Mom was lounging on the couch watching Wheel of Fortune. When I announced myself, she said hello. She appeared to know who I was, but I felt I should check, just to be sure.“How are you feeling?” I asked her, thinking to ease into it.
“I don't know. I don't know what is happening,” she said.
“Do you know me?”
“Yes.” No smile.
“Do you know where you are?”
“In the care center,” she said, frowning.
“Did you eat dinner?” I knew as soon as the question left my lips that I'd asked the wrong question. What I should have asked was, What did you have for dinner? Oh well.
“I don't know. I guess so.” I asked her if she was hungry and she said no.
She stretched out on the couch and I covered her with a blue plaid blanket. Some months back, she had stapled a bright pink sticky note to the blanket warning the laundry person not to wash the blanket because it was wool. I noticed the sticky note was under her chin but didn't say anything.
Her half-open eyes glinted in the light of the television. A creepy chill crept up my spine. Many years ago, I worked in a nursing home for about eight months. I saw that half-mast look in the eyes of people who were in the process of dying. Maybe I was mistaken. It could have just been the angle of her head on the pillow. Right.
She started rubbing her stomach. I asked her if she was in pain and she nodded but didn't seem able to explain. After a few minutes, she said she needed the bathroom. I helped her find her walker and navigate the few steps to the bathroom. I wondered what I would do if she needed more help than I was prepared to give. Eventually I heard the toilet flush and she came out. She looked mixed up, lost, and very, very tired.
“Maybe you would like to go to bed now?” I suggested. She said that sounded good. She pulled back the covers and lay down.
“Do you want pajamas?” I asked.
“If I die, I want to die in my clothes, fully dressed,” she said firmly. She took off her glasses and set them on the nightstand.
“Do you want to take out your hearing aids?”
“No, I want to hear when I die,” she said somewhat snarkily.
“Do you want me to stay a while?”
“I don't care.”
I turned out the light and sat on the couch for a bit, wondering if I should stay or go, if she was imminently dying or just sleeping off a bug. I didn't relish the idea of spending the night on her couch. How does one know what to do? Clearly she was taking care of business. Whatever was going on, it wasn't about me.
I found her favorite aide and smoking buddy, Queenie, eating a snack in the activities room.
“After dinner, I asked your mother if she wanted to go outside for a smoke. She said NO!” Queenie sounded as surprised as I was. Mom never turns down an opportunity to go out for a smoke. That is when I knew for sure that all was not well with my maternal parental unit.
I went back to Mom's room and turned off the television. I grabbed her little lantern, turned it on, and edged toward her huddled form on the bed. Was her chest moving? Were her eyes open? If I got too close, would she wake up and freak out? She was a silent lump, but I'm pretty sure I could see movement that looked like breathing. Okay.
Queenie said the aides are supposed to check on each resident every two hours. The way she said it made me think that rarely happens. She said she would leave a note about my mother. I drove home. We'll see what happens. I'll go over there tomorrow and see how she's doing, if she's still alive.
