Day 3 of 5

(03 June 2024)

Back in the nursing home

Leaving the hospital felt like I was abandoning every last shred of hope for Mum’s recovery. My feet barely touched the ground as I trailed behind the hospital bed, wheeled by paramedics, carrying her fragile body back to the nursing home. The pity in the eyes of the hospital staff as we passed by stung—it was as if they already knew how this story would end.

The bereavement team handed me discharge papers with trembling hands, their voices hollow as they mumbled something about reaching out when Mum passes. The palliative care team followed with a list of instructions—just morphine for comfort and tiny sips of water if she could manage. I was warned not to feed her, only to keep her lips moist to avoid choking. My heart broke. Was this it? Was this the plan? To keep her comfortable while life slowly slipped away?

Now, I sit in her tiny room, surrounded by faded photographs of my siblings and me—snapshots of lives and memories she no longer recognizes. There’s a photo of Jesus on the wall, but even Him she forgot about a year ago. How could she forget Jesus? I sit here, guilt pressing down like a weight on my chest, wondering if I made the right decision. Did I selfishly steal her last chance of freedom from this awful disease by taking her out of the hospital?

She lies there, fragile and small, crying out for her family. I reach for her hand and whisper, “I’m here, Mum. It’s me.” But she shakes her head and pulls away. She says I’m not her family. She doesn’t know who I am. Yet, she keeps searching—desperate to find her children, even though their faces, their names, their very existence have been stolen from her.

I try to write this blog to hold on to every moment, to make sense of this nightmare, but my mind refuses to accept reality. I feel trapped in this room, frozen in time, while the rest of the world keeps turning. And here she is—my mother, dying. What will my life even look like when she no longer needs me? I’ve been her carer for over 27 years.

She’s stopped eating. The morphine comes every four hours. No bowel movements. No urine. Very few words. Just heavy, laboured breathing. I sit silently, listening, straining to catch each breath—terrified that one of them might be her last.

Day 4 of 5

Waiting for peace

Today, I find myself looking back at Mum’s life—thinking of the pieces of her journey I know. From her childhood to her years as a young woman, from marriage to motherhood, and into her later years, it’s been a ride full of twists and turns. And now, even her final chapter mirrors that chaos. I had prayed for a gentle, peaceful ending for my mother—one where she’d be surrounded by love, warmth, and the family she spent her life caring for. Instead, it’s just me, a handful of faded photographs, and deafening silence from those who’ve long forgotten to check in. Still, Mum keeps fighting—just like she always has.

Like the previous 3 nights, I sit by her side, whispering over and over that it’s okay to let go. A priest came tonight and gave her the last rites. My sister prayed with her over FaceTime, and I sat there, holding her frail hand, begging her to find her peace. But peace wouldn’t come.

Last night, she kept trying to sit up, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. She mumbled words I couldn’t make out and pointed as if she could see something I couldn’t. At times, she spoke in a language I didn’t recognize. She gripped her rosary beads so tightly that her knuckles turned white and whispered prayers for nearly three hours—eyes shut, lips trembling—until exhaustion finally overtook her, and she collapsed into a restless sleep.

By morning… quiet.

But the stillness didn’t bring relief. In the afternoon, she startled me by calling out for her brother—Philemon—who’s been gone for years. Then she asked where her mother was and said her father was coming to pick her up. I held her hand and told her I was there. “It’s Amanda,” I said softly. “Your daughter.”

She looked right through me, blank and empty. No flicker of recognition. Just a hollow stare. I told myself not to cry, but the loneliness hit like a tidal wave. I was sitting right next to my mother, yet I had never felt so completely alone. The nurses couldn’t comfort me despite them lovingly fussing over my lack of sleep and appetite. I couldn’t bring myself to reach out to my husband, my children, or even my closest friends. I didn’t know how to explain the weight of what was happening. How could I possibly explain what was happening? How could I find the words to describe the heartbreak of watching my mother fade away, piece by piece?

