My mom has had several carotid strokes, which have left her left side completely paralyzed. She is also a severe diabetic who suffers from advanced diabetic retinopathy and all the other associated diabetic conditions. Sunday night, she choked badly on some food because along with everything else, her esophagus is partially paralyzed as well. During the bout of choking, she aspirated some of the food into her lungs and contracted pneumonia. Her blood sugar began wildly spiking and crashing, and she became septicemic, with some of the pneumonic infection spreading via the blood to her kidneys, which failed. She lost consciousness and stopped breathing, having to have her heart restarted twice by emergency docs. At that point, my oldest brother called me and said, “You’d better come home. Mom’s dying. Bring a suit.” I dropped everything and rushed home, to find her almost dead. Her blood sugar was off the scale (literally. It was higher than 500, which is the upper limit of the equipment being used at Baptist,) her pulse was racing at nearly 200 beats per minute, and her blood pressure was so low as to be pooling in low places.
But she’s tough. A couple of days later, her BP began to stabilize and the frequent pumping of her lungs seemed to be taking care of the pneumonia. When I left, she was fluttering in and out of semiconsciousness.
You know, it’s hard to think of my mother dying, but she is. My mother’s death is imminent. Maybe not this time, but tomorrow, next week. Maybe next month I’ll pack my suit again and attend my mom’s funeral. And I’m terrified for my dad, because on January 20, it will be their 55th anniversary, and his whole life revolves around his devotion to my mother. For the past 2 years, he has fed her, bathed her, helped her onto the toilet, and waited on her 24/7. I’ve never seen such incredible selflessness in my life. He sleeps in the den with her hospital bed. He waits on her every need, no matter how intimate or embarrassing, without an ounce of disgust. I have NEVER heard him complain or express anything but upbeat positivity about my mother.
He still thinks she’s going to walk again. I don’t know if he’s serious about it, or he’s fooling himself, or it keeps him from going insane, or he’s just trying to put on a bold face for the family. But she’s never going to walk again. Hell, she may never even wake up. She looks awful, and she has tubes and flecks of blood at her mouth. It’s very horrible.
I may have spoken to my mother for the last time. I may never get another story about the Depression in the Appalachians from her, or another old recipe. I miss hugging her. She was a dedicated hugger. She is the absolute kindest person I have ever known. Her life shines with compassion and wisdom and love. She is a white Southern woman from deep in the mountains of north Georgia, and she taught me that inequality, racism, and hatred of any person is despicable and deeply ignorant. She used to read two novels a day. She taught me to read and that “anything you ever want to know is written down somewhere. All you have to do is find it.” She taught me how to make cornbread and Indian stew. In the Depression, she was unable to attend Agnes Scott College in Atlanta, to which she had received a scholarship, because of expenses and family obligation. She made friends with German POW’s who were shipped back to the States and worked on gangs outside a Georgia military base. Back in the 70’s there used to still be KKK parades in Montgomery, and she took me to one to show me what those bastards look like. This happened the week after my dad received several recruitment letters from the KKK. I have never seen him so furious in all my life. The thought that a friend of his would be a member and believe that my dad would make a good candidate made him livid.
And if she dies, my dad dies. January 3 was his 78th birthday, and although he’s in perfect health, he’s 78 years old, and he has no life outside of my mother.
Your mother is fortunate to have such a loving and devoted husband. I’m not sure if anything I say can be of consolation at a time like this, but just wanted to let you know that I read your post and wish you and your family all the best.