In These Final Hours

I have felt a presence these last few hours so strongly I have glanced around rooms…
A mere whisper of movement, a tiny breeze that touches my skin to leave a shiver in its wake…
So strongly I have felt it, I called out your name softly so as not to disturb… either of you.

I watch him sleeping and marvel at the sense of peace I feel wash over me…
At the peace I see erasing the lines time and life have chiseled into his face…
I feel comforted to know that you await him with open arms… anxious to be by his side once again.

Like you, I have loved him… and cared for him… I have devoted this part of my life to him…
My arms feel empty at the thought of him preparing to take wing and fly away from me…
My heart overflows as I feel you hovering nearby, eager to begin your next chapter… with him.

I bow my head and pray knowing that the time to depart his life here on earth draws ever nearer…
I am honored to be here with him, with them, privileged to have had them call me daughter…
I am humbled by the love they still share and blessed to have borne witness to its enduring power…

There will be dancing on the clouds of Heaven soon, while a host of angels sing and rejoice…
Before long this precious father-in-law of mine and his beloved bride will finally be reunited…
Never again to be separated by… time… space… life… or death… together for all eternity…
together they will forever soar free.

It's Just the Two of Us Here

Yep, it’s official. Dad has a Urinary Tract Infection (UTI). It took until Tuesday to get a viable sample. Because it was almost closing time at the lab, it was Wednesday before we got the results. I am not a patient person by nature but this has been a ridiculously long drawn out process. A normal person would go to the ER and they would diagnose it quickly, hand you a prescription for an antibiotic then send you on your merry way. Dad is on hospice so things are no longer normal. I cannot take Dad to the hospital this time because they would admit him. I promised him that he would die at home. I will honor that promise.

By Tuesday night, he was aggressive and combative, obviously not in his right mind. Every time I got within arms-reach, he would grab my arms in a grip stronger than I could have ever dream he was capable of. He would squeeze them tighter and tighter until I could break free. He laughed and told me he wanted to break them. He would claw and pinch. When I fed him, he spit the food at me and was convinced I was trying to poison him. He tried to bite me multiple times.

On Wednesday the tests results came back that he had a raging UTI. For a variety of reasons, they had to grow a culture to determine which antibiotic to put him on, which meant waiting another 24 hours. While the nurse was here she got to see him trying to break my arm. She said it even scared her. He was getting worse and we both knew it. They started him on pain medication believing his combativeness was caused by pain he couldn’t communicate to us. Apparently they were right because the behaviors stopped as soon as he started taking it.

By noon on Thursday Dad had become less responsive, sleeping constantly. Barely rousing to eat, drink and take meds. Steadfastly, he refused to open his eyes. That afternoon, the culture results came back…contaminated. Once again, we needed a urine sample. It was getting harder and harder to get one.

Friday dawned and I was shocked to see the further rate of deterioration. He is beginning to look gaunt. He doesn’t respond to anything but pain (ie. If I move him to change his diaper he moans). His oxygen saturation level has dropped to a consistent 89. I started him on 2 liters of oxygen and called hospice. We quickly agreed it would be best to get a nurse out here to get a sample using a catheter since it was obvious there was no other way to get one. It was also obvious we were running out of time.

A new nurse came out and she seemed to understand my frustration at the whole situation. Once we had the sample, she got the doctor on the phone. She requested that she be allowed to call in a prescription for a standard antibiotic, Cipro to buy us time to get the lab results. He started it as soon as I could pick it up, but I have to wonder if it’s already too late. This is the point where I have to have faith in medical science and BELIEVE that it might work.

This morning Dad was aware of me when I gave him his meds, crushed up and swimming in water. My heart swelled to nearly bursting when he croaked out a labored, “I love you”. I still can’t get him to open his eyes. But he did squeeze my hand weakly in response to my squeezing his, which is more than I’ve gotten since Wednesday. The threat of aspiration hangs over us as I continue to try to get water, Ensure and medications down his throat. I know I am fighting a losing battle. Still, I must continue to try.

Dad is 90 years old. He’ll reach 91 if he sees Nov. 11th. His medical history is unbelievable. His list of current diseases and conditions is quite lengthy. The number of pills he takes daily is staggering, even now. He lost his bride two and a half years ago. All of his old friends are gone now. He has buried two of his daughters. He has zero quality of life and has had for quite a while now. He has given up and is ready to go.

