A mother's love's a blessing, part 1
Mar. 6th, 2005 12:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jawnbc08h00 alarm goes off. Which is midnight Sydney time. Snooze.
08h15 snooze goes off. Which is 00h15 Sydney time. Snooze.
08h25 get up, turn off alarm. Abluted, dressed, Da’s reading the paper. Make a cuppa, some toast, put the flight clothes in the laundry (24 hours in the same clothes makes said clothes icky. Visiting hours in ICU don’t start until 11h30, so decide to do some net stuff. Except wireless network is down (worked fine last night); I opt instead for digital cable in the basement. 300 channels and nothin’ on.
10h15 Tomby arrives. Jeezus seeing that man never fails to put a smile on my face. It’s really nice to have a brother that I both like and love. We’re gonna go together—me, Da, Tom, and our other brother Mike—to visit Ma, before the street’s blocked off: today is Rockaway’s St. Patrick’s Day parade.
11h15 we pick up my Mike. He’s looking…old (43). I like Mike too, but we never bonded; I also think he and Tom aren’t as close as they once were, not out of animosity, but different trajectories (Mike’s never married or partnered). As we get closer to the hospital, I’m feeling a bit sad. And almost a bit scared. But only a bit.
11h30 Ma looks better than I anticipated, though that’s not saying much. The steroids have made her look nearly robust—when really she’s swollen—and for the first time in my life I’ve seen her without her teeth in (they fell out during her 4 pregnancies in 3.75 years). She’s off the ventilator, and her numbers are good but, as she put it, “I still feel like shit.” And there’s that panicked look in her eyes—the look of someone who’s not drawn a proper breath in recent memory. How fucking awful. I was able to be sweet, and to smile at Ma, and give her a lovely kiss and a bit of a hug (she’s about 40kg; emphysema has withered her), despite her appearance. Tiny gifts
As and aside, allow me to mention how much I fucking hate tobacco companies. Line up their executives against the garage and give me a rifle and I wouldn’t shoot any of ‘em: I’d get a rusty knife and disembowel them each instead. Scumbags.
13h50![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
querrelle SMS’s to say he’s in from Mardi Gras, if I want to chat. I ring him and we chat for about 10 minutes. His decision to keep his wits about himself last night (no drink or drugs) in case I needed him…wow. Mon homme, mon abri. I do, need him.
14h00 Da’s channelling his energies into some minor reno work (ripping up basement carpets after a burst pipe); he gets Tommy to help and doesn’t even ask me. A relief really, so I set about something I’m good at: researching legal questions around death and dignity and heroic measures in NY State. I download the pro forma needed to supplement Ma’s living will, fill in the particulars for both Ma and Da (he wants his done as well), strategize about signatories, and review it with Da and Tom. We decide that for Ma, Dad will get proxy, with Theresa (Tommy’s wife) as alternate; Tom and I will witness things. For Da, it’s Tommy as proxy and Theresa as alternate, with me and Mike as witnesses. We prep everything in quadruplicate for Ma’s and head back to the hospital; Tom and I wait in the car while Da goes up for a bit of a private chat with Ma. On our way in, we run into our sister Kath, who’s just left Ma’s room—apparently Da, with his usual tact, walked in, pulled out the papers and freaked Ma out. By the time we get up there she’s more distressed than this morning. Whatever her convictions were 3 weeks ago, right now she’s terrified of dying; today is not the day for signing off on proxies—so we leave it. Da’s not happy—because he knows how stridently Ma held her “no heroic measures” beliefs previously—but tant pis. She’ll sign it tomorrow. Or not.
16h30 Tom leaves for home; I start cooking dinner (at my insistence; Da had planned to cook). The chicken breast fillets are in fact still on-the-bone, so it takes a bit longer than planned. Factor in that the folks’ idea of rice is Minute Rice, and my timing for the whole meal’s off. Da thought it was fine: I thought it wasn’t entirely inedible. The good news is that dinner’s finished (cooked, ate and cleaned up) so early, I have time to visit Nanny for an hour.
18h15 At Nanny’s, where I see Nanny, Aunt Eileen and Aunt Brenda. Nanny’s 97.5, relatively fit (though deaf as a Baptist preacher), and terribly upset about Ma. She keeps asking “but she’ll be home soon, right?” “No, Nanny, she’s probably not coming home.” “But she’s much better today, isn’t she?” “No Nanny, she’s better than yesterday but still very, very sick.” “Oh…” Ma and Nanny don’t hate many people, but they each admire very few as well. So their mutual admiration—and love and respect for one another—is powerful. As the conversation drifts off, my mobile rings—it’s my cousin Maureen, checking in. How do folks manage these sorts of shitty things without the kind of support I take for granted in my family?
Strangely, for the first time since I was 8, I have a rather severe nose bleed…
19h00 Da picks me up and we pop in for a quickie surprise visit for Ma. “I knew you’d be back!” she whispers. She’s less anxious than earlier, but still not looking well. I take a moment to visit the nursing station to find and thank the nurse who answered my questions when I telephone from Australia last week. Ma’s getting excellent care. But then it’s time to head home again. On the way I broach the topic of the quality of death. Da’s views are decidedly Catholic: withholding treatment yes; expediting things to increase comfort, no. My views are somewhat different: when it becomes a question of time, I will do whatever it takes to make her comfortable—including helping her on. The conversation is brief, but wholly civil.
20h15 Da’s up in bed watching telly. I’m on the lounge sofa, blogging and surfing the net. Soon it’ll be time for my chat withquerrelle, then sleep. Lather, rinse, repeat.
