Days to Weeks

Tuesday, October 5, 2010

Days to Weeks

Several days ago, the medical director of Washington Hospice visited us at home. Dictionary.com lists two definitions for hospice: the physical space and the service that replicates a hospice facility in your home. We are at home. The physician (Mom said she looked like a “Julie”) asked my family to step outside of the room and gently, but firmly lectured us. Dad must take better care of himself because we would need him to be around in the years to come.

Then Julie turned to me and said,

You need to stop trying to feed your mother. She will eat if she’s hungry. Her body is shutting down and that means she needs to eat and drink what she wants when she wants it. This is her time and your job is to enjoy that time as much as you can. She will let go on her schedule. You should not try to prolong it unless your mother wishes it.

I was told not to feed my mother — perhaps the most ironic moment of this very long year. Dad, by the way, heeded Julie’s advice. He has slept much better. Color has been restored and his edema has largely dissipated.

Dozens of people have come to say goodbye to my mother. A brother flew from Italy, and one drove from Boston. My mother’s 100 year old mother has visited twice. My mom has two friends from the “playpen” who have stayed by her side during her entire illness and they were joined by a third college friend. My father did the math — 207 years of friendship. Her longtime bookstore colleagues continue to come. I suspect they will continue to say goodbye until they can’t. My mother drifts in and out of delirium, but she always recognizes her guests and shoots them her trademark grin. Her energy rises and then deflates with each visit.

My sister now runs Hotel Holly Street. She decides who can visit and when they leave. She keeps my mother’s enormous family informed. Meanwhile, my father starts to plan for Mom’s funeral. He keeps his rabbi informed, assigns several people to eulogize her, and works with my uncle to prepare comprehensive notes about my mother’s life. Some people will go to extraordinary lengths to get their wedding announcement in the Times, but Dad has always been an obituary man. He needs and wants her to get the press she deserves.

So this leaves me to be the family comedian. I tell jokes about Dad’s clothes, Eve’s management skills, or my frustration with feeding myself in her house. I try to entertain, but her eyes are glassy and her laughter nearly gone. Still, when I hold her hand she’ll flash that smile.

The Hospice people told us it’s no longer weeks to months, but days to weeks.