His body is slowly shutting down as I sit here listening to him breathe, the sound separate from the steady rise and fall of the oxygen machine. This afternoon, Richard helped me get him cleaned up and get his bedding changed. He roused as we finally got him resettled and actually opened his eyes. Dad focused his eyes briefly on his son and whispered, “I love you”. He tried to talk more but the effort was simply too much. He managed to keep his eyes open through almost half an Ensure and a bit of water. His eyes trying to focus as he followed my movements. Eventually, his eyelids softly closed, his eyelashes fanning out against his sunken skin.

He has been sleeping ever since. It is just the two of us here. I hold his wrinkled hand tightly. My voice rings loudly in my ears as I talk to him while coaxing him to swallow “one more dropperful of water”. Each time I succeed my heart rejoices. Each time he chokes, my heart plummets. Every once in a while, he tries to clear his throat then all settles back to the rhythms of man and machine. And time marches on…

A Step Away From Dementia

I want to take a step away from Dementia (though it is something that both my mother-in-law and my grandmother suffered with). I want to talk about death. I want to talk about life…
As many of you know, I lost my mother-in-law to COPD & Congestive Heart Failure in April 2010. She was hospitalized for more than a week. She was on a ventilator for 5 days before it was finally cut-off. When the respirator was turned off on that Fri, I stayed by her side. The only time I left was for less than half an hour to take Dad home and hand him over to Richard.
One of the hardest things I’ve ever done in my life was to sit there for 24 hours with her, knowing that the end was coming and there was nothing I could do to help. It was unbelievably painful to watch her struggle to take 8 breaths a minute for over 3 hours. The only consolation I had was in knowing the morphine and Ativan she was receiving by IV were ensuring she couldn’t feel a thing. It was explained to me by the nurse that the hospital we were in practiced “Comfort Care”. She carefully outlined what that involved. As a family member, and her caregiver, I had the right to tell them when I thought she was in pain and they could give her extra morphine. They couldn’t do it unless I told them to give her more relief. She explained that it would slow down her breathing and enable her to die more peacefully and completely pain-free.
Another of the hardest things was explaining to Dad that he had to tell Mom it was ok to die. And one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen was her doing exactly that after he said it. She died with dignity. The two most profound moments in life are birth and death. There can be beauty in both.
6 months after Mom passed away, my beloved sister-in-law got up on 10-10-10. She fixed herself a glass of milk and a cup of coffee, sat down in her favorite chair, turned on her favorite movie channel, sat back and her heart stopped beating. Not a heart attack, a heart disease that no one knew she had. But the look on her face was one of peace.

On Feb. 28th, my oldest daughter gave birth to a baby girl, 7 weeks early and weighing only 4 lbs 8 ozs. Naturally, I got there as fast as I could. 11 hours later, I saw my new granddaughter for the first time and my heart filled with love. That night as I stood next to my 92 year old grandmother’s bed, she held my hand and said, “I just want to go home, Baby.” She had made similar statements many times in the recent past but this time, I knew in my heart, was different. I shivered as my heart filled with love.
The following morning she had difficulties that brought the hospice nurse out. My grandmother was in end stage COPD, a result of being in Congestive Heart Failure. It was quickly apparent that she was sliding downhill at a rapid rate. No more assisting her out of bed. No more solid food…soft foods and liquids only. All medications were to be crushed and mixed with pudding or yogurt. At 2 a.m. the following morning, I attempted to give Grandmama her meds, unsuccessfully. The nurse-practitioner (a family friend), officially declared that she could no longer swallow anything but liquids and she was removed from soft foods.
By the next morning, Hospice had taken her off liquids as well and it was decided to begin comfort care medications by mouth. Most commonly used is a combination of Ativan and Morphine. It is measured into a syringe and slowly administered under the tongue. It is massaged into the skin by rubbing the cheek, chin, etc. closest to where it is placed under the tongue. There were Certified Nursing Assistant’s there throughout the day but they can’t legally administer the medications. I, as a family member, could. So, I did.
Here, finally, was a gift I could give my grandmother. She had given me so many amazing gifts throughout my life. She gave me the gift of life itself. She gave me my morals and ethics. She gave me the capacity to love unconditionally. I could make a list a mile long but I won’t because many are too obvious for words. I felt overwhelmingly honored to know that I could help her pass painlessly…peacefully…with dignity.
The peace that surrounded me throughout the night showed me a beauty I had never known. I watched her snoring for several hours. I watched her breathing patterns change. I listened as her snoring stopped and her breathing became shallower but quieter. I watched her pulse change as the night wore on and I knew what the changes meant. And I administered her medications, on time, every time.
I knew at 6:00 a.m., when I gave her the last dose of medications, that it wouldn’t be much longer. I was shocked to discover I wasn’t heartbroken to know the end was near. I have never in my life known such peace as I felt at 7:13 a.m. when she took her last breath with my hand resting on her chest. My angel had gone Home. God was with me the entire time…and He was with her. And He got my attention once and for all.
With every turn my grandmother took for the worst over a 36 hour period, my granddaughter took a turn for the better. There is no doubt in my mind that the two were connected. As my grandmother was in her final moments, the baby took a turn for the worst that put her back on the machine we had just gotten rid of. She rebounded quickly after Grandmama passed on. I am blessed to have witnessed such things.
Life and death are completely entwined. They go together hand-in-hand and will for all eternity. You cannot have one without the other. And there is beauty in both. We must simply open our eyes and our hearts to see it…

