Mum's slowly slipping away...

It seems that my little mother is slowly slipping away from us. As the head nurse said today, each day she can see a difference in Mum as she withdraws and lets go. I've seen that difference, too, in the last few days. The head nurse says Mum no longer cares about eating, no longer cares about getting out of her room.

The social worker and the head nurse took me aside today, to talk with me. They are so good -- especially the social worker, who is an absolute gem and a darling. (Today Mum called her "my other daughter", and that's such a good term for her.) The head nurse said they just wanted me to be aware of what was happening with Mum, and the social worker said, "But you know, don't you..." Yes, I know. I see the signs, and I can read them.

Mum had another fall last night. She only has bruises, thank goodness, nothing more serious. It seems she forgot that she's no longer supposed to even try to get out of bed by herself, much less try to get to the bathroom by herself, so today they've put a monitor on her bed with a string clipped to her clothing, so that if she tries to get out of bed, the staff will be alerted. They will be using a different chair for her as well, rather than her wheelchair, as she's just having such trouble holding herself upright in the regular wheelchair. The chair she'll have is sort of a scoop-shaped reclined easy-chair on wheels (that's the best way I can think to describe it. It's not a Broda chair like Dad has, it's much more supportive). They'll have to use the power lift to get her into and out of it, which she may not like, but then, she doesn't seem to be as feisty anymore. When they were explaining to her about it, she told the carers "You take such good care of me. I don't know why you take such good care of me." She's such a sweetheart.

The head nurse also indicated that they're going to talk with the doctor about cutting back on Mum's medications, so she's only getting that which is absolutely essential, which certainly met with my approval. Mum has said a few times recently, "Why do they work so hard to keep us alive?" They'll be going the palliative care route from now on.

I asked Mum if she wanted me to bring Dad over to see her, and she said she thought the kinder thing to do would be just to tell him she's not doing well, but not to try to bring him over. I agreed, but I wanted to give her the option. Dad was asleep when I went to his nursing home today, but I left a message for the head nurse there, to tell her about Mum.

I know in my heart and head that "it's time", but there's still grief. I've been close to tears or in tears much of today. It would be odd if I wasn't. As the social worker said, "You and your Mum are friends, not just mother and daughter." Indeed, Mum's been my best friend.

I don't know how long or short the rest of Mum's time will be, but I'll be there for her, and I'll let you know when she enters the next phase of life.