Clutched hands

(Originally written on September 11, 2020 but delayed publication because life…)

Voraciously, she eyes the milkshake. It is known. Familiar. Her clutched hands reach out to try to grasp it. Fingers curled in on themselves like the claws of birds long dead.

(Her hospice nurse has requested morphine but staff are hesitant scared to administer. Memories of past family members suffering because we do not know enough care understand palliative care.)

She sucks hard. Until she can’t. Her body goes into shock as it has forgotten how to swallow. How to breathe.

Chocolate liquid dribbles out as the body knows no other way. Coughing convulsions. Reminders to calmly breathe “take small breaths Barbara”

Face twisted in horror. Eyes wide. Wild.

A short break and then the straw is reintroduced. Again with directions, reminders to take small sips. To swallow. To breathe.

I hold my breath watching her through the iron gates. Nothing. Absolute helplessness. I cannot reach out. Covid has stopped me from reaching across this social distance to wipe the liquid from her chin. I cannot touch her hand. Hold the drink for her. Place a hand on her back to help her through another choking episode. I can do nothing. But deliver these milkshakes.

When this amazingly lovely staff person steps away. To get paper towels. My mother looks at me.

Her eyes stare hard. Deeply. Her lips move to tell me something. Convey a message. But no sound escapes her lips.

I know. I have always known. Throughout my childhood. After the deaths and loss of others. We would talk. Late night intimate conversations. About how she never wanted to live this way. About how she would want me to help her die if ever she was in a similar situation. I was to pull the plug.

But there is no plug. I am helpless.

I hold her gaze. Tell her I would help her if I could. Tell her dad is waiting. Tell her we will be ok and she will be ok. That it will be better. She can let go.

She looks at J.P. who whispers that he will take care of us. That we will all be ok. That she can leave knowing he’s got this.

The sweet young woman returns and I share stories of my mom. Of things found, letters written, her joy of learning to drive her grandfather’s tractor as a young girl.

I see only missed connections. Misfirings of wires. Unsynced pieces. Of thoughts. Of memories. Nothing clicks.

She finishes the milkshake. It becomes easier as it melts. Or as her brain remembers to swallow. When it doesn’t, they gently set it aside and promise to try again later. After I am gone.

My moms’ eyes dart aimlessly. To the sound of a bird. To the passing of a car. But then.

Back to me. And lips moving frantically to convey an important essential message. Without sound.

I know but I can do nothing.

Later. After finding joy and laughter in the every day of my family. After sharing a bottle of wine. After a few hours sleep. I am awakened.

I read the news. Social media. The weather forecast. I try to find anything and everything that will delay thinking, considering, imagining those moments.

The way my mom forgets to swallow. The way her body frozen in shock in time. Forgets to breathe.

Helpless.

Desiring only to vomit. To rid myself of this long pain and suffering. Hers has become mine. There is a sadness a sorrow that is always present. Just beneath the surface.

J.P. watches. Waits for me to process. Stays close. Knowing that eventually the tears will come. They cannot continue to be pushed back.

But they wait. Until complete darkness. Until I can no longer hold withstand hide. The feeling of nausea swells inside. Bubbles up. My breathing becomes shallow. Waiting.

Small breaths. Small steps.