For the first time since mom moved in with us, she ended up in the hospital. Her body wasn’t cooperating and needed help to remove excess fluid; her body wouldn’t do it on its own. When mom and I were living in Washington, she went to the hospital about every three to six months to have excess fluid removed. So, I would have to say that a year and a half plus and no hospital stay ain’t so bad.
After a couple of days into moms stay, a hospice nurse came and spoke to me. She said mom had agreed to a once a week visit. With moms experience with her previous stint on hospice this surprised me, immensely.
I was fine and dandy with the idea of hospice visiting mom until my brain kicked in and started peppering me with questions. How sick was mom? How close is she to dying? Do I need to contact my siblings immediately? Needless to say, I was working myself into a panic. At this point I hadn’t seen or talked to a doctor so my imagination was running amok.
Finally, I was able to talk to moms doctor and get a few questions answered. No, she wasn’t going to die today. However, the doctors wanted to be sure I understood the reality of moms condition. Mom does have a terminal disease. Mom’s disease is going to get progressively worse and it, or some other complication, is going to kill her. That was why hospice was called in.
Day three in the hospital, moms doctor decided there wasn’t any more that she could do for mom. Moms weight was down, aka excess fluid successfully drained, she was breathing as good as her condition allows, so they sent her home to get better rest then she can get in the hospital.
I know that moms condition is fatal. I know she will never get better. Intellectually I understand that. Emotionally, I am not so sure I get it.