“No, I have to die first. You can’t die before I die, ” my father cried as he held her close.
My mom has become more and more distant. It’s harder for her to connect. The only time I’ve seen her smile is when Odin is in her presence. Her eyes are closed for the most part, and when they’re open they are looking into nothingness, vacant, removed, empty.
I know she’s tired, oh so tired of fighting, of living with the excruciating pain that shoots down her legs, and grabs her tight around the neck. She’s such a fighter. She wants to be able to see Odin, and to watch all her children, grandchildren and great grandchildren grow up. She wants to be there to celebrate their birthdays and graduations. But she’s exhausted.
So I told her she can watch from heaven, and that she would be with us in spirit.
“This finger means I want to keep fighting, eating through a feeding tube.”
“This finger means I’m tired. I don’t want to live with a feeding tube. I want to go to sleep and find myself in heaven.”
Each time I asked, she pointed definitively to the finger that doesn’t want the feeding tube.
I spoke with the doctor and he agreed to take her off the feeding tube for food. She would continue to get her meds through the tube, but her food would be through her mouth. There will be no forcing her to eat, she gets to decide how much she wants to eat and when.
Now my mom is the one deciding how long she wants to live this way, and not some tube or anyone else.
Maybe there’s a reason she’s sleeping a lot.