We are still in limbo over here. Mom is not bouncing back from her broken leg, which we knew was a long shot at best. The original goal was to try to get her back to her wheelchair. That will not be happening.

In-between land is filled with heartbreaking decisions of various kinds. There are no clear-cut choices really, just high or higher risk. You really have to look at the goal to determine which option to pick. Could we get her in a wheelchair? Yes, but not without significant pain. What would we gain? Moving her to different places. Would she know she was in a different place? Probably not. Then why do it? See what I mean? The choices we are facing are not great ones.

She was supposed to go to the doctor yesterday for an x-ray of her leg to see how it is healing…or if it is. But, loading her on a stretcher, putting her in a transport vehicle, and carting her across town and back would be painful and traumatic. It would be hard on her body and her mind. And for what? To find out if healing is happening…so we could go back in two weeks for another x-ray to follow the progress of a leg which will never be used again anyway? What’s the point of that?

Dad made the call to cancel the appointment. We agreed with that decision. They said they could come x-ray her in her bed. We are waiting for the results now, which honestly don’t matter. Our goal has changed. She is beyond the wheelchair. The good news is that she doesn’t even realize she is bedridden and she is content.

We are the ones who want to see her somewhere other than a bed. We are the ones who want to push her to the garden. She is no longer aware of the garden or that she could be elsewhere. She still smiles. She still babbles, though much less than before. She mainly sleeps. Her eating is sporadic at best. She still drinks one sip at a time if coaxed. She is getting weaker. Her light is fading, but there is still a spark sometimes, mainly when Dad is near.  

We are each taking some individual time just to sit with her, asleep or awake, doesn’t matter. Just to hold her hand. Converse when she wakes, or not. I read to her from one of her own favorite books marked with all her highlights, underlines, and sticky notes. Melinda plays her music. Dad sits so she can smile at him. He tells her he loves her and sometimes she says it back. We still go on Fridays/Sundays for our visits.

We are letting go of our goals. We are letting her set the pace. According to the hospice booklet we received, she is in the end stages of her life. What that means timing wise is unclear, only that time is short. How short? No way of knowing. A month. A week. A day. Definitely closer now than before.

We are praying for her freedom from this body which has served her and us so well. We want her to fly free and be whole again, even if that means outside of our presence. We are opening our hands, one finger at a time, to release her. Letting go is probably the hardest thing we have done so far. Years of caring for every little detail, now suddenly, we are trying to cease the activity from managing the details and just be near. We are switching from being Marthas to being Marys. The cares and worries of the days set aside, choosing instead the more important things, of being present, being kind, and being brave.  

We are making impossibly hard decisions. What to say. Favorite scriptures and songs. Who should say it. Where it should be said. We have decided most everything, but when. That is Mom’s decision.

I found these words by Douglas McKelvey in the book Every Moment Holy. They made me cry with their beauty, especially now.

A Liturgy for those facing the slow Loss of Memory

When I no longer know the faces of my family,

Yet you will know me, O Lord.

When I can no longer remember my own name,

Yet you will remember me.

This will be my enduring hope, until at last I wake from my long fog

Into a bright morning of clarity

And see you face to face,

Remembering again all that I had forgotten,

and knowing then even as I am known.

In light of this promise,

Give me peace even now,

Secure in the knowledge that what is obscured

From me is not truly lost, only tucked away and

Waiting to be revealed fully in that eternal light.

O God, though all else be hid from me, all memory,

All knowledge, all understanding, do not hide your presence.

Be to me more present, more immediate, more abundant

In grace and peace, than I ever knew.

Though I know nothing else, still let me know you.

And if a morning dawns when I can no longer name you or

Remember to call upon you, be more immediately present

To me then than my own confusion, than my own breath.

Be to me a peace and a light and an abiding sense that

I am loved and held and that all will be well.

Give grace and mercy also, O God,

To those who grieve my decline,

To those who love me, who must

Suffer the heartache of such slow loss,

Bless their patient sacrifice on my behalf.

May their hope and their humor hold

And their hearts be strengthened beyond expectation.

Thank you for the years of health and love we

Were given to share. May those memories and

Your grace sustain them in sorrow.

Be near us now.

O Father, in my weakness, be strong.

O Jesus, in my loss, be found.

O Spirit, in my absence be present.

O God, in my forgetfulness, remember me, your child.

Amen.

The weight of our decisions is heavy. Our shoulders are sagging. Our steps like walking in quicksand. We are exhausted, and yet we plod on. It has been a long month. Our hearts are begging for this to be quick. But our heads want her to stay. Or maybe it’s the other way around. Either way, it is excruciating. We have come to understand that her spirit knows what is best for her. We are trusting God. We are trusting Mom. Only they can walk this last part of the sacred journey to freedom. We are privileged to be witnesses to this holy time.

We thank you, our friends, for all for your prayers and love for us. Mom is loved so well by so many. We can feel all of you holding us up.