08h15 snooze goes off. Which is 00h15 Sydney time. Snooze.
08h25 get up, turn off alarm. Abluted, dressed, Da’s reading the paper. Make a cuppa, some toast, put the flight clothes in the laundry (24 hours in the same clothes makes said clothes icky. Visiting hours in ICU don’t start until 11h30, so decide to do some net stuff. Except wireless network is down (worked fine last night); I opt instead for digital cable in the basement. 300 channels and nothin’ on.
10h15 Tomby arrives. Jeezus seeing that man never fails to put a smile on my face. It’s really nice to have a brother that I both like and love. We’re gonna go together—me, Da, Tom, and our other brother Mike—to visit Ma, before the street’s blocked off: today is Rockaway’s St. Patrick’s Day parade.
11h15 we pick up my Mike. He’s looking…old (43). I like Mike too, but we never bonded; I also think he and Tom aren’t as close as they once were, not out of animosity, but different trajectories (Mike’s never married or partnered). As we get closer to the hospital, I’m feeling a bit sad. And almost a bit scared. But only a bit.
11h30 Ma looks better than I anticipated, though that’s not saying much. The steroids have made her look nearly robust—when really she’s swollen—and for the first time in my life I’ve seen her without her teeth in (they fell out during her 4 pregnancies in 3.75 years). She’s off the ventilator, and her numbers are good but, as she put it, “I still feel like shit.” And there’s that panicked look in her eyes—the look of someone who’s not drawn a proper breath in recent memory. How fucking awful. I was able to be sweet, and to smile at Ma, and give her a lovely kiss and a bit of a hug (she’s about 40kg; emphysema has withered her), despite her appearance. Tiny gifts
As and aside, allow me to mention how much I fucking hate tobacco companies. Line up their executives against the garage and give me a rifle and I wouldn’t shoot any of ‘em: I’d get a rusty knife and disembowel them each instead. Scumbags.
13h50
querrelle SMS’s to say he’s in from Mardi Gras, if I want to chat. I ring him and we chat for about 10 minutes. His decision to keep his wits about himself last night (no drink or drugs) in case I needed him…wow. Mon homme, mon abri. I do, need him. 14h00 Da’s channelling his energies into some minor reno work (ripping up basement carpets after a burst pipe); he gets Tommy to help and doesn’t even ask me. A relief really, so I set about something I’m good at: researching legal questions around death and dignity and heroic measures in NY State. I download the pro forma needed to supplement Ma’s living will, fill in the particulars for both Ma and Da (he wants his done as well), strategize about signatories, and review it with Da and Tom. We decide that for Ma, Dad will get proxy, with Theresa (Tommy’s wife) as alternate; Tom and I will witness things. For Da, it’s Tommy as proxy and Theresa as alternate, with me and Mike as witnesses. We prep everything in quadruplicate for Ma’s and head back to the hospital; Tom and I wait in the car while Da goes up for a bit of a private chat with Ma. On our way in, we run into our sister Kath, who’s just left Ma’s room—apparently Da, with his usual tact, walked in, pulled out the papers and freaked Ma out. By the time we get up there she’s more distressed than this morning. Whatever her convictions were 3 weeks ago, right now she’s terrified of dying; today is not the day for signing off on proxies—so we leave it. Da’s not happy—because he knows how stridently Ma held her “no heroic measures” beliefs previously—but tant pis. She’ll sign it tomorrow. Or not.
16h30 Tom leaves for home; I start cooking dinner (at my insistence; Da had planned to cook). The chicken breast fillets are in fact still on-the-bone, so it takes a bit longer than planned. Factor in that the folks’ idea of rice is Minute Rice, and my timing for the whole meal’s off. Da thought it was fine: I thought it wasn’t entirely inedible. The good news is that dinner’s finished (cooked, ate and cleaned up) so early, I have time to visit Nanny for an hour.
18h15 At Nanny’s, where I see Nanny, Aunt Eileen and Aunt Brenda. Nanny’s 97.5, relatively fit (though deaf as a Baptist preacher), and terribly upset about Ma. She keeps asking “but she’ll be home soon, right?” “No, Nanny, she’s probably not coming home.” “But she’s much better today, isn’t she?” “No Nanny, she’s better than yesterday but still very, very sick.” “Oh…” Ma and Nanny don’t hate many people, but they each admire very few as well. So their mutual admiration—and love and respect for one another—is powerful. As the conversation drifts off, my mobile rings—it’s my cousin Maureen, checking in. How do folks manage these sorts of shitty things without the kind of support I take for granted in my family?
Strangely, for the first time since I was 8, I have a rather severe nose bleed…
19h00 Da picks me up and we pop in for a quickie surprise visit for Ma. “I knew you’d be back!” she whispers. She’s less anxious than earlier, but still not looking well. I take a moment to visit the nursing station to find and thank the nurse who answered my questions when I telephone from Australia last week. Ma’s getting excellent care. But then it’s time to head home again. On the way I broach the topic of the quality of death. Da’s views are decidedly Catholic: withholding treatment yes; expediting things to increase comfort, no. My views are somewhat different: when it becomes a question of time, I will do whatever it takes to make her comfortable—including helping her on. The conversation is brief, but wholly civil.
20h15 Da’s up in bed watching telly. I’m on the lounge sofa, blogging and surfing the net. Soon it’ll be time for my chat with
querrelle, then sleep. Lather, rinse, repeat.
