Twenty Four Hours

Mom called me at work, sobbing.  There's a big difference in Mom's levels of upset.  I could feel this was VERY upset.  Kathy once again stated that Darrell might have 24 hours again. I wish she'd stop doing that.  Seriously, now.

After work, Shawn and I made the drive out to my parents' house and upon arrival I was once again left alone with Darrell.  I am unsure if it's intentional or everyone just happens to be in the kitchen all at once.  Anyhow, I sat in the chair next to the couch and took his hand.  Darrell's immediate weak grip on my fingers comforted me, although I soon noticed that his limbs and eyes seemed to all moving independantly of each other, as if each limb and eye were its own being.  "Kathy said that's normal," Moms said.  "And he's been doing a lot of this, too."  She pointed her index finger as though a hunting dog might if he had fingers to point.  "Kathy said a lot of people point."

"Darrell, I don't know if you remember this," I began, "but when I was very little, you took me up inside the bulldozer.  I don't remember a lot of it anymore but it was very cold and very loud.  For some reason I was thinking of that today."  I'm not sure he heard or understood.

Darrell grasped my arm at one point and pulled it this way and that, mumbling incoherantly.  His lack of teeth and slopping face makes it almost impossible to understand what he's saying and the lack of oxygen has made him very confused.  His sate of dying has made his body and mind very agitated.  "Darrell, I dosn't understand what you want," I said, blinking back tears.  Two heavy tears finally fell to his shirt and bedding.  "Darrell, I have to go to the bathroom, but Mom's right here," I excused myself quickly and rushed the bathroom.  A high pitched squeal emitted from my throat that I never expected. I sat on the toilet and covered my face with a was of toilet paper and sobbed.

The rest of the time Darrell was agitated saying, "I have to get out of here!" in a mumbled fuss and "Why is the truck borken?  Can't you fix it?"  After Shawn told him we can't any where because the truck was broken.  Finally settled by a solemn "Oh."  It was like this all night.

His leathery arms were covered by scrapes and bruises.  Mom, asleep on the other couch would awaken to him falling.  He had forgotten he really could not walk on his own.  "Darrell, you cannot, cannot walk on your own!" Mom would say.  "I know, sis," he's say sadly.  "I won't do it again."  And as soon as Mom dirfted back to sleep, he'd try again and fall again.  At one point, Mom had caught him and they both fell to their knees.

I want this to be over.  Darrell is tired, Mom is so tired.  My parents need to move on.  This is no kind of life for any of them.  On the way home, Shawn had said if he was ever in that sort of position, he'd just go have an accident.  "And what do you think that would do to me!" I exclaimed.  "It's better than putting you through what your mom is going through!" he retorted.  "You'd be OK and set for life!"  I don't exactly see it that way.  In a sense, though Id read the future because he's inhaling plasma dust, a known and definite cause for lung cancer--the slowest and worst way to go if you ask me.  Nobody ever ask to suffocate over a year's time.  He's smoked for so very long and eats nothing but fat-filled greasy foods.  I'd give anything to throw out our little deep fryer.  Anything.  And he welds.  Welders are well known fr developing Parkinson's Disease.

I fear that my future will be Mom's present condition.  I fear I couldn't handle it.  Of course I'd do it.  Nothing on earth could stop me or hold me back from it.  But I dread it, I fear it.  It's one thing to comfort Mom, to be there for her as much as I can, to pick things from the store and fix little minor household problems.  It's quite another thing to be my mom.  I don't want Shawn to go off and "have an accident" but I don't want to be my mother, either.