The Anniversary of Mum's Passing
Don't let this eat you. My mother told me that I was annoying. It was the last thing she said to me. I don't dwell on her words. She was fatigued. She likely went through stages of her own grief, all vacillating together. I witnessed her denial of facts, her anger, and a bit of bargaining. She finally accepted her fate once she was moved to hospice. Depression ate at her throughout all this. She didn't say those last words to be mean; she lashed out as a way to vent her emotions.
Today is the anniversary of Mum's passing. I'm not handling it well. With Dad, we saw a slow decline. We acclimated to the fact that he would leave us. But Mum? It took us by surprise.
Before March 9th, she was doing fine. Sure, she was moving slowly at times, and we had to help her go up the stairs. I helped Mum get her nightgown on. Then we sat on the bed and prayed together. Life was normal.
On March 9th, she had an appointment with her GP.
Dr Hart was pissed beyond measure when we saw her today. Once again, they released Mum from the ER while failing to address her pulmonary effusion. We didn't even know that she had one. WTF, Trinity? Hoping to kill another parent??? Hart insisted that the effusion be addressed. We go in tomorrow for it.
To clarify, they diagnosed mum as having fluid between the R lung and chest wall - again! This buildup puts pressure on the lung. That's why it can't expand, and why it can lead to a pneumothorax. So they sent her home from the ER with this fluid in place and without telling us how bad it was. And what is causing that fluid to form? "Dunno."
Mum and I expected them to address the problem, then discharge her. We did everything as normal that night. And she thanked me for being there for her. This was her last night at home.
On March 10th, they admitted her. They placed her in hospice on the 22nd. She died on the 27th.
I carry a lot of guilt. She wanted to fight the cancer. She refused to sign a DNR. Sadly, her oncologist felt that there was nothing they could do now; she had refused treatment for a year, and she told him that she wanted to see Jesus and my dad. The only thing they could do was make her comfortable in hospice. She begrudgingly signed the DNR after I had explained all this to her.
I miss her. I really, really miss her.
Now I worry over Jeff. His health. His deafness. The way he passes out for no reason. I say we should plan ahead. He assures me that he won't die. Um, okay... but we should plan ahead, anyway.
*sighs*
I'm so emotionally exhausted. I keep trying to scroll with a pack of cigarettes instead of the mouse.