佚名/Anonymous
The doctors sent my mother home to die. A fifteen-year survivor of breast cancer, she had suffered two heart attacks when advanced cancer was found in her lung.
Mom had struggled to raise three daughters while holding a full-time job, yet worked hard to maintain a cozy home for her family. Growing up, I knew only two things about my mother:She had an iron will, and she loved nature. During her days of illness, she told me a third:“I’ve had a miserable life.”
My dad was a difficult man to live with, but my mom did not complain, probably because she could not put words to her own need. But when it came clear that because of her progressive deterioration, my dad regarded her as a burden, she and I decided that she would move to my home.
I had three weeks to make a myriad of arrangements. I changed my work schedule, found transportation, an oncologist, cardiologist, hospice care, medical equipment, a caregiver and bather. My plan for Mom’s final days was simple:she would live with love, and die with grace. Upon her arrival, after an exhausting five-hour trip, Mom was examined by the home health-care nurse. The nurse took me aside and asked,“How long do you think your mother has?”
“Two, maybe three months.”I said.
The nurse looked at me sadly.“Adjust your thinking,”he said.“She has a few days, maybe a week. Her heart is weak and unstable.”
My home, small and comfortable, was a heaven to four cats and a retriever. The animals had the run of my house.
We installed the electric hospital bed and oxygen machine, which frightened the cats from the bedroom. I’d moved their furniture, and they were peeved. The retriever, on the other hand, an immature dog with bad habits, was excited by all the changes in the house. He jumped up, barked and shed more profusely than usual.
He is Otto who was not afraid of the hospital bed, the oxygen machines or the medical smells. Nor was he afraid of the frail woman who had scolded him. Otto jumped onto the foot of Mom’s hospital bed, and stayed.