Goodnight, Sweetheart

Tonight after dinner, Dad announced he was going to watch some T.V., something he normally does. I came downstairs to take a bath after letting him know I’d be back in a little while. While I was in the tub, I would have sworn I heard Dad talking to someone. Unable to imagine who it might be, I hurried to finish and go check on him.

As I went upstair

s I clearly heard him say, “Did you see that, Sweetheart? All you ever see on The Weather Channel are people trying to sell you stuff and tornadoes.” I popped my head over the balustrade to see him sitting in his easy chair. From my perspective, I couldn’t see anyone else in the room (it is a HUGE open-air room). As I quickly scanned the room, he turned his head toward the chair closest to him and said, “I’ve really missed watching T.V. with you. I really miss talking to you at night.”

Tears welled up in my eyes as I looked in the direction he was looking. There in the chair Mom always sat in was a framed portrait of her. I ducked back and sat on the stairs for a moment to catch my breath, tears rolling silently down my cheeks, as I heard him say, “Hell, Sweetheart, I just plain miss you.”
Taking a deep breath, I crept down several stairs and made a show of stomping up them. Dad looked at me sheepishly. “I’m not crazy,” he announced quickly, shaking his head. “I just miss her so much. I miss talking to her and watching T.V. with her and seeing her beautiful face.”
Choked up, I could only nod. He struggled to rise from the chair, grabbed his walker and excused himself to go to the bathroom. The instant he was out of the room, I had my phone in my hand and was snapping pictures. I put the portrait back in its normal place and sat down wondering what I would say to him when he returned.
I shouldn’t have worried because he didn’t return. After about 15 minutes, I tiptoed down the hall to find him in bed snoring softly. As I turned away, he made a little snorting noise and called out, “Goodnight, Sweetheart.” He almost always hears me (or senses me) no matter how quiet I am.
With tears in my eyes and a smile on my face I replied, “Goodnight, Dad. Call me if you need me.”
“I will. You call me if you need me. Goodnight, Sweetheart.”

May 20, 2010

I got up this morning excited at the prospect of going for a long walk on the beach. My solitary walks have become a vital part of my mental health routine. I haven’t been able to resume the habit since 3 days before Mom was hospitalized (over a month ago).
I realized I had neither hat nor sunglasses as I headed home from getting the boys off to school. I decided to go home, change into my swimsuit (might as well get some sun) and grab both. But, when I arrived, Richard was up and getting ready to go job hunting. I, of course, have to be here so I settled on a compromise of going later when he got back home.
As usual, God had a plan. If I had gone, I would have missed a very important telephone call. Just before Richard left, the house phone rang and he said it was for me. I absolutely never get calls on that phone. He brought it to me and sat down to see who it was.


