Bedridden

[Guest blog from my sister Gayle]

I sat in the wheelchair today. Wheels locked, going nowhere. Beside Mom's bed.

24 hours have passed, and the first day she has been wondering about for over two years has come and gone. Mom is bedridden. But not really aware that it is happening. Not eating, but not caring; impatiently straining for ice like a baby bird. Trying to spoon it herself, sometimes letting me help, but really wanting to do it herself...angry that she can't. Her world, her control is finally slipping away. Like a little child that doesn't understand why we can't make it better, she opens her eyes and is fretful and can't find the words to demand what she wants.

Cassandra, the beloved bath giver, is able to reason with her, and speaks frankly about accepting comfort medication. She puts down a sheet so we sisters can pull Mom up in the bed. In one day she has lost the strength to even straighten her legs in the bed. (Yesterday she resisted help getting from bed to wheelchair). Moving her fragile body is difficult; she weighs under 100 lbs, but is so sensitive to touch.

Her feet ache. It is hard to move her left leg. Mom whispers, "It is because that is the leg I broke, and the rod is too heavy inside." Who knows?

The "comfort cream" comes by pharmacy courier, she holds out her wrists willingly, unknowingly. She rebelliously receives the dropper of morphine (called it heroin the other day!) and tries to be mad at me, but falls asleep as soon as she drinks a few sips of water. Drugs--she never trusted or used them. Now they are needed, but still not trusted. It is so hard to not be able to work, clean, do; just lie in bed and be still. Just be.

Poor Mama! Soon she will understand and be released from her prison of misery and pain. Soon she will love and be loved perfectly. Soon her joy will be constant and unending.

Come, sweet death, come blessed rest!