The Art of Dying

It's 5 a.m. and it's been another long, restless night for Mom Trafton. In a hospital chock full of doctors and nurses, state of the art equipment, round the clock care and a willing daughter, there's nothing to stave off the long arduous process of dying.

Although it's different for everyone, for Mom it means a lot of moaning, groaning, aches, pains and irritations. It means not eating or drinking and generally, checking out of the daily process. It also means precious moments of clarity, a smidgen of laughter and tons of feeling hopeless.

As I was trying to find mom a comfortable spot and asking her for the umteenth time "Mom, where does it hurt?" she looks into my eyes sweetly and says "Me". Although I smile back at her, I know that I can't help her if all of her hurts. Am I even helping at all? She's snoozing now and believe it or not, the skill you learn as a parent kicks in... You know, when your baby sleeps, you sleep"...so I'm gonna catch me a few moments while I can, but even with that comes guilt, because you know you're gonna sleep thru the moment when she wakes up and starts tearing everything off of her, monitor connections, wrist bands, oxygen, clothes and the nurses will come in and you feel like the worst daughter in the world cuz you didn't stop her in time.


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