It was the State Attorney’s office calling to tell me, “In light of your mother’s recent death, we don’t have enough evidence to take Ms. M (T, the infamous ex-caregiver) to trial. Her deposition is null and void because she can’t testify now.
We want to offer her a diversion package that would, of course, include a stipulation that she can never have contact with anyone in the family again. If she did, she would be incarcerated.”
“But what about stopping her from being able to do this again?” I asked as I felt panic begin to rise inside me. “Don’t you get that she preys on the elderly? She takes their money and drains them dry!”
“Well, we do not have the authority to take away her license.”
“What license?” I was almost shrieking. “She is not licensed to practice in the medical field. She let it lapse a couple of years ago and hasn’t renewed it as of last week. Look it up on the internet. I do every couple of months! Her business license???”
He interjected, “You would have to get in touch with the licensing bureau about that…”
“Look, Mom couldn’t have testified anyway. I have tried to tell you that before. She had DEMENTIA. I want to know what can be done to stop T from going out and doing the same thing to other elderly people?” I cried, “The elderly need protection from people like her! I don’t care whether she goes to jail or not. I just don’t want her doing this to anybody else!”
His voice filled with compassion at my outburst, “I will see if we can get a condition set into motion that she can NOT work with the elderly again. I’ll see what I can do and give you a call back, probably this afternoon.”
“I’m here to help you,” he reminded softly. “If this goes forward, your dad is going to have to come in and give us a deposition.”
My voice with thick with the frustration I felt, “He isn’t capable of that! He has Alzheimer’s. He is so confused on the T issue, he thinks she was stealing their pills and going to Mexico to sell them. Half the time, he will tell you that and the other half of the time, He will tell you he thinks she is in jail. He can’t remember what he ate for dinner 5 minutes after he leaves the table!”
“If we attempt to prosecute, we won’t have any choice. His condition will be taken into consideration but he will HAVE to give us the deposition. Let me see if I can get the no elderly condition to go through first.”


As I hung up the phone, I was livid! I get that Mom was T’s main victim. I get that maybe T shouldn’t go to jail over the missing pills (I still think, with good reason, someone else was stealing them). But what about the unauthorized charges on Dad’s credit card? What about the evidence of neglect (and her poor judgment) as time went on? What about the things that were stolen from the house (yes, I know it couldn’t be proven but she and her employees were the only ones here when the items of considerable value went missing)! I do not get why she should be allowed to have ANY opportunity to EVER prey on another elderly person again.
I am indignant! I am furious! I am in physical pain at the thought that she will get a slap on the wrist after all she has put this family through. And I am sickened by the possibility of not being able to prevent it from happening to someone else…

***** If you are lost about T and how she fits in, please see “It Only Takes One Bad Caregiver to Ruin You” **** originally published on this blog on March 22, 2010.

Dreams

May 13, 2010

My dreams were filled with her last night. They were random dreams that seemed to go on forever. They seemed so real I could feel her touch, see her smile, hear her voice. And as I dreamed, I experienced an exorbitant sense of longing, a prevailing sadness tied me to the realization that she is gone.

We were in an unbelievably beautiful garden. She came to me and beckoned me to sit down beside her on a stone bench. When we were seated, she took my hand in hers. We stared into one another’s eyes until I had to turn my head and break the gaze that I felt could see into my soul.
“He loves you very much, you know.”
My mind instantly registered the strength of her voice. There was no struggle to breathe now. I turned back to face her.
“It’s up to you to take care of him. He’s got to find something to DO. He doesn’t go fishing anymore…Get Jeremy to take him. He doesn’t read anymore. He used to love to read. All he does is watch TV without the sound or sit around and try to remember me.
“Mom,” I wondered how many times I had said these words to her when she was alive. “Dad quit fishing because he was terrified to leave you at the house alone. Now, he is afraid that something will happen to him and he will be too far from help if he needs it..
He quit reading because the Alzheimer’s made him forget what he was reading as soon as he read it. What can I do to help him?” I implored her.
She touched my cheek lovingly. “Keep loving him. Keep bringing the babies around. Breathe life into him. Keep finding things for him to do. Make him help you around the house more. Make him live!
He is frustrated because he can only hold on to certain memories and most of those are old memories. You have to help him remember… and help him forget.”
I shook my head in confusion. “Help him forget what?” I cried out to her.
“The bad parts. Help him forget the pain of watching me die. Remind him I am no longer in pain!
Help him forget that pain he feels because I am no longer by his side. Remind him I am always with him, a part of him.
I know it’s a lot to ask but he loves you and he will listen to you.”

I heard a bird singing in the distance somewhere. The smell of the flowers assaulted me… Jasmine, Gardenias, Roses, Sweet Olive, Magnolia, Honeysuckle, Lavender, Hibiscus, Lilies, Lilac, Wisteria, Daisies, Camellias, Azaleas, Dogwood…
As I looked around me, I became aware of a humming. I focused on the tune. “I come to the garden alone… while the dew is still on the roses…”
Instantly, I realized the garden we sat in was HER garden. I was astonished by what she had accomplished in such a short period of time.
She reached for my hand again and gave it a small squeeze. “I am with you, too. Always…”

The scene spun away and suddenly, I was in the living room watching the muted TV with Dad. As I glanced at him, I saw her standing behind his recliner. She had her hand on his shoulder and she smiled.


