go, she'd say. Immediate if nothing else. One minute I'll be watching "Ellen" and thinking about dinner and the next I'll be gone. It didn't quite work out that way.
Mom's still here, palliative care only, no DNR. She's done, over it. And I'm here to be with her when she goes. There was a time today when we weren't sure I'd make it in time, but I did. Now we wait. She hasn't woken up since I've been here; I don't know if she knows that I'm here. I wish she would wake up, have a lucid moment. There's so much I need to tell her. It's not like she'll be around to read my next series of blogs - that's honestly how she's learned (way too much) about my life over the last almost fifteen years. She needs a preview, an advanced screening. Maybe I'll get my moment, maybe she'll bounce back.
It's doubtful. Even if the pain in controlled and she can wake up, there's still the aneurysm. It's either clotted or still slowly bleeding. And it could still rupture completely. There's apparently no way to tell.
So, when I finish this blog...when I post it...she won't find it in the morning while drinking her coffee. That's what she's done for ages, especially when I was writing a lot more than I do now, daily at least. She'd sit down with her coffee and pull up my latest blog on MySpace (She was Stacee's Mom). Mom likened it to reading her favorite column in the newspaper back when the morning paper was "the thing." Once upon a time, she called me "the next Andy Rooney." She was a fan of his, too. I doubt she ever emailed Andy or her favorite columnist to tell them to delete something, like often she did me. She chasten me and tell me that I shouldn't write drunk and that I did NOT need to write everything that popped into my head nor did I need to post everything I wrote. Over the years, she learned a lot about the lesbian lifestyle and once commented that she knew more about lesbian sex than she ever imagined there was to know. You're welcome, Mom.
She read my novel bit by bit, chapter by chapter, every short story, every everything. The good, the bad, the borderline inappropriate. And now...it's impossible to imagine - my biggest fan is fading away.
She's resting as comfortably as she can be, I guess. She looks relaxed. Her snoring is more regular, breathing consistent. That's good because the little stoppages, the hiccups are torture. Has she breathed her last? Was that it? She doesn't have monitors. When you don't want any extreme measures they dispense with all that. She has a med pump and a fabulous nurse. And me. I'll be the one who'll have to tell, know. I'll push the call button. Set it all in motion. She brought me into this world and I will be here when she goes out. I suppose that's the way it's supposed to be. If we're lucky.
I've often I wondered about my luck. But, you know, not everyone can say their mom is their biggest fan. I can. At least for tonight.
These are beautiful words and a great homage to your mom.
ReplyDelete