Yesterday at work, I received a call from the home health nurse. “Your mother,” she said, “is very sick.” Yes. “Have you considered hospice care?”
Initially we dismissed hospice care because we wondered whether the environment might speed her towards death, and as always, we hanged tightly to our denial and desperate hopes. But after my visit, my mother’s decline was marked different. The jaundice remained and in addition edema had spread to her limbs. Her arms, hands, legs, and feet were swollen. Heavy bags beneath her eyes were formed by months of inconsistent sleep. The skin on her neck was loose, but I could see her veins pulse quick and shallow. I asked to check her ostomy bag and I when I did, I saw the magenta stretch marks that yielded under the strain of the ascites. My poor, dear old mother was bulging and collapsing.
Throughout the visit, I feared she would die in her sleep. Sometimes she would awaken and mumble incoherently. My father and I would share a look of fear and panic.
Hospice care seems to be a viable option considering the state of her condition and the toll of providing care for her has weathered my father. And yesterday, when I came home from work, I wanted to speak with my parents about this. But they have not answered the phone. I tried throughout the night, spacing the calls 15 minutes apart. Both landline and mobile phone rang on end. My heart is hammering through my chest.