The scene spun away and suddenly, we were around the dinner table. Everyone was talking and laughing as they ate. Everyone, that is, but Dad. She appeared again, standing behind him, her hand upon his shoulder. As I watched, she gently placed a kiss on his temple. He immediately reached a hand up to brush at the spot.
I marveled that he felt her touch.

The scene spun away and suddenly, I was in the kitchen. She was standing at the sinking looking out the window at the lake. Without turning toward me she said softly, “We need more birdseed.”

The scene spun away and suddenly, we were back in the garden. This time we stood by a peacefully gurgling fountain. We stood there for a moment, holding hands before she said, “I am always with you all. He has to understand… When it is time, which it is not yet, I will be right here waiting for him!”

"Jack & Maurine"

May 7, 2010


The extreme down of having to go to the hospital for lab work is not being able to eat or drink after midnight. This can be excessively difficult with Dementia patients because they forget they aren’t allowed anything, they forget they have an appointment, and they forget to tell you if they slip up and eat or drink something.
The extreme up is there is a really good chance that Dad will run into at least a few people he knows and will have an unexpected opportunity to visit. It is a very social experience for him.
As we walked into the hospital this morning, Dad quickened his step. “There’s Jack,” he announced cheerfully. “I haven’t seen him in ages!”
I moved further into the room while he made a beeline for his friend. As I reached a seat, Dad loudly called out to me, “I’m gonna sit here and visit with Jack for a bit.” I nodded and smiled in response.
A woman joined them and lavished Dad with hugs and regrets… first for Mom’s passing and then for not having attended the memorial service. I could clearly see that Dad recognized her but couldn’t remember her name. The three of them took seats and proceeded to talk in loud voices as people in there 80’s often do.
A good portion of the people in the waiting room looked up when Dad told them his “drill sergeant over there was making him use the walker so he wouldn’t fall flat on his face”. Several people chuckled as he pointed to me and announced, “That’s my daughter-in-law she drives me everywhere and takes care of me.”
It only took me a moment to figure out that the couple he was speaking to were the “Jack & Maurine” that had sent a lovely sympathy card with no last name, only a return address. Only yesterday, I had done a neighbor search online with their address to determine what their last name was so I could address their thank you card. I wondered what the odds of that happening were.

I listened to the conversation (along with the majority of the people who sat waiting). Dad proceeded to tell them the story of how his dear friend (and doctor) had taken away his driving privileges and then told him they had to have someone live with them and care for them all the time. Then his doctor had abandoned them and moved to Montana to ride his motorcycle. He told them how he had hired caregivers until they had been robbed “half-blind” and had spent most of their life savings trying to pay these girls. He told them he had called his son Richard, who had come running immediately to help care for them and had moved his family here. He said Richard and I had saved his and Mom’s lives (slightly ironic to me).
He jumped forward to tell them how terrible it had been to watch Mom die a couple of weeks ago. Then he announced that Pastor Pete (he is their pastor, too) and I had saved his life because we said he didn’t have to bury Mom. He chuckled as he said, “She’s at home sitting on the dresser. I wonder what she would say about that?” The reactions to that comment around the room were many and varied. Maurine assured him she thought it was wonderful that he could keep her right there where he wanted her to be. Dad seemed appeased that it was ok with his friends that he intended to keep Mom at home with him.
Shortly after that, Dad was called to the back. Maurine immediately made her way to where I was sitting. She introduced herself and explained that she had known my in-laws since the early days of moving here. They had all arrived within a year or so of each other and had attended the same church and beach club for many, many years. We chatted for several minutes before she told me how sweet she thought it was that Dad was keeping Mom on the dresser. I smilingly pointed out that she was actually sitting on top of her jewelry box.
The elderly lady laughed heartily and shook her head, “That is so perfect. I wish the girls were still alive so I could tell them. I can’t think of a more appropriate place for Del than sitting on top of the family jewels! That is the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard”
The chair I was sitting in began to shake as the lady sitting one seat over from me, on my left, tried to contain her mirth. I looked over at her and started to shake myself. She had tears running down her cheeks as she tried desperately not to laugh out loud. It was all I could do to turn my attention back to Maurine as I thanked her so much for stopping by. “Such a pleasure to meet you and thank you again for the lovely card you sent. Please come by the house to see us sometime. Dad would love to have visitors. He gets rather lonely these days,” I pointed out. Maurine shuffled her way back to check on her husband, Jack.
I looked at my laughing seatmate and finally couldn’t help it. I began to laugh softly too as Maurine announced loudly, “I went to visit with Shari, Dear. She’s Bill’s daughter-in-law, the one that’s letting him keep Del at home. Don’t you think it’s romantic to want to keep your dead wife with you? She seems like such a nice girl.”
The lady next to me said laughingly, “I bet things are never boring for you.” I had to agree. We chatted for a bit.

