Observation

This morning, I spent about three hours in the hospital room with my mother. For most of it, she was on a forced-air breathing mask, which she seriously did not like, and which made it almost impossible to understand her. After about two hours, she finally fell asleep (she'd not slept most of the previous night). Fifteen minutes later, the food crew showed up. ARE YOU HUNGRY???

-------
We were collapsing the desk that my mother used where she would do crosswords on the PC. Making room for the hospital bed. I really, really didn't like doing that - so much so that sitting down afterwards, looking at the space where it had been, I started to cry. I couldn't stand to think of the change -- a month ago, my mother could sit there to do crossword puzzles -- we were so pleased, thinking this was helping her intellectual abilities keep from decaying. She could walk around, even if she did use a walker and get out of breath quickly. She could choose which room to be in, and do things there. This time, when she comes, she'll be confined to a hospital bed in one room. She'll see things she likes, but perhaps they'll just remind her of her lost abilities. It reminds me of visiting my friend who died of cancer a few years ago. She wasn't eating, and we asked an oncologist about it. He said, simply, that this was how cancer patients died. It wasn't easy for me to be that pragmatic with my friend, and it's even less so with my mother.

My wife said that it was like grieving twice -- first for the loss of my mother's mobility, and sometime in the future, for the loss of her life. I think she's right.