Unresponsive

"She's in the ER and unresponsive," the caller said.
It was 30 minutes until the first class meeting of the semester.
I chose my mother over my students.
I forgot to get my driving glasses; reading glasses will have to do.
When I arrived at the ER Cardiac room, she was just lying there. 
I put her hand in mine, she opened her eyes,
Her look was shock and surprise, then the eyes went to a smile,
Then back to unresponsive.
The monitor above beeped as her heart rate dropped to the 60s,
Then a few minutes later rose to 130s, then down again.
For two hours I held her hand, stroking her fragile bruised skin.
Suddenly she woke up, fully, asking where she was.
Asking why she was there. I called the nurse.
She said she was dreaming of being chased.
She didn't know who was chasing her.
The nurse and doctor came; she joked, she obfuscated.
She slurred her words. She didn't know my name.
The tests all came back negative - no stroke, no heart attack.
There is no explanation for her becoming unresponsive.
The decision is made to send her back to the nursing home.
She wants to come to my house - not the nursing home.

I'm sorry, mom, but that won't work.

She wants me to stay with her in the transport van.

I'm sorry, mom, but I can't.
It takes three nurses using a Hoyer to move her. 
Two hours later, she no longer has the ability to talk;
She tries finger spelling, but we don't understand.
As she moans and cries in pain, we have to leave.
I'm sorry, mom, I cry as I drive away.

How much more can she or I take?

Hardest Things

Among the hardest things I've ever had to do are: 

• Finding out that I had said goodbye to my sister for the very last time, wishing for one more chance.
• Leaving my daughter at her university two hours from home and just driving away.
• Walking two miles to the hospital after finding out that my son was seriously injured in an auto accident.
• Seeing my father, my rock, the emotionally strongest person I have ever known, reduced by Lewy Body dementia. 
• Holding my mother's hand, counting the breaths, and lying to my mother, telling her that we would be okay when she dies.   

The hardest things we do, the most painful memories we experience, are about family -- about missing them. Remember that. There is no job to go to, no bill to pay, no home renovation to do, no offense to be carried, no guilt to hide behind, there is nothing more important than family.