So You're Going to Die Now

...is the name of the brochure Homer Simpson reads in a memorable episode of that great show. He finds it in a doctor's office where's he's referred for treatment of a mystery illness. It's on my mind today because I just put in a call to Seasons Hospice, to ask about care for my Mom. I returned to MJH for a second visit, and at first she was calm. In fact, when I first saw her so tiny in her bed, mouth agape and eyes frozen half open, I thought the end had come. Not so fast! The nurse's assistant came in with her food tray, and we tried to feed Mom. All she managed was 4 tiny bites of some lemon cake, and 3 sips of apple juice. The aid, from Georgia, unlike most of the Haitian born staff at MJH, said "the last thing they give up is sweets." Makes sense, I guess. I sat with Mom, and she mumbled gibberish. To pass the time I recounted the story of her life --from her childhood in the Bronx through her great adventure -- a cross country train trip to mee my Dad in California during the Big One --WW II. That was a big deal for a young girl who had never been out of New York state before. She stirred, and started moaning again. I asked the nurse about the sedative the Orthodox half doctor/half rabbi had supposedly ordered. "No --he neva did it" she answered in her heavy Creole accent. I called the doc, livid, and his staff figured out that he DID order the med -- but called the pharmacy instead of Mom's floor, and the two offices hadn't spoken. Nurse Marie assured me Mom would get the sedative. "Boy," I said to her " a person could DIE in this nursing home!" I don't think my attempt at sarcastic humor translated well. She just scowled at me. Paul marvels at my family's black sense of humor. When his mother was dying, it was pretty serious business. Our Rabbi friend played a large role, and Paul has dutifully said Kaddish, the prayer for the dead, each morning since his mother passed. Sunny's not at all religious, so that's not happening in our family -- but we DO emply humor to deflect the deep feelings of grief and sadness... I left MJH and drove the 2 blocks to Soyka. Dr. Barry met me there, and I downed a couple of Ketel One martinis. Talk about medically necessary drinks! Barry and I caught up, and he, of course, had tales of true tragedy -- 8 year old children who took sick and nearly died, and newborns who DID die, all on his watch in the ICU. Mom got 93 years -- no tragedies there. And Barry and I philosophize all the time about who gets how many years -- some with long lives are winners. I pointed out to Barry that typically the prize to the winners, like Mom, is a pile of steaming dog shit at the end. We agreed it's better to die younger than too old... So I'm waiting for Seasons Hospice to return my call. Geez -- you could die waiting for them to get back to you! I anticipate we'll meet, and they'll start an IV drip of morphine to calm Mom. Anything's better than her agitated state --crying out for her late relatives, and not being able to calm down. Her long, long trip down life's road seems to be coming to an end. My job is to make her as comfortable as possible... Tonight Norman, Vince, Jim and I are going to the final Panthers game. And even in their losing season, the Absolut (tm) bar is open. Thanks, vodka. No one should do death without you...