The new word this week is "hospice." The nurses are going to find out what kind of help they can get to make sure Mom's not in pain.
The new medicine Mom is on to keep her subdued is working, and she's been in bed for days. She refuses to eat, not even smoothies.
The end is near.
My heart breaks a little more each day, whether I spend any time thinking about her or not. Every day is time and space since we had an actual conversation and connected as mother and daughter. She's already gone. But her body lives, somehow, infuriatingly incompetent. Her mind and mannerisms and tender heart are national treasures, but she wastes away in a hot, stuffy nursing home.
Mom, I'm so sorry. I wish I could make this better. I wish I could relieve you from discomfort and confusion. I don't want to let you go, but I want you to be at peace. I love you. I want more than anything for you to know how much we all love you. I just wish it was enough to rescue you from this hell.