The other night at work, I was on a call to assist Hospice. Apparently the narcotics prescribed to the dying mother were being used by a family member. She was out of medicine again, experiencing great pain. Hospice didn’t feel safe entering the house alone. I went there twice that night with them. The house was dirty and cluttered, too small for the five that were living there. Not a home I would want my mother in to slowly watch her life pass away.
The patient probably weighed 85 lbs. Her eyes protruding as her flesh was shrinking. She was frail as frail could be. And I thought of Moma. I live with what could I have done better. What if I had taken her to a specialist out of state. I am sure I am not the only child of a cancer victim that feels that way.
Moma had more fight in her in the last days than I had seen in her the entire time I knew her. I think she was able to have this fight because she leaned on people she loved instead of pulling away.
I believe it is easier for me to pull away, as I don’t want anyone to see or know my weaknesses. But I’ve yet to master that “not thinking” trick and so it stays with me and keeps life’s trauma’s in my face.