Heaven and Earth Moments

We’ve been here at Hospice House ten days now, ever since Mom’s arrival last Monday (May 19), one week after her admission to Moffitt Hospital the previous Monday. She’s gone downhill rapidly since arriving here, to the point where she is only mumbling today. Most of it doesn’t make any sense, but occasionally she says a word like “water” or “thirsty,” which we understand. I cherish those moments, and I do what I can to comfort her or get whatever she is asking for. She seems relieved when we can make sense of what she is saying even though she won’t always let us help her.

They have started her on a pain patch, and this afternoon they used the Atavan gel form instead of the pill in her mouth (crushed into liquid medicine). I didn’t know they even had gel or patch forms of these medicines — I’m learning a lot. When asked if she’s in pain, she nearly always replies with “I’m ok.” We ask if she wants medicine and she usually shakes her head and refuses. Hospice nurses do not force it. This is not their philosophy. “Connie, you are still in charge,” they gently remind her. If she doesn’t want it, she goes without. She has gone up to 24 hours without additional medicine for pain and yet she sleeps.

I wonder if she doesn’t want the medicine because it makes her more sleepy. She needs her rest, but she is like a little kid who doesn’t want to miss anything and fights the sleep. (She does have the pain patch, and she has always had a high pain tolerance anyway, so I don’t think she is in severe pain right now. In fact, she is breathing hard at the moment and has been since they changed her position this afternoon.)

It is harder for her to talk now. The following was said between mumbles, difficult to distinguish, but occasionally a clear word would come through.

I have noticed a difference in the way she looks when she is aware and “knows” she is talking to me, compared to when she seems to be talking to someone else. Some people call it hallucinating, but I distinguish these as “earth” and “heaven” moments. I’m looking forward to seeing more of her heavenly moments.

An Earth Moment. With eyes half opened and a barely audible voice, she asked for something.

“Ice?” the nurse asked.

She shook her head no, furrowed her brow, and tried again a little clearer this time. “Can I have some ice cream?”

“Mommy did you say you wanted some ice cream?”

She nodded with relief. We were concerned the milk would clog up her throat so a Popsicle sounded easier on the palate. The nurse ran to the kitchen and grabbed a banana Popsicle. One bite was all she wanted, but she seemed to enjoy it melting on her tongue.

A Heaven and Earth Moment. “Where’s Cindy? Where’s Cindy?” She said this several times while looking right at me, eyes wide open and glossy. “I’m right here Mommy.” Her eyes turned back to me. “Oh, there you are.” This is one of those moments when I lost it today. Tears flowed for a few minutes and then I am reminded she is transitioning to a better place.

A Heaven Moment. Another time she mumbled, “There’s lots of people in the room. Who’s in the room?” Eyes were glossy, staring around the room. I thought she was remembering the busy weekend when her room had various family members coming in and out. (I’m a little slow.) “It’s just you and me, Mommy. We’re the only ones in the room. Everyone else went home so you can rest.” Reflecting back I wondered if there really were people in the room, or angels perhaps. I think she has one foot in Heaven and one foot on Earth.

She knows where she’s going, but she is taking the scenic route to get there. Perhaps St. Peter is showing her the gardens outside the pearly gates. Or maybe she’s negotiating for a bigger mansion (some people think negotiating with God is a part of the transition process). Next time she sees people in the room, I will ask her if she can identify them for me. I’d love to know who is the room with her…with us.

I Can Only Imagine plays on the radio as I think of the possible ways she is going to greet Jesus on the day she finally goes home.

Another Heaven Moment. “I can’t walk. I need help. I need to get up. I need to walk.” She said this pretty emphatically as she tried to lift her legs. By this time I decided to just go with it, so I held her hand and told her, “I’ll help you walk Mommy.”

With eyes open wide and again a little glossy, she said very distinctly, “Help me Baby. Help me Baby. Help me Baby.”

“I’m helping you Mommy. I’m helping you walk.”

Then she closed her eyes. It occurred to me she might be talking to Baby Jesus like she did one time last week. “Where you are going you won’t have to walk Mommy. Jesus will help you walk. Baby Jesus will help you walk.”

“I know,” and she smiled.

It could have also been an Earth moment, because her legs were cramping and she asked to be moved. The nurses came in and repositioned her to her side for the first time in a week (at her request). She moaned, but she is sleeping so much more peacefully since they did this.

Another Earth Moment. “Can you get it for me?”

“Get what Mommy?”

“It’s over there by the phone.” I’m pretty sure this was an Earth moment. Her eyes were half-open, but not glossy. And she was experiencing something in her body.

I thought she was asking for a tissue, as she gets this gunk in her mouth and wants to spit it out. (It’s really gross but I won’t go into detail.) When it makes its way to the tip of her tongue she raises her hand to try and get it out. She is too weak to reach her mouth. Her hand will only go as far as her chest, so I get it out for her. “Stick out your tongue Mommy.” She tries. The nurses use the sponges, which I’ve tried, but she really doesn’t like the sponges so I use the tissue. She doesn’t like the tissue either but it does work, and after the gunk is gone she is glad. “Is that better Mommy?” A nod was followed by “much better” and a smile.

She’s still aware.

Journey Heavenward. The nurses have explained it is a difficult journey, this transition at end of life. While we think they are laying there doing nothing, they are hard at work. No one knows exactly how difficult because we can’t really poll those who have traveled and ask if they had much pain or discomfort during the journey. They explained how patients get pulled back and become more grounded on Earth when they have too much stimulation while trying to “cross over” at this final phase. This only makes the journey heavenward longer and more delayed, causing them more pain.

I admit I was a little torn by that news. On the one hand I’d like to have her with me as long as possible, so it is tempting to keep pulling her back to Earth. But then I am reminded of what all the nurses so beautifully articulate, “This is about her.” This is not about me, or my family, or her friends, or anyone else. This is her moment in glory. While it is important for us to be able to say “see you later” and let her go as we deal with our own grief, she needs permission to go.

Some people have a hard time understanding this. And if you are one of those people, I’m not asking for your agreement. This is a part of my own growth and learning process. The nurses tell stories of visitors who get in their loved one’s face to wake them up, only to keep them grounded on Earth a little while longer. Well-meaning loved ones wake them up to satisfy their own need to talk. They say this makes the transition much more difficult and traumatic.

I am so glad my friends and family were able to see her over the weekend when she was alert and able to talk with her visitors. I’m also thankful for all you who have honored her wishes when she said she didn’t want visitors. She is here to get the best care and comfort possible while she goes, so I’m giving her the space and quiet she needs to do just that. I am enjoying each moment she reaches out her hand for me to hold, but I am also trusting the Lord’s timing when He is ready to take her.

One day when I cross over and she asks that question, “Where’s Cindy?” I can say “Here I am!” and we will be together forever.

For we know that when this earthly tent we live in is taken down (that is, when we die and leave this earthly body), we will have a house in heaven, an eternal body made for us by God himself and not by human hands. So we are always confident, even though we know that as long as we live in these bodies we are not at home with the Lord. For we live by believing and not by seeing. Yes, we are fully confident, and we would rather be away from these earthly bodies, for then we will be at home with the Lord. ~II Corinthians 5:1, 6-8 NLT.

Still watching and waiting.

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À la prochaine (Until next time) …