You may think my need to write or simply the fact I am writing at such a time is bizarre or even unfathomable-but it heals me, and helps me get through hour by hour.
By writing, I don't need to talk, I don't need to speak-I can ease myself through the minutes by filling a blank screen with words.
There was no sleep last night, after my aunt and uncle left. I slept next to mum as usual, made my make shift bed on the crash mat next to her hospital bed in the living room. The district nurses ended up coming out four times in the night (last visit at 7am) to administer anti-agitation medication and some morphine.
By writing, I don't need to talk, I don't need to speak-I can ease myself through the minutes by filling a blank screen with words.
There was no sleep last night, after my aunt and uncle left. I slept next to mum as usual, made my make shift bed on the crash mat next to her hospital bed in the living room. The district nurses ended up coming out four times in the night (last visit at 7am) to administer anti-agitation medication and some morphine.
The sounds that my mum is now making variate between whimpers and awful guttural cries. Listening to it is excruciating. I didn't sleep; I was either listening to her to make sure when her breathing stops it restarts, listening to her wails, calling the nurses out, or letting the nurses in.
Both the doctor and nurses say she isn't in pain, the noises are natural for end of life patients and more distressing for the relatives than the patients.
I'd rather feel the distress instead of my mum-but, it is horrific to hear and witness. Horrific.