After a few minutes, Dad returned. He made his way back to where I was waiting. Halfway there, he shouted, “They just wanted me to sign paperwork.” He then remarked to no one in particular, gesturing to his walker, “I don’t really use one of these things but my boss over there says I have to because I passed out the other day. I don’t remember passing out but if I was unconscious it makes sense that I wouldn’t be able to remember it. I learned a long time ago that it’s a man’s job to make the women in his life happy. What else are you gonna do, piss her off?” Shaking his head, he sat down beside me with a snort.
He caught the glance the lady and I shared as well as our silly grins. He looked immediately suspicious. “Are you two talking about me?”
“No, Dad. Should we be?” I replied.
“Of course, you should,” he grinned. “Why wouldn’t you be? I’ve had that problem all my life. Everywhere I go women just want to talk about me.”
I looked away with a big grin of my own.
He was called to the back at that moment and he promptly rose and headed toward the door. I called after him, "Dad?" He stopped and looked at back me.
"Don't you think you should use this?" I indicated the walker he had abandoned.
"Nope," he smiled. "If I pass out here, I'm pretty sure they can figure out what to do." He winked at me as he went through the door.
I had been frantically writing down quotes the entire time all of this was going on. The lady next to me leaned over and said, “He’s so cute. I bet you have such a great time. He’s very lucky to have you.”
I rolled my eyes (which I do a lot) and replied, “He’s very cute sometimes. But I’m the one who is lucky to have him.” (I say that a lot too, just about every time someone tells me my in-laws are lucky to have me, in fact). To be honest, our lives are a two way street, Dad’s and mine… we give and we take, we lean on each other and we love each other. We are a family… and we are muddling through whatever life has to hand us. And we are making it one day at a time with God's help...

The Weekend of Her Passing

On April 24th, the evening of Mom’s death, a dear friend of mine sent me a text. Their concern was evident. The following is exactly what I wrote in my reply, “I feel so blessed and peaceful… Not what I expected. But had no real expectations. Just trust that God is at work.”
“All of it has been ugly beyond belief. It has also been more beautiful than can be imagined. I don’t know why I was so lucky to be chosen for this…doesn’t matter…just thankful I was.”
Those words will always hold true for me. At times, I feel a physical pain because I miss her so much. I awaken during the night and lie in bed listening for the creak of her wheelchair sneaking into the kitchen, knowing it will never come again. I think of things every day that I want to tell her or show her. But I draw comfort from my belief that she already knows.


The following morning, Melissa and the kids were at the house. As soon as Ayla saw Pop (Dad) she ran to him. She rapidly explained that Munner was in the sky and when she looked down, she could see us. She used her fingers to illustrate how small each of us looks to Munner as she went through a roll call of all our names. Then she took Pop’s hand and said, “Pop, Munner loves us very much. Her said so.”
Dad placed his hand on Ayla’s head as he gently patted her curls. With tears in his eyes, he softly replied, “That’s right, Sweetheart. That’s right.”


That night, Cameryn stayed the night with us. Jordyn had spent the last 2 weeks at Melissa’s so I decided it was time she had a bit of a break. It was an uneventful until the following morning.
Cam approached me as soon as I was up Sunday morning. He announced that Jordyn had fallen asleep first last night so he had stayed up playing cards with Munner. My heart twisted and lurched. He explained that he had sat at the table across from her “spot” and dealt them both cards. He said he had to look at her cards to “help her play” but he didn’t “cheat at all”. With a big grin he said, “We had a lot of fun but it’s just not fair because she still won!”
***Mom was an avid card and game player. I am not surprised in the least that she is still winning***


Tyler spent Sunday and Monday trying to find her. Occasionally he would call out, “Munner” while running through the hallway or into their bedroom. For Dad’s sake I am thankful that at almost 2 years old he is still a bit difficult to understand.


Jordyn has been the least vocal of the children. Every once in a while, he reachs out and touches things in passing that belonged to her, a deep sadness in his eyes. But as the oldest, he is either unwilling or unable to express how he feels about the loss. I am confident he will in his own time and in his own way.

