Mom's first stroke nine years ago came as a shock. Considering her medical history and general health, it shouldn't have. But it did.

I'd seen her just about a month before, when the folks swung through New Mexico on a trip from Phoenix to Illinois. She was the same old Mom, looking around in absolute horror while trying her best to give optimistic advice about what was then my new place (and not for long, either- it WAS a horrorshow.) We went and had the single worst italian meal available in America at a small italian restaurant in Moriarty, and had a nice chat. If I had known that it was the last time I'd ever have a REAL chat with Mom, I'd have had a lot more to say.

I went home to visit not long after that first one. It was discomforting, to say the least. My mom was someone who would be up to see the sunrise every day, and have more done before I'd get up than I'd do all day. And she'd do it singing, never letting the fact that she lived in a house filled with early-morning grumps get in her way. Even when she sat down to rest, she'd grab the knitting or embroidery or whatever she was working on at the moment and get something done on THAT. She never saw a movie or a tv show, but she HEARD everything that happened in the house. While humming.

Here was this shell of a woman hunched over in a wheelchair. She tried to do her crafts but became frustrated quickly. She had trouble speaking and just finding the words to say. When she did speak, it was usually something goofy and childlike. She couldn't walk(although it wasn't out of the question at that point), but obviously hated just sitting there. She was raised in a family of 11 children, during WWII. Her generation doesn't just sit there. She was a different person. The old mom wasn't dead- she was moved, if you will, into another room, and we couldn't really see her anymore. But she could see us, and it was eating away at her.

All because of a few minutes without blood. Precious minutes.

There was hope at that time for a partial recovery, given time and effort. She had the time, but the efforts were few and far between. She just gave up. She didn't try to walk. She didn't try to excercise. She was sketchy with the medicine. She said on many occasions that she just wanted to die. No amount of pep talks or pleading from anyone could rouse her interest. The song she always woke up with was gone.

And for the first time, I missed it.

Things continued in that vein for many years, with mom making only token efforts while playing the scamp and driving Dad crazy. For his part, you've never seen a man more devoted to taking care of someone else. He had help from nurses and from my brother in Phoenix, but shouldered most of it himself, despite his own health concerns. Once again, I'm proud of him.

Then one day about three years ago, Mom turned to Dad and said "I want to live". She'd finally decided that enough was enough. She made a commitment to do the exercises and take the medicines. To make the effort to turn her condition around. To stay with those she loved. To live.

Two weeks later, he couldn't wake her up. She had another series of strokes, one after another. She was eventually woken, but had lost a lot of brain function. She was left with only one quarter, enough to keep the body running and the mind almost there. But not quite.

The window of opportunity had closed. And she had finally, only just started looking through it.

Since then, she has been bedridden. She watches tv and has brief talks, but has trouble because, as she says, she "can't find the words". I speak to her on the phone, but it is very brief, because we can't really talk. I just tell her that I'm fine, and that I love her. Then she drifts off, and I go back to Dad. As I've said, it is like she's already gone, but I can't say goodbye, and it isn't right to start grieving yet. Mom is still here.... it's the REAL Mom that's been gone.

I spoke with Dad tonight, to give him my new phone number. He told me the latest. She's gone off her medication. She simply refuses to take it for Dad, the nurses, or anyone. He's spoken to her doctor about it, and been told not to force her. He's been told to simply make her comfortable. They've changed her nursing care to hospice care.

She had only one more decision left. And she's made it.

I'll be going to Phoenix this week to say goodbye to my Mom. After nine years of prep time, I still don't know how.

I just know I'd give a lot just to hear her sing something. Anything. Just one more time.