In January of 2017, my Mom celebrated her 89th and last birthday.  She was in a Rhode Island hospital and slightly confused, but everyone important to her visited and shared cake.   My brothers and I honestly never thought she would see that day because three years prior, she suffered a global stroke.  It didn’t produce the typical speech problems and the usual left or right-sided weakness but rather impacted significantly every functional body system. She couldn’t hold a fork, swallow, walk or even empty her bladder.  It was devastating to her, and when the doctors told her she would most likely never walk again, all bets were off, and so was she.

She was transferred to a beautiful rehabilitation facility and gave the name “the Fighting Irish,” a new meaning.  A wheelchair or walker was not to be in her future if she had anything to do with it.  Despite her age and many medical problems, including pulmonary lung disease, which required continuous oxygen, she did three solid hours of therapy, five days a week, and never complained.  I would visit and watch her through the large therapy window when she had little to no function.  Her wheelchair placed between the parallel bars, she would count with the therapist 1-2-3 as her body undulated back and forth and her arms around his neck, attempting to gain momentum to stand.    Her fierce determination and desire to live life at its fullest despite the many ways her body had failed her brought tears to my eyes every time I witnessed it.  I also questioned myself at these moments. At 25 years younger, would I possess the same strength and resilience required to return to functioning?”  In those moments, I wasn’t sure I would.

A long nine weeks passed with many setbacks and much work required of my Mom, but she walked out of that rehab center with the help of a walker back to her own home.  She needed lots of help, but luckily, she had it available to her. My youngest brother lived with her and did more than his share. He cooked, did laundry, and provided invaluable companionship that often interfered with his life, but he did it willingly.  She had two more sons and daughters in law, that shared making dinners, doctor’s appointments, nail appointments, and stopping infrequently.  I was charged with the tough medical decisions, as well as overseeing the care in the facilities. Even the best care centers needed constant oversite, or things would not get done or will be done improperly. Without the staff knowing there is an advocate checking at all times, care would not happen as it should. As the nurse in the family and the former owner of a large Home Care and Visiting Nurse Company, she had the best nurses and therapists in the state, as well as home health aides.

All of us combined provided her with a quality of life not known to most seniors.  Despite being compromised, she had three more years of birthdays, time with grandchildren, and even two more winters in sunny Florida.

In January of 2017, her chronic lung disease worsened, which produced yet another never-ending round of hospital stays, facility placements, and even a psychiatric admission due to confusion that would not clear up because of multiple medications. Again constant surveillance in day-to-day care was required, and refusing multiple placements because I knew the outcome would be bad.  And sometimes even changing a diaper because I didn’t want her to wait and made light of it as her dignity slowly passed away.

One particular day in early January, her Geriatric Specialist came in the room and said, “Barbara, we have to do your living will. Would you be up to that?” She looked at me like she always did, and I shook my head yes.  I said,  “Mom, it’s routine, and I’ll help you.”

She was slightly confused at times, but with a bit of clarification, she was able to respond to the heart-wrenching questions of whether or not she wanted a feeding tube or should they respond if her heart were to stop?  She was pretty clear she didn’t want any heroic measures, but the answers were still hard to hear.

As the doctor was about halfway through the questions, my eyes drifted to the television mounted high on the wall.  BREAKING NEWS……5 DEAD IN FORT LAUDERDALE AIRPORT SHOOTING. The clock said 12:21, and my son’s plane was to land at 12:05 pm.  The sadness of being with my Mom and dreading the inevitability of where the disease was leading, along with the unfolding horror in the airport, left me paralyzed with fear for a brief moment.  Choking back tears, I composed myself as best I could and abruptly got up and left the room to call Jason..voicemail.  I called Southwest to see if his plane had landed…”We would be happy to call you back in 45 minutes.”

All of a sudden, my phone is blowing up with multiple family members asking, “Have you heard from Jason?”

With each message, I felt more and more frantic until I realized I could call my neighbor across the street in Victoria Park.  When I’m away, she watches my house and knows everything going on in the neighborhood.  Luckily I reached her, and she said, “Yes, I just saw him go into the house. What is going on?”

She hadn’t heard about the shooting.

In the span of seconds, I felt a montage of emotions, from relief to happiness, and the lessening of anxiety, along with an overwhelming feeling of gratefulness that my son was ok and I could breathe again. But then I recognized how the day’s events would affect five other families, and I am again in tears. And the tears continued because from the sanctuary of the hospital corridor, I suddenly became cognizant of the hissing of the oxygen. The familiar sound lured me back to the realism that once I entered the hospital room, I had to return to the conversation about my Mom’s dwindling tomorrows.