The Toughest Ladybug Ever

It was a very long night with just the 2 of us there (and an occasional nurse). I sang to her, read Psalms to her and talked to her. Every once in a while, her eyes would fly open and try to bring me into focus. I would smooth her hair away from her face and talk softly as I encouraged her to relax. The struggle to breath was terrifying to watch. For a period of over 3 hours, she was only breathing at 8 breaths per minute. Each breath she took shook the entire bed.
There is a point where the carbon dioxide that cannot be exhaled from the lungs begins to build up and causes an erratic fluctuation in pulse, respiration, heart rate, blood pressure, etc. This is a sign that the end is approaching. About 11:30 Mom had the first episode. It was frightening and the nurse quietly explained that there was no turning back, that there was no way she could recover. Her brain was now being too deprived of oxygen. After the episode, all of her stats leveled off and actually rose back up to normal range. She was fighting to live for all she was worth!
About 4:30, I had my head resting on the bed while I prayed and I fell asleep. When I woke up just before 6:00, I felt a weight on my face. I carefully turned my head to see Mom’s hand resting on my cheek. What an incredible gift I was given in that touch! I closed my eyes and cried. A short while later, the nurse explained that she had been slowly moving her fingers toward me (it was a space of a few inches) until they rested on me. I was also informed that she had had another carbon dioxide episode while I slept.
I asked the nurse to keep an eye on her and went outside to get some air and admire the incredible thunderstorm that had been raging all night. I stepped out into the rain and sobbed until my stomach hurt as I let the rain pelt me. It washed away the tears as they fell. I walked to the car and composed myself (and dried off somewhat) before going back upstairs. The family pastor came by and visited briefly.

Finally about 9:30 or so, Dad and Richard arrived. We gave Dad a few minutes alone with Mom and went outside for some air. When we returned, it was obvious that she was taking a down turn. Her stats had begun to drop and her breathing was more erratic.
Dad excused himself to go to the bathroom. When he returned he told me he had had an accident, he needed to go home and change clothes. I asked Richard to please take him home to change. I implored him to hurry.
A few minutes after they left, Mom’s stats began to once again rise and her breathing leveled out somewhat. I asked the nurse why that kept happening. She asked me if there was anyone who should be here that wasn’t. I suggested possibly her daughters. The nurse told me to call them and tell them to come NOW! I explained that it wasn’t at all possible.
She asked me if I had told Mom it was ok to leave us. I assured her I had. I had made many promises to Mom during the night. I told her it was ok to go to heaven because I would take care of Dad until he joined her.
She then asked me if Dad had told Mom it was ok for her to go. “In exactly those words,” she asked. I said not that I had heard.
“Shari, I need you to do something. You have to tell him when he gets back to tell her it’s alright to go. He has to let her know it is ok to die. That may be what she’s waiting for.”

It was quite some time before Richard and Dad got back. Dad had to shower and find something to wear. I pulled him into the hall and explained what the nurse had told me. I told him I knew how hard it would be but that he had to tell Mom it was ok to go to heaven without him. That it was ok for her to die because he was going to keep going until God called him Home, too.
He went to her side and did exactly that. He held her close and told her that he loved her so, so much. He said he didn’t understand why God was doing this but that it was all in His plan. He told her it was time for her to go. And he warned her not to pay any attention to all those good-looking fellows in heaven because he would be there as soon as God let him. He cried as he held her. He gently smoothed back her hair and leaned his face to hers. He kissed her numerous times.
And as we watched, the stats began their descent once more. Dad begged the nurse to help her as her breathing became unimaginably worse. Quietly the nurse stepped forward and injected a syringe of morphine into the IV of morphine. Within minutes, her breathing slowed, and the numbers began to drop rapidly.
And suddenly it seemed, she simply didn’t take another breath. We watched and waited but it never came again. On April 24, 2010 at 12:27 pm, my Ladybug flew away Home. And while I know she is in a far better place, my heart aches with missing her. I can’t begin to imagine the ache in Dad’s heart at losing his “bride” of almost 70 years…

The Beginning (not)...The Middle (not)...

This will be one of the hardest entries I have made on here. I have kept notes and will draw on them for future reference. I will try to do this in a dignified and befitting manor to one of the last true, great "Southern Belles" of my time. Mom constantly reminded me that it wasn't where I was born, it was who I was born to...and it was obvious to anyone who met the women of my family that I was born of the hardiest, most compassionate of stock in the South. Oddly, I take great comfort in that and gladly embrace that! She taught me more than anyone could ever know about being a lady but she completely understood my need for individuality. She LIKED my eyebrow ring. She said it was a most eye-catching accessory.
I will miss her so much more than most people ever could because she was my mother-in-law, one of my best friends and one of the people who understood me most. She never learned to love unconditionally completely...

