Photo Courtesy Of Kim Richards
My husband and I had a small press business. He handled the financials and IT; I did the rest. But he agreed I should go care for Mom. We both agreed he couldn’t run the entire business by himself with his own full-time job. I cried as I decided to sell the business. Even when the doctors called to tell us the chemo wasn’t working and they could no longer help her, Mom was in denial. We fought about her going shopping with friends when she wasn’t supposed to go out due to pneumonia risks. We argued when she wanted to drive her van after her reflexes slowed. At one point, she threw her phone at me.
She slipped and fell while we tried to get her into the bathtub. I did my best to catch her, but she still hit her head on the counter, requiring stitches. That was a trip to the ER. Other times when she asked to go to the hospital was because she felt dizzy, other times nauseous. Mostly she was just dehydrated, but I couldn’t say no. There were painful discussions with ER staff trying to get me to understand she could catch pneumonia and die in there.
The week before she passed, I slept in a recliner next to her bed. I put on all the movies I remember her taking me to see and her favorite music. At one point, I looked over to where she lay, unable to move, and saw a tear streaming down the side of her cheek. I whispered, “It’s OK, Mom. Don’t cry.” I knew I was a fucking liar. It wasn’t OK. She had every right to cry.My brother was there when she passed one January morning. People talk about a death rattle.