Day 5 was fast approaching, and the doctors had warned me that she wouldn’t survive beyond tomorrow. The walls of the room seemed to close in, and my breaths felt shallow as I waited— watched—prayed—waiting for her suffering to end and for peace to finally take her home.

Day 5 of 5

No food for four days.

No water—just damp sponges pressed gently against her lips. Yet, on the morning of day five, the nurses still brought two trays—one for me and one for Mum. Neither of us touched them. How could we? Eating felt wrong when every breath she took seemed borrowed—fragile and fleeting.

We kept her pain under control, following the care plan like clockwork—Hydromorphone, Midazolam, Cyclizine – repeat. But still, her body twitched and trembled, as if fighting against itself, refusing to surrender. And then, just as suddenly as the tremors came, they slowed. The pathologist drew her blood, and I braced myself for what would come next.

Her results returned later that day—still no improvement, but no catastrophic decline either. Her infection markers crept higher, yet somehow her vitals bounced back to near normal, except for her blood pressure. No antibiotics, no food, no water, no output—no urine, no bowel movements. And yet… her skin began to warm. The yellow hue of her eyes begun to fade. Her hands and feet, which had been icy for days, now radiated heat. It was as if life had been pulled back into her body.

I sat there, confused and exhausted. Was this a miracle? Or was her body just stalling, teasing me with false hope? Did the angels she’d been praying so hard to every night hear her?

The Long Goodbye.

How many times have I said goodbye? Too many. I have already planned her funeral, rehearsed her eulogy in my head. I hate this. She would hate this. And yet, here we are—trapped in this endless cycle of letting go and holding on.

I feel helpless. Alone. Afraid.

I’ve spent these days praying—pleading, really—encouraging her to let go, to find peace. I’ve thanked her over and over again for the life she gave us, reminded her of the people waiting to welcome her on the other side. I’ve told her it’s okay to stop fighting.

But if anyone overheard me, they might think I was willing her to die. Maybe I was. Maybe I still am. Not because I want her gone, but because she deserves more than this half-life she’s clinging to.

Her children are grown. We have families of our own now. She’s done her job as a single mother of 3. She’s been a single mother for almost 44 years. But she doesn’t seem to know that. She used to keep talking about cooking dinner, taking care of the kids, picking them up from school, going to work. And no matter how many times I tell her that we’re okay, that we don’t need her to care for us anymore, those were the focus of our conversations. WE ARE OK MUM! I AM OK!—she doesn’t hear me.

Breathe, Amanda.

This isn’t about me.

This is her journey. Not mine.

But I can’t help questioning myself. Am I pushing her to let go because it’s what’s best for her? Or because it’s what’s easiest for me? I’m tired. So tired. It’s been 27 years—more than half my life—and I’m worn down by this long, drawn-out goodbye.

And still, she fights.

I crawl into recliner chair, knowing that we are approaching borrowed time. I don’t know what tomorrow will bring, but tonight, Mum has defied the odds again. She’s still here—still incredible. Or is she?

I just want peace—for her, for me, for us both.

And so, I leave this section of our story on the eve of uncertainty. The doctors tell me that tomorrow will be her last, she may not make it through the night, yet here we are, holding on through another night—her defiance a testament to the strength she has always carried, even as life gently loosens its hold on her.

I don’t know what awaits us when the sun rises, but for now, I stay by her side, listening to each laboured breath, cherishing each moment, as fleeting and fragile as they are.

Thank you for allowing me to share this deeply personal journey with you.

Your presence here—reading, feeling, and walking alongside me in these words—gives me strength in the loneliest of hours. I welcome your thoughts, your advice, your encouragement, and even your virtual hugs as we navigate this difficult path together. Until the next chapter, thank you for being part of this story.

And to anyone who has ever walked a similar road—caring for a loved one, holding their hand as they drift between worlds—I see you. I feel your pain. I pray for your peace.

With love and hope,

Amanda.