A nurse came in and began hooking up a new machine. “I
thought I was going to get to go home,” Mom said, her voice thick with
disappointment. Instead, the nurse connected mother’s dwindling body by tubes
to yet another pain pump, and we began to watch her die. Six siblings and their
spouses and children—in and out of a small and stuffy hospital room, round the
clock, three weeks. It was tense, excruciatingly painful, depressing,
exhausting. But none suffered more than Mom. Day after day she moaned, refused
her food, stared at nothing, cried, hurt. Nurses said it was time to turn her.
As they tugged on the bedding beneath her, she groaned, then cried out as the
movement cracked her disintegrating bones. Please
leave her alone; no more turning, we pleaded. The nurses understood. There
was no more turning. And then one day, with a burst of energy that was shocking
and terrifying, Mom sat straight up in bed, her voice hoarse but firm: Help me!
Mom's doctor was a fine man, a
solemn man, a merciful man. Two hours later, Mom’s suffering ended.
