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Before the holidays, I got into an impromptu discussion with my class about death.
My seemingly innocent students were working on novels which revealed their sinister sides. Many of my young authors were guilty of murder, body dismemberment and turning children into school supplies in order to remove their heads with pencil sharpeners. Charles’ story was my favorite, featuring aliens that came to earth to give students bad haircuts. In return, the mulletized middle-schoolers murdered the aliens, rightfully so.
“Mrs. Mac, do you fear death?”
I responded, “I don’t death, it’s the seven minutes between life and death that I am not looking forward to”
“What do you mean?”
“The seven minutes it takes for your heart to realize that your head has been removed with a pencil sharpener doesn’t seem very pleasant.”
“Oh.”
Well, that seven minutes between life and death is beginning now.
Not for me, for my mom.
I’m on hospice duty waiting for the last grain of sand to go thru her hourglass.
It sucks.
What is hospice?
It’s pallative or pain-control care for patients who have cashed in their chips, resigning to the fact that they ain’t gonna get better.
In other words, these guys do death right.
Hospice patients get doped up, doped up some more and are wished happy travels to life’s next adventure. After all, they aren’t driving.
Hospice can happen at a facility or in one’s home, which is the route we chose.
Anyway, Mom’s hospice nurse arrived with mother lode of goodies including vials of pain killers administered with a Darth Vader style mask.
All of which she didn’t give to my mom until after she inserted the catheter.
She left a stack of pamphlets that explained the stages of death, from the first few weeks to the final hours.While there isn’t a crystal ball that can reveal the time and date of one’s final exit (wouldn’t that be convenient for the rest of us), the guidelines are accurate and healing.
I helped my sister rearrange her home to accommodate enough hospital equipment to open her own walk-in clinic. It included a hospital a Hoyer lift, which is a fork lift of sorts for old folks to hoink my Mom from her TV chair to hospital bed.
That way, she can watch The Price is Right right up to the end.
Meanwhile, Charles’ seven minutes came a zillion minutes too early. The ending to his alien barber adventure will forever be a mystery.
January 3rd, 2014 at 6:10 pm Ginger, I’m so sorry your mom needs hospice, but glad the service is available. It really does suck to have a student die way too young and to know you are about to lose a parent. I’m glad you are able to be there. You and your mom are in my thoughts and prayers Ginger. With love, Jane