Genesis 2:7-The breath of life

 Running on four bottles of Pepsi in a sixteen hour window, I texted my friend Katriel. "These last few days have shown me, painfully, that my mom needs a mom."

Mom had fallen a few days ago, conking herself pretty good on the head. I wish I could say this was the first time that this has happened. This particular fall required a CAT scan as a precaution and resulted in a scared daughter arranging a little slumber party at Mom's apartment. "I'm coming up later," I warned my mom on the phone, "And I'm bringing soup." "I want something sweet," my mom answered, shocking me. She never asks for anything and rarely eats anything substantial unless a family member is with her. "Something sweet?" I exclaimed happily, "What do you want?" "You," my mama said and my heart just melted.

My aunt Sally had visited Mom on Thursday and alerted Brad and I that Mom was not doing well at all. Alarmed, we rushed over to be greeted by staff who also shared Aunt Sally's concern. 

My heart sank when we walked into Mom's bedroom.

I am aware that every single day that I get with my mother is a gift. 

It was a long night.

She woke up every twenty minutes, her small body rigid as she coughed violently. We went through two small boxes of Kleenexes as I sat, bedside, no longer counting days but breaths, as she fought to inhale and shivered as I piled on blankets, sang her songs, and prayed my way to dawn. 

Mid-way through, I shared with my mom that my being there might have been the answer to someone else's prayer. In the middle of the night, I could hear someone calling for help. I zeroed in on the sound, trying to determine if it was a neighboring television but was soon sprinting down the hall to knock on a door. A resident, Miss Rachel, had fallen. I hurriedly covered her with a blanket, pressed the emergency button and waited with her, holding her hand, until help arrived. I was incredulous that this situation would be repeated two hours later. I'm not sure how much comfort that my presence was bringing my mother but I was grateful to expedite assistance and provide comfort for a frightened, helpless Miss Rachel.

Dawn finally did arrive and imagine my delight and amazement when I returned to Mom that afternoon and she was able to talk and laugh and snuggle my little puppy, Joy. The cough was still there but not as bad...drier.

But still...one more night wouldn't hurt to make sure that we were headed in the right direction.

That second night, I succumbed to sleep and then paid for it when I heard a strange scurrying around at 2 am. Staring out in the darkness, I held my breath as I tried to make sense of what was happening. My mom, frail and unbalanced, was standing at her dresser, rearranging each item before she made her way slowly out to the other rooms, touching things on the counters and tables. This went on for a good thirty minutes. 

Just days ago, Brad and I had been watching one of those wildlife programs where the narrator stressed the importance of not interfering in outcomes. As I lay there, I realized that my mother, so often alone, engaged in these scenarios...moving about her little habitat and re-familiarizing herself with her surroundings. Comfort? Curiosity? Not wanting to startle her with my sudden appearance in the middle of the night, I decided to wait her out to see how this little production ended. 

When it had been quiet in the other room for quite awhile, I crept out to peek at my mother who had secured herself a towel as a blanket and was curled awkwardly in her chair, shivering. I knocked on the wall, calling out, "Mom? Where are you? It's Amy." She croaked out a sound and I knelt by her chair. I tried to coax her back to bed but she had no wish to be dislodged from her perch. I grabbed blankets from her bed to wrap around her, reclined her chair back for her, and wedged myself in the chair next to her.

Again, my mother slept fitfully and I, not at all as I counted each inhale and exhale...matching my breaths with her's. I prayed...struggling to genuinely ask for God's will and not my own...consumed with guilt that my mother has had to fight this battle over the last few years, mostly by herself...alone. Rather than partnering with her, I made cameo appearances. It turns out that the monster that lurks under my bed is named Failure and he delights in tripping my mother.

It's been a long day as my mind frantically grasps for solutions.

Mom slept most of the day.

Plagued with triple vision, she started "seeing" things today. Reaching out into space to pluck something that I couldn't see from the air. Fighting her way out of her chair to stroke the television screen. 

It wasn't until tonight that I realized that I was the one who was helpless. 

I will finish typing the end of this blog submission, so grateful that Amy Mosiman's mother is sleeping in the other room. I will crawl on top of the air mattress that Brad Mosiman bought for me a few hours ago and inflated because he can't stand the thought of another night of me trying to sleep in a chair. I will lay two feet away from my mother and count her breaths and be grateful for every one. Thank you, God, for this night.