Mom is fading and one of the hard things about living across the country is not being able to “time” when the “right” time is to come home. At any given moment the report from home can be Mom’s dying, Mom’s resurrected; Mom’s not eating, Mom’s eating again; they’re transferring Mom to hospice, hospice can be six months. But when I heard last Monday morning that they were transferring Mom to hospice, and that she wasn’t eating or drinking, I raced back to New Hampshire one more time.
She was dressed and sitting up and we took her out to lunch, a laborious affair (I mean for her) at which she ate a single bite of roll and then fell silent–a kind of Last Supper as we probably won’t take her out again while I’m here, or possibly ever.
I’m thinking that the angels are preparing a place for her. I picture them flying and twittering and bustling about, shaking out fresh sheets, plumping the pillows, smoothing down the bedspread.
“She likes the windows thrown open wide!” I want to tell them. “She likes a brisk breeze. She likes things spare”…
But I guess they’d know that.