Watching mom breathe
I watched my mama breathe her last breath on December 28,
2001. It was horrible, and it was beautiful, and it was the most painful thing
I’d ever been a part of but I loved her and so I was honored to endure that
pain in order to be a part of that.
Today, I’m watching my mom, that is my “stepmom”, breathe,
not knowing which will be her last but knowing that it will be sooner rather
than later.
She is a hospice patient now. It was initiated to help
manage the pain and “end of life” stages of dying from a battle with cancer. My
mama had been on hospice too, as she had another form of cancer. Cancer sucks.
There’s really no other way of saying it more succinctly. It sucks the life
right out of you and your family, it sucks your hope and your energy. I know it
can be survived as I am a cancer survivor myself, but mine was found very early
and was removed surgically with no further intervention.
Unfortunately, my mama’s was found at stage three or four, I
don’t remember which and had advanced to the point that surgical intervention
wouldn’t kick it. Mom’s case was stage 3, I think. They did surgery,
chemotherapy, and radiation, but here she lies after numerous trips to the hospital
for pain, infections, and then more pain and infections. All due to cancer? I
don’t know, and does it matter since the result is the same; she’s breathing
her last breaths these days and it is painful to endure for both herself and
those who love her.
My daddy battled heart disease for the last few years of his
life and he died on October 30, 2018. It was two days before my birthday. I
should have been at his side, but I was taking my daughter to a party for her
life skills class. I was supposed to go to the hospital as soon as her class
was over, but some things just don’t wait for a convenient moment, do they? He
had been on a ventilator, unconscious and non-responsive for what seemed like
forever but had only been a few weeks. His last breaths were stolen, it seemed
as if they weren’t really his, but instead the machine’s. My siblings and I stayed
with him in the hospital as he was the one to say real quick, “I don’t want to
be alone in here.”
Even though his breaths were made possible by machines and
quickly found a rhythm with the other contraptions that were supporting his
bodily functions, they seemed to have a finality to them, just like Mama’s so
many years before, and just like Mom’s today.
Mom’s room is so quiet. No machines beeping or humming like
when Daddy was in the hospital in his literal “deathbed”. Those noises became
lifelines to me. The wheeze and whoosh of the ventilator. The “sh sh shhhhhhhhh”
swish of the dialysis machine that the nurses and I named Matilda or Martha or
something because it seemed to have a definite personality that was a little
feisty. Those sounds convinced me with their whispers that he was still alive
and might one day just wake up and say “Sister, let’s go home”. Although we all
knew it wasn’t likely, I held on to those whispers like hope. Not all the
sounds were comforting in that way. The suction, or aspirator nearly made me
gag, as does the memory of the sound it made. The sucking slurping slimy sounds
of bodily fluids that his body was too weak to absorb or expel any longer
seemed overwhelming to hear and I can only imagine how horrible they must have
been to experience.
But Mom has no machines. Only quiet. Except for the bed. The
bed has a sort of air mattress that has a rhythm that can be soothing in a
way. It seems to remind me that time is passing and not really standing as
still as it seems. So, when I’m visiting with Mom, sitting beside her bed, and
no one else is there except her, and me, and the Holy Spirit, I listen to her bed’s
rhythmic soft whoosh, and I watch her breathe. Lately, she breathes so erratically
that I literally have to concentrate on her chest to see the rise and fall to
convince myself she is still there. And then I wonder for a while, “Is she
really here though?” I mean, I understand that her body is still here but when
there are such long stretches with no conversation and only empty stares, I
wonder, is her “essence” or her spirit still here? I don’t think we’ll ever
really know about such things until we meet again in heaven and by then, will
it really matter?
But then, the quiet interminable moments close their loop,
and she coughs or her eyes open and I see her look at me with “that look” that
I and her oldest daughter know so well. That look that says, “Why are you
staring at me?”
And I ask her if she needs anything? I ask, “Are you in
pain?”, or sometimes, that uncomfortable question “Do you need me to change
your brief”? These days most answers come in the form of blank stares or
grimaces, but sometimes she answers.
I try not to cry in front of her because crying is not
something this woman was comfortable with, but I’ll admit right now that last
Friday I broke down. I laid my head right on her chest and told her that I was
going to miss her and “who was I going to go to when I needed to hear ‘it’ll be
okay”. I know, it was selfish. I didn’t plan it but I think I got her confused
with my mama for a hot minute there because my mama was comfortable with
my tears, and she did stroke my hair and tell me “It’ll all be okay”
when I needed to hear it, even when neither of us was sure quite how “okay” was
going to look. Mom was always pretty stoic and somewhat reserved really. Mama
wore her feelings like a favorite pair of jeans. Both were strong in completely
different ways, and I’ve come to realize that I was blessed with such different
types of women to hold such important roles in my life. But guess what? When I
laid my head on Mom’s chest last Friday, she stroked my hair and said in her
too-weak voice “Don’t cry baby. It’ll be okay.” I consider that moment a gift
from the both of them.
This week is full of responsibilities right here in my own
home, an hour away from hers. It makes me sad and a little anxious when I can’t
get over there knowing that she is so close to that final breath. I don’t want
my sister to be alone with her like she was with our daddy when that happens.
Being a part of that final moment is both a blessing and a burden I want
to be there to support her through. Still, “life is for the living”, isn’t that
how the saying goes? And I have to do what I can to keep my family here well
and cared for.
And so, I pray for Mom, and for my sisters and brother and
all of the people who love Mom so much, and I wait, and maybe hope for the next
time I am there, watching Mom breathe.
Andora Henson
September 29, 2023
Addendum: Mom breathed her final breath here on earth at 10:33 a.m. on October 10, 2023. She was surrounded by people who love her and now she is in heaven with Jesus, Daddy, and our little brother, Robin.
