Cry if you must, but laugh if you can.

As I sit here with my daughter in New Orleans, I keep looking at the video clips and pictures sent to me of my Mom.  She has been moved into Hospice care at the Masonicare complex in Wallingford.  2 weeks ago, we stopped the blood pressure medications, the blood thinner, the cholesterol management drugs.  Then last week, the Aricept was stopped.  The only things left are the antipsychotic medications, which were only recently begun in January.  Because she is not eating, there is no need for insulin or diabetes drugs.  And the January medications are not the same as the current medications.  

I remain convinced that was the beginning of this very fast slide into a worse hell than she was in before.  Trazadone and Risperadol, at low dosages (or so we think) didn’t do much at first.  Dad was in charge of those medications, while I kept track of all the others. 

Dad never wrote down the numbers of half pills he gave her…we aren’t sure what her intake was from January till mid-April.

By end of April, Mom’s behavior had deteriorated to the point of pushing Dad over the edge.  As regular readers know, that is when the ride into crazy town really began.

Now, she can get Haldol, Morphine, and Valium to help her calm down.  Even without food, this lady is still trying to get out of the chair that she is in, still verbalizing as well.  She has no ability to walk, and can barely move her hands, but her voice is still pretty strong, considering.

Dad is staying overnight with her.  They have a family room, as well as an additional bed right in her room, for family. 

I knew I had to come here to talk to this youngest child who has grown her wings and flown to the South.  I couldn’t pass news of her Grammie dying to her on the phone or skype alone.  While we all knew this journey of our family was going to end with a death, it wasn’t real until very recently.  I admit, as well, to needing a respite from reality…reality of my Dad’s hip replacement recovery, reality of Mom’s spirit leaving her.  Knowing what is coming after this will be difficult at best.  This city provides a recharge for my batteries.

There truly is something about New Orleans that cannot be put into words very well.  The music everywhere, the people all really looking at each other, the Lake and the River surrounding it all.  And of course, a fat girl cannot ignore the FOOD!  The comfort of coffee that has the taste of chicory, the bacon that is thick and crunchy, the beignets, the oysters that melt with sweetness and a briney squirt of flavor, jambalaya, the gumbo with claws in it, the red beans and rice that have no equal away from this city.  Comfort for sure. 

There is a look of concentration on even the palm readers in Jackson Square as they size up their marks.  The sax players have it as well, as they look at the folks and try to guess what to play to get more than just coins in their buckets.  I walked past the mule wagons, and a driver yelled to someone behind me “Hey how ‘bout a ride?”  “Not you, honey, although I like my women voluptuous like you…” is what he said to me.

I find myself slipping right into the accent, which is a combination of Brooklyn and the Gulf Coast.  Y’all, Thank You So Much, You Take Care Now…Feeling Some Kind a Way…uh huh.  It makes me feel part of the city…people talk to you here, like you matter.  Of course, in the Quarter it is to be expected, but outside of it?  In the neighborhoods?  It is just there.  It fits who I am. 

I know why my daughter will not come back north.  She likes the City, and the way of life in the City.  This City just happens to be the one she is in now.  She has a comfort level here that is different from what she had in Connecticut.

It has been hard to have the discussion with her.  She hasn’t seen her Grammie, outside of Skype, for over 2 years now.  She hasn’t been able to watch the decline.  I wish I knew what she was thinking about it all, but she is very quiet about the whole thing.  When I shared what will happen afterwards, I don’t think she was ready for the idea of a memorial mass rather than a full fledged funeral. 

I want her to come North, if just for a few days, to see family who can’t travel to see her, to be with us for a short time…to mourn where her Grammie lived.  I don’t need her at the memorial, but we need her there afterwards, when she is comfortable to come. 

I talked to my Dad last night and then again just a few moments ago, as he was settling there in the family room.  He is resigned to what is happening, but still not living in the real world.  It is his defense mechanism, I think.  I’m really trying not to be harsh with him.  I did again tell him, though, that I will be home late Tuesday, and will see him on Wednesday.  If Mom goes before that, it is ok with me.  I say goodbye to her every time I leave her.  That is what we all do, except for him. 

While he will appear to move on quickly, to all those looking in, he will never truly say goodbye to her.  He will go out to breakfast and to dinner with his friends (of course they are mainly women!  They are the ones who are left these days) and family.  He will become accustomed to not seeing her, and not hearing her.

I have seen a talking, active, fun mother in my dreams every night I’ve been here.  That is what I keep holding on to while I am here.  When I return, reality will return as well, and I can let her go, I hope.