I Wouldn't Wish This On Anyone

All three of us are quite testy these days. On a good day, the hospital at which my sister works is an hour and a half from my parents' house. Since good traffic days are a rarity in Los Angeles and the insta-communities mushrooming along the eastern border of the county, she spends over two hours of each evening driving to see my mom and wakes up at 5am to spend another two hours returning to her patients. Two nights ago, she arrived at the house later than usual, explaining that a young boy with bruises all over his body (including suspicious places) was admitted as she was preparing to leave. Half in jest, half in sadness, she tells us that she can make it home for dinner as long as everyone agrees not to beat their child to death that day.

The reality of the situation is slowly hitting my father, a man who has managed to go through life without expressing much emotion -- at least none that I have ever seen in my 32 (almost 33) years on earth. It's hard to watch him on the verge of a meltdown. He awakes my mom from her stupor and feeds her every few hours. Somehow, I think he thinks that half a banana is going to make the difference. When I tell him that spiritual, not physical, nourishment is what she needs, he yells at me. This is his way of expressing emotion. A man utterly incapable of saying "I love you" is showing it with feedings of bananas and yogurt all day.

I feel like a walking zombie. Sleep and food seem like a luxury these days and I am certain I am not getting enough of either. It's hard to get sleep at my parents' house because every little noise sends me into a panic about my mom. On the few nights I come home to sleep, I contend with my husband's worse-than-usual snoring and the new couch won't be delivered until next week. Food does not taste very good. Under this stress, I am not good company and my already low patience threshhold is being taxed.

Word has gotten out in the community about my mom and the parade of well-wishers was endless last weekend. It turns out that the day my sister called the mosque to ask about Islamic burials was the same day as a memorial service for Mustapha Akkad, a filmmaker who was killed in the Jordan bombings. Even though my parents have never been members of the mosque, and my dad has offended many of the holyrollers with his philosophizing about Buddhism and the yarmelke sitting on his desk from years of his friend's son's bar mitzvahs, there is a common bond among those who were daring enough to leave their homes, families and cultures behind to go to a new land with dreams of something better. Everyone knows everyone else.

It was a pleasure to catch up with some of the people we haven't seen in over a decade. Most of them were polite, somber, said their $.02 and left. There were four religious bitches my parents barely know and who I cannot stand, however, who showed up unannounced on Sunday and worked my mom into a fit. They wanted to know the entire history of my mom's illness, why doesn't she have a feeding tube, why isn't she on chemo, etc. And, they directed all those questions to my semi-lucid mother. After politely asking them to speak in a more calm, peaceful tone with my mom, after asking them to cease the demands for a play-by-play account of my mom's illness and treatment, and after being ignored by them, I cussed at them until they were so offended they left. In Arab culture, hospitality is number one. Even if you do not like someone, if they are in your home, you have to treat them like royalty or you will bring dishonor upon your family. Since I have been bringing dishonor upon my family since I was at least 16, I figured there was no reason to change things now. I can only hope they were so offended they will never come back, but I doubt I am that lucky.

Things have quieted down since the weekend and the routine at the house is as predictable as it can be. When my sister wakes up to leave to work, she gives my mom her morning dose of morphine. My father follows up with breakfast and they head to the living room. Even though my mom spends the majority of the day sleeping, she insists on getting out of bed, sitting in a chair for part of the day (where she falls asleep) and lying on the couch. Since she is so weak and emaciated at this stage, we carry her around the house, we lift her up so she can sit up to eat. We used to give her the evening dose of morphine at 8pm, but by Wednesday she had developed such a tolerance that she cried in agony by 6:30. It's important to stay ahead of the pain because, if you don't, it is bloody murder to conquer it.

After re-reading the hospice literature, it appears that Friday was the turning point from 1-2 months before death to 1-2 weeks before death. Eyes are glassy, loss of focus, conversations with people who are dead, sleep is much of the day.

It's horrible. I wouldn't wish this on anyone.

Spending the last week watching my mother deteriorate before our eyes has confirmed what I already thought about the Schiavo case -- that Terri Schiavo's parents were sick, twisted, evil people. How on earth two parents can insist on jamming tubes into their daughter so that she can be no more than a blow-up doll boggles my mind. And to make it a public circus! Where is the dignity? That isn't pro-life, it is pro-torture. But I suppose that shouldn't be shocking since the people who claim to be pro-life are also -- you guessed it -- Dick "Let's Torture Everyone" Cheney's biggest fans. I am not one to wish bad things on people, but it is apparent to me that those who think Terri Schiavo was "murdered" have never seen their mother scream in agony because the morphine ran out; they have never watched their mother, who looked healthy two months earlier, reduced to skin and bones. The people who think Terri Schiavo was murdered are sick, evil people who know nothing about dignity, about mercy, about life.