Yesterday

Yesterday my mom was supposed to be transferred back to rehab. She was also originally supposed to be transferred back last Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday.  They are promising today.  We have learned to count on nothing.

Yesterday it has been two straight months since my mom was readmitted to the hospital. Two months since I watched her code. Two months since I thought she was ready to walk through heaven's doors. It has been two months where the only setting I have seen my mom in is a hospital bed or chair, and it has been two months since my mom has had any control over what her day looks like or what she would like to do or eat.  She is at the mercy of people caring for her, friends willing to come visit, and suckers willing to get the woman some food that is better than hospital food.

Want to know a weird secret?  Two months ago was easier for me than today is.  It is easier for me to function in a crisis.  It is easier for me to cry when I can justify my tears and tell myself they are appropriate.  It was appropriate to cry when my mom was dying.  It was quite inconvenient to cry as it dawned on me on my way to work Saturday night that rehab is usually two weeks.  That my mom needs two or more weeks to learn to walk again, both from being extremely deconditioned and from the amputation. And you know what is in less than two weeks? My shower. The shower we moved back, because for sure my mom would be out of the hospital by September 8.

Seriously?

I want to scream and cry and pitch a fit.  So I did.  And then I had to pull it together and go work puffy eyes and all.  I also proceeded to ugly cry it up on Sunday with my husband, because apparently I wasn't over it all from Saturday.

I am scared of the road that lies ahead.  I am scared of coordinating finances and rides for outpatient visits.  I am scared she will never get out of the freaking hospital.  I might reach a breaking point and jail bust her out. Please forgive me when I resort to such things.

I am scared my mom won't be approved for a heart and this will be what the end of her life looks like.

Dear God,
If I haven't made it clear yet, I don't want this crap no more.  I want it to go away.  I want my young and vibrant 54 year old mother back.  I want her to grow me vegetables and be able babysit my baby.  I want her to come to my freaking baby shower.  I want her to have 10 toes and to not live in pain.  I want to see her in a setting other than a hospital bed.  I want my mom to live more than 5 years, and I want the last years of her life to be deep and meaningful and rich.  God, I don't want to have to count on people.  I don't want to ask for help, but heaven help us, we can not do this alone. I want to kick and scream and cry like a two year old.  And if she does not go to rehab today, I just might, so get prepared.    Love, Jaci

Not only will my mom have good and bad days, but we all will too.  I'm telling myself it is better to be honest about them, better to let it flow and make friends with the floor I may throw myself on.  Because I think it is only through expressing my gut level honesty at the suck level of this situation that I can continually try to let go and let live.  My normal reaction is to make the situation little.  To tell myself that my mom didn't die, and that she isn't a child living with cancer.  We don't live in extreme poverty.  People all around us have it so much worse.  I should be grateful.  If I make this little it won't hurt so bad.

Screw that.  This hurts and it hurts a lot.  I can rattle off the facts of her medical history like it is nothing.  I can talk about her amputation like it was just the next step needed to get a heart.  And really these things are all true, but rarely do I rattle of my level of fear, sadness, and anger.  So I will try to be more conscious and sit in the suckiness.

Because in the suck (a very technical term), have been such rich and deep moments.  Sometimes it is hard to hold onto those.  Because even when they are good, they can still hurt.  I am sure I am not the only person to physically feel my emotions in my chest.  That burning behind your sternum both when something is so great that you don't want it to end, and also when something breaks you to your core.  Sometimes it is difficult to distinguish the difference.

So please continue to love me and my family.  Please continue to ask me out to coffee.  Please ask me how I am doing if you are up to some tears, and if not, run for the hills, friends, run for the hills.  Because I need to let the tears come and it would be better if I stopped bottling them up until I end up on the floor.  I want to run away, I want to be alone, because it is an old habit and old habits die hard, but really I want to know that we are going to be OK and that people will help us get there.

I guess I have to keep learning that life's battles are not meant to be fought alone, and that I can trust people willing to step up next to me.  I have a thick skull.  Things take a while to set in.

Please pray that my mom can go to rehab today.  I desperately want to see her start to improve and get stronger.  We need some movement in a good direction.  Please pray that she come come to my baby shower.  Please pray that she has better pain control after the amputation.  It will be hard to learn how to walk again if we can't do a bit more for the pain.  Please just continue to cover us in prayer.

I am not alone.