I was thinking tonight about all of the time Mitzi spent in Hospice. It was agonizing to watch for much of it. For as much as you just wanted it to be over for her, for her to be free of it all, I kept finding myself so grateful for every precious moment left. Especially the quiet ones at night. I was grateful Gary allowed me to switch off with him so he could get some quality sleep (which might not have been very restful at home, but at least it wasn’t on a cot or in a reclining chair!). Many people have asked this, but she was pretty much comatose the whole time (about 10 days) that she was inpatient. Her wonderful friend Karen, the Hospice nurse, (who had been on duty the week things went south so quickly, prompting the transfer), was able to advocate on Mitzi’s behalf to get her meds adjusted correctly within the first 24 hours we were there. Once that happened, the only real major interactions we saw from her were the flinches as the nurse and CNA would change her position every few hours. Occasionally, that would prompt her eyes to open momentarily.
It was a weird feeling when she’d open her eyes. It was such a change from her being so motionless and unresponsive that I’d find myself getting excited and leaping up to talk TO her instead of AT her. That excitement would quickly dissipate as the gut-check knowledge that she really wasn’t going to communicate back sank in. So we’d smile and talk to her in a soothing voice and, inevitably after a few minutes, her eyes would close, the furrowed brow would slowly smooth out, and she would be peaceful again until the next round of meds was due or she was repositioned again.
But I truly loved the peace and quiet in the middle of the night, when I could just play soft music Mitzi liked and talk to her. One night, I was especially grateful for the extra time she was still with us because I felt burdened to confess to her that she was going to be kind of surprised when she got to Heaven and recognized extra familiar faces there than she might be expecting to see.
In the past year, there were a few family members and dear friends who passed away. Because it would affect Mitzi so astronomically on an emotional level, either because she couldn’t process it, couldn’t do anything about it, or because she simply couldn’t handle it, we opted not to tell her. I said to Gary on more than one occasion, “She’ll find out when she gets to Heaven and they are waiting there for their hug.” Who knows if that was the right thing to do, but it seemed to be the best course of action at the time.
Taking care of someone with Alzheimer’s is almost as much about safeguarding their physical and mental wellbeing as it is about being cautious with their emotional wellbeing, too. Because emotions weigh sooooo heavily on the way their day or evening will go. Withholding the news that could be hurtful seemed the kinder of the two roads we could take.
Sandra, Mitzi’s BFF since high school, lost her husband after a truly courageous battle with cancer a few months before Mitzi got so very sick. Mitzi used to pray for George all the time and Sandra relied on Mitzi to be one of her prayer warriors (many of us did). I can’t imagine what a joyous moment it was in Heaven last week when Mitzi spotted George waiting there in the line of her Hug Parade. But I suspect it looked a little something like this photo, minus the cane, the chemo affects, the cancer, and minus the Alzheimer’s…????
