A Plea for a Mother’s Peaceful End

My mother will be 90 years old this summer. I hope she doesn’t make it. There would be little reason to celebrate.

On those occasions when I pray, I ask that she be spared pain and discomfort. I don’t pray for her end, but I hope it will come swiftly and soon.

Her mind is so far gone that it has ceased to wander or drift. It seems as contracted as her physical world. She can move her lips once a cup or spoon touches them to trigger the sipping and swallowing reflexes, which are sometimes confused.

She has no control over her movements--other than to cry in pain as she is moved from her bed to her chair, to the bathroom, then back to her chair and back to bed. A day’s travels are maybe 10 feet--and barely an inch without help.

I am her “responsible party.” My father died more than four years ago. I was their only child, and I moved her up to Connecticut to have her nearby. And now, a few times a week, I feed her.

I pay others to clean her, dress her, feed her, take her to the bathroom, undress her and put her to bed. Every month, I pay the doctor, the pharmacy and the nursing home. Writing checks is the easy part.

Four years ago, I was applying to have my mother live in what used to be called a retirement or old-age home and is now called a congregate living center. A few months after I had answered questions about her health and medical history, her habits and diet, likes and dislikes, I started applying to have my infant son admitted to day-care centers. There I was, answering questions about his health and medical history, his habits and diet, likes and dislikes.

My son can feed himself. He has been out of diapers for years now, it seems. We help him into the bathtub, but he can wash himself. On the toilet, he’s pretty much on his own.

My mother cannot even wash her hands. She has to be wiped and cleaned. She can’t hold a spoon, let alone employ it. When she’s very hungry and when her arthritis permits, she will pick up morsels and take them toward her face. She wears a bib even when she isn’t being fed. She uses straws and goes through many diapers. There is an unpleasant odor about her.

“Take me,” she whimpers. Her eyelids are closed. She could be asking me to take her away from this, or she could be pleading with God to take her away.

“I’ve had enough,” she sobs.

“This is no life,” she says.

I can’t help her, although I’d like to. I think about asking the dietitian to substitute whole milk for skim, real eggs for the simulated ones, but I know I can’t make anyone at the nursing home a co-conspirator. I’ve always brought treats for her. I think about bringing her the richest chocolate ice cream instead of low-fat frozen yogurt. Perhaps a large, flaky, butter croissant. Some delight. Something to justify her pulse and respiration.

My mother got a look at her grandson. Glaucoma has taken all her sight now, and she wasn’t able to see much even three years ago, but I think--I believe--she took him in. She had touched him and, I believe, was touched by him.