But I know, she loved me unconditionally. I am so intensely blessed to have been loved by her. I am blessed to have known her. Here is an overview of our last days with Mom, Del Herndon Felker....


We admitted Mom to the hospital on Friday with Pneumonia and congestive heart failure. Saturday morning she went into Respiratory Failure and we moved to the PCU (Progressive Care Unit).
Here we were introduced to the BIPap machine. (The BIPAP machine is a small, bedside respiratory machine connected to tubing and a face mask worn by the patient. The BIPAP machine does two things - it helps push air into the lungs and helps hold the lungs open to allow more oxygen to enter the lungs. Each time the patient takes a breath, the BIPAP machine assists by applying air pressure to the lungs while the patient is exhaling in order to hold open the air sacs in the lungs. A BIPAP machine is used when a patient cannot breathe completely on their own and needs help getting oxygen into the blood. BIPAP machine is used in an attempt to avoid using a ventilator.)

We were thrilled that she was so much better by the time they took her off it several hours later. But, for the following 30 hours or so, she would go into distress and back on the machine numerous times. By Sunday night, she was too worn out to keep up the fight on her own. We moved to ICU with the threat of a ventilator in an hour if her blood gases didn’t improve and back on BIPap she went.
An hour later, they drew the blood and we held our breath as we waited for the test results. Amazingly, they were back in record time and Mom was back in normal range. I was allowed to help the nurse get her into a fresh gown and linens and give her, her medications by mouth. She did so well, they let me feed her a cup of vanilla ice cream before we left for the night. We left the hospital with hope in our hearts…

On Monday morning, at 6:34 a.m., my cell phone rang. I knew as I glanced at the time and reached for my phone that it had to be the hospital. I was right, and the news wasn’t good. The voice at the other end informed me they had just put Mom on the ventilator. I was struggling to get fully awake and hear/understand everything the voice was saying. I was also trying to pull on my clothes. Richard had heard enough to know what was happening. ”Where are you going?” he asked.
I tried, rather poorly, to explain that I had to get to the hospital. He was confused as to why. Finally, I told him it wasn’t for her. It was for ME.
I ran through the door as they were putting the last piece of tape in place to hold the tube in her mouth. The nurse moved aside and gestured me forward. I bent over and kissed her forehead, then I stroked the hair away from her face as the nurse assured me that she had done very well during the procedure. I asked if I could talk to her and the nurse assured me it was not only fine, but encouraged.
“Hey, Ladybug,” I said loudly to Mom, “You need to hurry up and get better so we can go home.” Suddenly, her eyes opened and she looked straight at me. The recognition in her eyes was unmistakable. Then they fluttered closed and she began gagging on the tube so hard she turned dark red. The nurse encouraged me to talk to her while the sleeping cocktail they were hooking to her IV did its work, part of which was Diprivan (the drug that killed Michael Jackson).
As she gagged and silently choked, I stroked her arm, held her hand and repeatedly told her to relax. Finally, she did and over the next several minutes it worked like a charm as her body slowly began to relax. By the time the drugs had her completely under, I was in agony for her. I stood by her bed crying, feeling so scared and alone that I had to step into the hallway for a breath of air.
I was insanely relieved when I looked up and saw Richard and Dad coming down the hall toward me. It was my job to take care of her and for a moment I felt like I had let she and Dad down in that respect. I quickly realized there was nothing any of us could have done to prevent the turn of events that had brought us here. After a lifetime of debilitating Asthma, her lungs were just plain worn out.

Tuesday the daily “weaning” from the ventilator went very well. And she breathed well… it was considered a successful weaning. But her lungs just weren’t ready to maintain it long enough.

On Wednesday she failed the test… The doctor called me on my cell phone (it took us 5 phone calls between us to get to the point of the conversation). He told me we would have to find a way to tell Dad. It was time to make a decision. After lengthy discussion, we made the decision… we would wait to see the results of the next 48 hours. Beyond that, we would rapidly lose any chance of getting her off the ventilator successfully. I began calling the family and telling them this would probably be their last chance to say goodbye. We announced it would not happen until Friday (to allow time for anyone who wanted to get here or if it was possible for them to, to be here.). Nobody came.