First, let me say when my mom said this today, I laughed out loud. You see, we had just met with the hospice nurse for the first time, and we were getting a sense of how much changes in an instant. Like food. “No more supplements,” said Marie the nurse. “I’d rather you fill your tummy with food, including whatever you’d like to eat.” “What about salt?” says my mom. “Yes, you can have salt.” “REALLY?” Oh I’m so excited. We were going to celebrate with a steak dinner tonight, and I was thinking how bland it would be without salt!” “Yes, you can have salt, or a piece of cake, or a glass of wine.”
Marie reiterated that she was here to help my mom make every moment count, and to be as happy and comfortable as possible for each of those moments. She talked about managing pain with happiness (literally, as smiling and thinking happy thoughts reduces pain). And breathing deeply, relaxing whenever possible.
So for dinner we had steaks with salt. And I remembered mom had said we were celebrating, so I told her I’d been wondering exactly what it was that we were celebrating. “That everything has fallen into place so perfectly,” my mom answered. And my sister chimed in about also celebrating relief, that mom wouldn’t be suffering without a means to address it however needed in any moment.
I also realized we were (and are) celebrating life. So much wonderful life. I asked my mom what it was like when she and my dad were dating, and she said something like “He was difficult to figure out, and didn’t talk much, so I found him puzzling. But he just made everything feel like sunshine.”
We shared other stories. The small ones that don’t make the major event line up but that are so significant. Moments of joy and laughter and silliness. Like hers and my sister’s laughter in the middle of the night last night. Andrea was checking on her, and they got to giggling about something, and then just laughed and laughed and laughed. It was so melodious and happy, tumbling through the air like bells from heaven. And I lay in bed listening, heart smiling.
Her heart. It is what has announced the finish line. Her sweet heart has only 40% capacity right now, and this means lots of challenges and complications. Congestive heart failure (along with two other terminal diagnoses) is no fun. But many moments in life still are. Which is how “let’s all play hospice” came up. Some of us were tired, others needed to stay up, and mom announced full permission for whatever anyone needed. “Let’s just all play hospice.” It was like a new carpe diem, go for whatever you need to go for, with permission to tend your needs moment by moment, everyone included. Sometimes it’s crying. Sometimes laughing. Sometimes feeling bewildered and useless. Sometimes so still and peaceful in presence.
