End of Life is a Cast-Iron Bitch

The past few weeks have been horrible, and they're about to get worse.

My MIL, as I've mentioned before, is eighty-seven - a bad eighty-seven because she didn't take care of herself when she was younger. Her body has been holding on even though her mind has been pretty much gone for years. Now her body is failing and we're facing the hard decisions children have to make for people for whom we care. It sucks, big time.

I was lucky because I grew up in a household where no one pretended that death didn't happen. We didn't discuss it, but it wasn't hushed up or glossed over either.

There were the family pets buried in the backyard with due ceremony.

Early memories that I have are of my grandmother sitting in a chair in what became my brother's room and, sometime later, standing at my bedroom window (where, I'm sure, my mom had told me to stay) watching an ambulance pull away from the house with her on a stretcher. I never saw her again but I remember the morning of the funeral - I was playing on the floor of my parent's bedroom with blocks and they were talking about whether I was old enough to go to the service. I didn't go to the service, so I was young enough not to be reasonable.

When I was in grade school, the older brother of a classmate died of an aneurysm.

It was there, around us, and recognized so while I feared it when I was younger, I understood that it happens to everyone. I've come to terms with it and, while it's not fun or pleasant, it also doesn't have to be dramatic.

I was there when my dad passed. He was surrounded by loving family - my mom, three of his four children and grandchildren.

My mom passed surrounded by most of the family when I was trying out for a new job - I couldn't be there but knowing my mom I knew precisely what she would say: "You do what you need to do. I'll be fine." Which is why I can write that, four years after her death, and not feel anything but the smallest pang of remorse. The remorse being because I feel as if I let her down, even though I know in my heart that she understood.

Hubby, however, is an only child. He never had to deal directly with the end-of-life stuff. One grandmother died in Oklahoma when he was here, in California. The other died in Los Angeles while he was in the northern part of the state. His father died, unexpectedly, when he was out of town.

Now he is facing the reality directly because MIL is dying right in front of his eyes.

Since she was released from the hospital in early April we've had nurses coming every-other-day to check on her, make sure she's improving. For three weeks I've seen what's happening - the lack of any improvement, a decline in function and ability to speak, but kept my mouth shut.

Today, the nurse said what I've recognized - we're in the end-game. Of course hubby is having a hard time coping. It's his mom and he's never had to deal with anything like this before. I also know that it's going to get harder once the initial shock passes him by. For now, though, he's going through the motions.

We had a conference call - hubby, the nurse (who is a marvel - someone who I met just the other day and instantly knew I would like to get to know as a friend) and me. The nurse recommended Hospice and I seconded it because they do such stellar work. I saw it with my Dad and recommend it to everyone and anyone dealing with a family member's End of Days. Hubby acceded to the idea - for the moment.

By the time I get home tonight I know what's going to have happened. He'll have passed through shock and probably through anger (although that's not a guarantee). Then I'll have to cope with denial. But, as I said to him on the phone, she is far enough gone that she is not going to improve, let alone get wholly better. There has been a steady decline in her physical and mental functions for weeks - and now it's time to make her comfortable, to give her the care that will ease her into that next stage.

Not fun, not pleasant, but the only thing we can all expect in this life and it sucks.

Philippa

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