Friday, February 8, 2008

Today was by far the most intense of any day yet. I feel like I should probably precede this entry with some sort of "Viewer Discretion" warning, because the things I witnessed today were more shocking than any movie or TV show could ever be. Let the fact that I'm writing this entry at 2 in the morning speak for itself.

First of all, in the scheme of things, Betty was okay this morning. She requested that my dad bring her a glass of milk, which seemed promising, despite the fact that she hates milk and hasn't drunk it in probably 20 years. But he gladly brought it to her. Also, she was more or less able to stand. A friend kindly came over to visit and brought breakfast for Betty and my dad.

Today was supposed to come as a relief to my dad and me; Betty's brother Bill was coming to visit from Montana. We were looking forward to having another body in the house for a few days to help us care for Betty, figure out the hospice care situation, and simply for emotional support. Well, just as Bill arrived, Betty began to have a series of small seizures. She fell unconscious, gasping for air, shaking uncontrollably, and clenching all the muscles in her arms and hands. All the shaking made her sweat profusely. I came in about an hour after this all started, but by the time I got there, she was covered in sweat, lying in a fetal position with a pained look on her face. She was not conscious, but she would let out loud, terrible groans as she shook and clenched her fists against whatever crossed their path - her hair, Bill's hands, the blanket, etc.

This is where it gets tricky. Calling 9-1-1 seems like the obvious response to this type of situation, but things were confusing because we had already decided that we were going to pursue the hospice care. Well, it takes a few days to find a caregiver who is willing to live in your house full time, and we were only beginning the process today. Calling 9-1-1 means that Betty would be taken to the emergency room, and we've already decided that we aren't going to spend any more time hospitalizing her. So basically, my stepmom was lying on our armchair, falling into a coma, and the only people who could tend to her were my dad, Bill, and me.

Fortunately, the hospice center was able to dispatch an emergency nurse who helped us transform our couch into a temporary hospital bed. Betty continued to cough violently and spit up. Though still unconscious, her eyelids were half open, and her eyes slowly traveled back and forth. Java was extremely concerned, and he snuggled up against her and put his head on her lap even though she shook violently. The nurse was very kind, prudent, and efficient; in the hour or so that she was here she gave Betty a couple dosages of morphine to help slow down her muscle spasms; she hooked us up with a company who transports portable hospital beds to homes; and she gave us plenty of caregiving tips and emotional support.

The most painful, yet most significant piece of information we received from the nurse was this (I reiterate my viewer discretion warning): my dad asked if we should be worried about the fact that she can't take in food while she's unconscious, and the nurse said that in the time Betty would starve to death, she will have already passed on due to brain or heart failure.

We set up the hospital bed in the center of the family room. She laid there unconsciously, then she would randomly prop up to groan, cough, shake, and collapse back down. Watching this was the first point throughout this entire awful week during which I knew I just couldn't take anymore, and I had to resign to another room. Coming to emotional terms with the fact that I am about to lose my stepmom is enough. I don't need to watch it happen.

We received a call that a temporary caregiver was on her way. She was going to spend the night with Betty to make sure nothing went down in the middle of the night. When I heard that someone was coming, I knew I had to get out of the house for the sake of my own sanity. My band is currently recording a full length album and I was schedule to record my part tonight. I still did it, but being in the positive spirit required to play music was impossible.

I came home only about an hour ago and met the current caregiver. Her name is Jackie, and from what I could gather, she told me that Betty had awoken from the coma at some point in the evening to whisper to Jackie, "I'm dying." She also told me that my dad went to kiss her and she kissed him back. While her interactions were extremely shocking and poignant, I was still reassured that this coma hadn't been permanent.

I was going to go in depth a little bit about one of the most reoccurring thoughts I've had in the last few days, but I'll have plenty of time to reflect and write about this subject in the future. But basically, my dad summed it up when he said, "It's almost like God is laughing at us." The irony of this entire situation is absolutely remarkable. Betty was the healthiest woman any of us ever knew. This is just so extremely unbelievable. So inconceivable. So unprecedented. Witnessing all of this at age 18 is almost like erasing every lesson I've ever learned about health and longevity.

Keep in mind, folks, she was diagnosed just 7 days ago.

Please, please, cherish your loved ones.