Breathing in and breathing out. The long slow inhale of exhaustion, frustration and anticipation. The quick exhale of excitement, contentment and fear. The first breath of life and the last gasp before death. The quick rapid breathing marking time with heartbeats-the heaving of every in and out-in desperate attempts to make each breath count. Each and every breath. Air force. Life force. The essence of breathing. Of being. Just breathe.
I watched my mom breathe for the last six days-or rather fight for each breath. Carbon dioxide competing with oxygen-neither one doing much for her because her lungs did not have the capacity to expand. Her lungs were fighting for air in between each cough. Each cough an angry eruption of time. Watching her chest heaving and whistling-not a happy tune at all. Each system in her entire being fighting for it’s own right to exist- and neither one willing or able to help the other out. Mom’s system is in deep need. In this ongoing battle-and I do mean battle- of life and death- it is a race to see how long life is willing to fight. How long life will go up against death-somewhere up there-hovering around and teasing us all.
There is a look my mom has now more than not. I am not used to it. Nor is she. It is wide eyed and tinged with what if. It shows in every deep and well earned crevice of her face. Her bright eyes are not so bright anymore-the ones that always smiled regardless of the situation-stare more than not and look out onto her ocean as if to store it all in to the forever place in her mind.
“What are you going to do?”- the case manager asks me as she hooks mom up to the oxygen machine.
Overnight there are life giving machines in my mom’s house. She who hates machines now has two helping her breathe with each and every automated hum.
“You know you are running out of options here”. ” I mean, what are ya’ll gonna do?”, the case manager says as she adjusts tubes and counts liters like it is second nature.
Mom just sits there.
“How long do I have to do this?” she asks us both. She does not want to do this but she is giving in because she knows she has to. She sits akimbo on the sofa in the same spot as she does everyday. Only strangers and stupid family members sit in her spot.
“Let’s try for thirty minutes”, I say sounding more parental than I wanted to.
Mom looks at her watch- as if she will remember to mark the time from start to finish. But she will not remember and for the next hour- we repeat the same conversation and she looks at her watch to mark the time from start to finish.
“Am I through yet?”
She is agitated and anxious like a child counting time out minutes from start to finish.
“Yes, mom.” ” You are done.” I say, sounding more parental than I wanted to.
Mom removes the tubing from her nose like it is bad medicine.
The case manager looks up from her writing and says to my mom,
“You’ll be begging for that stuff before too long”
Great. My mom. The oxygen addict.
You write very well.