Mother was gone for 42 hours before she awoke again. During that time she "lost her water" and even my rolling her back and fourth to clean and dry her did not arrouse her from her state. Then we proceeded to go through three mostly sleepless days of total agitation and discomfort. No matter how I poured the medication into her she was not responsive. I consulted with her doctor who gave me a new combination to try and while that worked for a half a day we were soon back to the struggle of finding relief from the pressure on her lungs.

Then in the back of my mind I heard Trish, the visiting nurse, say that my holding oma's hand is worth a lot of medicine, so that's what I started to do. Focus myself almost exclusively to being by her bedside in her room at the ready to speak words of comfort to her and hold her hand whenever she awoke. Voila, instead of 10 hits of morphine we only needed one or two at midnight to allow her (and me) to get a sound nights sleep. This worked so well that I quickly found myself integrated in her process, cheering her on, reminding her of the angels and God's love for her, and assuring her that all was ready for her transition. I even went so far as to cry for her last night when we watched Andre Rieu, feeling what it must be like to know that soon she can not see or hear him anymore.

Over the last week mother has had two long sleeps. One lasting 19 hours and one lasting just over 13. I have felt buoyed by the success. Whenever she is sleeping I feel that she is comfortable and able to progress on her path. Last night though we were up again all night. I was growing concerned that my impatience with her repeated demands to be helped out of bed was eclipsing the loving way I would lift her onto the commode or the wheelchair. Oma has lost almost all control of her legs and is no longer able to support her weight. She is also not able to sit upright without being supported and the tumors in her abdomen have grown so large that she sits on the commode sort of twisted, depending on some external prop for support, mostly staring into space.

My keenness to help her along the path with loving encouragement is rooted in my personal desire to limit her suffering. Its not that she is in pain - for there is little or none of that - it is just that she is captive inside a body that is more and more non-functional. This dependance is very frightening to her. Her days flow one into the other as she is unable to do much beside lie in bed and dream. Her food intake is very limited as her stomach has contracted in response to the pressures from the tumors. Her ability to swallow is reduced to receiving fluids mostly by via an eye-dropper. Soy-milk has proven to be a blessing for it doesn't create the flem that regular milk does and still gives her both fluids and some nourishment.

Today, with the help of My Love, I have re-gained some perspective. My contract (Oma and I have talked about this many times) with mother is for me to take care of her body and for her to take care of her soul. This is indeed the agreement and it is important that I remember to honor it. Discovering that holding hands would bring her so much comfort sort of blurred the distinction. Her panic and discomfort is caused mostly by fear and to treat that with a gentle squezze of the hand and some soothing words... well its easy to get carried away by offering unsolicited (and unnecessary) advice or encouragement.   

The process of letting go and trusting, which seems to be a prerequisite for a smooth transition to the other side, is a very hard one for Oma to accept. She has been a person who has taken charge of her situations all her life no matter how hopeless or challenging they might have been. Reaching inside she mostly relied on her own resources and sheer will to see her through (those of us who are her children have storries to tell how she would single handedly re-arrange the entire house in an afternoon, huge china cabinets and all. It would never occur to her to ask or wait for help). It has generally served her well but now when she is incapable of even adjusting the location of her head on her pillow it is difficult to see her struggle to retain control.   

Ultimately its a lesson we must both learn. To trust that all is as it is intended. There are no accidents. There is no chance. Our lives unfold as we have imagined them and our lessons are learned when we give ourselves permission to learn them. So we continue along the path of this adventure. One single moment at a time. Loving, caring, learning, understanding. Gratefully accepting the opportunity to expand our understanding.   

On a beam of light  
Thomas