The last time I wrote a piece in this blog I was grappling with whether or not to have a feeding tube inserted for my mother, so she could get nutrients. I decided then (October, 2022) to do that. She has since yanked it out at least three times since the insertion, but the tube was reinserted each time, and it seemed like all would be okay. My mother got to her 89th birthday on May 20th this year. At first, I hoped she would make it to 90. But I don’t think that will happen.

When I think of bed sores, I think of something that is painful, but not something big and deep. I was told that she had them, and the nursing staff was taking care of them by keeping them clean and dressed. I also noticed a change in her behavior, in her communication, as my mother continued not to eat or drink. But the past two days were very much an eye opener for me. A couple of months ago, it was recommended that I consider hospice care for her, as she was mentally and physically deteriorating. In my ignorance I did not truly understand what that fully meant, and now that my eyes have been opened, I had to admit I wanted to stay in that realm of ignorance.

Until Monday.

I spoke to the hospice nurse (also named Debra), and we had a real conversation about what was really going on. The feeding tube was no longer working, meaning my mother’s body was no longer absorbing the nutrients. The human body is made up of at least 60-75% water (actually more), and when the body starts to break down, that liquid has to go somewhere, and it comes through the skin in the form of a blister. However, once open, that blister opens, deepens, and widens, giving the area an appearance of deep blackness, with hues of red, white, orange, yellow and purple, giving off a foul odor. I found out the next day what my mother had been going through for the past few months.

The next day I was visiting, the nurse asked me if I wanted to be present while she cleaned and redressed the wounds. I told her I wanted to help and to see the wounds. With gloves on, I helped move mom, putting her on the side then the other, to address each wound. My mouth felt like it dropped to the floor as I saw them. I couldn’t take my eyes off them. Each wound became etched in my brain. The deep dimensional blackness of each wound helped me understand why she was yelling out from time to time. She was in a lot of pain. Just a light touch to her skin made her flinch in pain. And then I saw the biggest one of them all: the kennedy wound. When one gets this wound (a very deep and large wound the shape of a butterfly), it is an indication the end is near. None of these wounds will heal; the body does not have the capacity for that anymore. All the medical staff can do is keep them clean and dressed.

October 2022: feeding tube or not. June 2023: more decisions to be made. I requested all meds to stop, except for dementia and anxiety as an attempt to keep her calm. The morphine has been increased to help with pain and to keep her comfortable. Time changes a lot of things. And to be honest, I prayed for change to come and to get answers. But the conclusion of it all seems to be knocking at my door, and I admit I am not ready. But at the same time, I am at peace with it all.

“Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid.,” John 14:27

“They will have no fear of bad news; their hearts are steadfast, trusting in the Lord.” Psalm 112:7