A SIX FORK NIGHT

It's so hard to wattch my mom struggle with life these past few weeks. Prolonged chest pains, nausea and shortness of breath rack her body and weaken her spirit. Her nights have become very challenging as she wakes up with discomfort every few hours.

To keep track of her nocturnal habits, I take a fork out of the cutlery drawer whenever I'm awakened by her needs. I'm just not that good at doing math in the middle of the night.

Use of oxygen, sometimes 24/7, does little to relieve her suffering.

And yet, she bears it all with grace and humility.

An exchange with my mom at 4 am this morning gives some measure of her true character.

It's a six fork night and I'm weary from attending to her.

As I sit beside her on her bed, supporting her like a friendly lamppost, I'm the one who has to bend over to catch my breath.

"Are you feeling nauseous?" my mother asks.

"Yes, I do," I reply, before realizing what I'm saying.

"Me too," she answers. "How about your breathing? Is your chest tight?"

"A liitle bit." I play along now.

"So is mine," she says. "I wonder what they'd do here if they had a real emergency?"

"Not sure," I respond.

It's hard to engage in a conversation with my mom without her hearing aid. And yet she continues,

"How long have you been here?"

"Twenty five years."

"My, my, that's a long time. Do you like it here?"

"It's fine," I answer, again slumping with fatigue.

"Are you OK?" she aks. "Maybe we should call the nurse. I see a light on in the hall."

"Let's move to your chair, mom. Sitting up might help."

With the help of her walker, I shuttle my mom from the bed to her Lazy Girl chair. It takes every bit of her energy to make the transfer. 

"Did you see Michael yesterday? He was in at noon." 

"No, I missed him," I respond as Michael's doppelganger.

"Maybe we can call him today. I think I have his number."

Suddenly, my mom lurches forward.

"My chest. My chest. That really hurt," she gasps. 

I panic briefly, thinking that the exertion has pushed her over the edge.

Then I remember.

"What can I do to help? Do you want some nitro?"

"Yes," she answers weakly, as if she's just been hit by an invisible hammer.

I grab a tiny canister the size of my pinkie and give her two short puffs. I can't help but think of David versus Goliath.

After a few tense minutes, she eases back in her chair.

David has done it again.

"That's a scary feeling," she says, her breathing less labored now. "It sure is a tough ball game isn't it?"

Then, turning to me, she asks sweetly, 

"And how are you feeling now? Any better?"

"I'm fine, I'm just fine mom," I say with a smile.


Despite the fact she continues to walk a tightrope, my mother still takes the time to show her concern for others. I think that's the gold standard for all of us.

Living with my dear mother these past sixteen months, I'm quite certain that if there really is a purgatory, my mom will only be giving it a drive by.

"