When mother dies

The phone rings in my office. A sympathetic voice presents itself, I lower my shoulders in the middle of the work pressure. It indicates that mother is still alive, and the doctor I talk to understands all by quietly saying that she is operated on and according to conditions is fine: – But still, the conditions are sad, as you know, she is 90 years old, severe dementia and with a number of additional problems to the femoral neck, colic, asthma, pneumonia and so on.

Yes of course I know. What is he trying to tell me now? A few days ago, Mom and I had wordless, heartfelt contact. We held each other's hands, she smiled, and her face was filled with gratitude and joy at our presence. I was her voice that hit the right words, and she got the answer: "You hurt to breathe, and maybe you're thirsty, too? You're wondering why I'm coming so early this afternoon, right from work? 'Her eyes were clearly watching, and her head and hands were giving wordless messages – she smiled. I understood that she understood. We understood each other. The language without words was love and respect.

- Now is the time to let her go? We suggest stopping all life-prolonging medication, antibiotics, blood thinners, Ventoline and oxygen ...

After thinking about it for a few seconds, I can only agree with this wise doctor, who says that he has been a doctor for many years, that he has seen so much pain where old people are not allowed to die, where they is being treated for treatment that only delays death for a short while and that many have to suffer unnecessarily long. I don't want to spoil my old, worn-out mother ...?

Suddenly, her voice gets something new, a slightly impatient look, as if the doctor is insistently trying to convince me ... I sense a sticky smile through the phone. After all, it is very serious to make a decision on life and death on behalf of another human being, she is also my mother. Then I hear my own voice say almost without emotion:

- Yes, I also believe in this, it should not happen that she is tormented in waiting for death for a long time. But an important question, doctor, her own and my anxiety that she will get a painful death if she is sent back to the nursing home…? What happens when oxygen and other aids are not available? She must get enough pain relief at the nursing home. You have to promise me that!

- Of course, the nursing home must be informed of this, good care must be provided for the old woman. She will not suffer, it will be important from the first moment. We sends her back to the nursing home again tonight.

The private room

The sun shines the next day. I arrive at the nursing home in my little car, she is sitting upright and straight, relaxed and calm in her own chair by the window. From the room she looks out towards a bare maple tree and a parking lot. The sky is high and blue. She smiles, her mouth opens, she tries to say something, and I answer "so good to be here at your nursing home!".

A tall bedside table with two apples in a bowl, medical aids
and a few children's drawings.

Here she is known. The long private room with the window to the south, a high bedside table with two apples in a bowl, medical aids and a couple of children's drawings. On one wall is an old dark leather sofa, a pair of embroidered pillows and a coffee table taken from my mother's apartment so that we who come to visit can relax. On the wall also a couple of paintings with familiar landscapes and an artificial paper flower that looks like an ivy hanging over. The confusion is far less here in this room than in the hospital.

I put yellow, red and orange tulips in water. In the corridor outside it is completely quiet, except for a few small chirping sounds from the birdcage where two yellow budgies live.

After half an hour, a nurse comes in. How are you? Are we missing something? Hair I got coffee? Does mom want coffee? We each drink our cup and share a piece of raspberry cake I have with me. Mom eats herself and I see that she likes the taste.

I find my mother's nail polish and a perfumed hand cream, and I
puts the rings that have been in the bottom of the drawer on the fingers
her.

Then I find my mother's nail polish and a perfumed hand cream, and I put the rings that have been in the bottom of the drawer on her fingers. In her throat, as always, she has a narrow gold chain with the little golden bird dog that she will not remove from her body under any circumstances. Now the room smells of varnish and perfume, mixed with the scent of the tulips. She smiles and looks at her hands. I plan to stay here until it's time to calm down. Suddenly she's tired. Mom wants to go to bed and sleep. I'll be back tomorrow.

pain screams

Two more days, mom is not going to give up right away. It's not really surprising that her body has connected a spare machine with charged batteries – it takes extra energy to say goodbye to this life. From previous years, we have experienced that her body has several times managed to fight back to life. Now, on the other hand, all life-prolonging treatment has been stopped, including the oxygen. Nevertheless, the chest is lifted, and the breath collects oxygen.

She is satisfied and receives visits from grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Smile and laughter, clear in the eyes, straight in the back. Some come, some go. Occasionally she sleeps a little, the pain relief makes her calm down again. But then, in the afternoon, the unrest breaks out. She must have a hand to hold and regular and frequent refills of painkillers. The gaze tells us that now the journey has begun. After a few hours, the eyes are closed, the breath calmer. The nurse on duty has just given her a new dose of morphine. Everything and everyone in the room notices the peace that is spreading. A glow of gold and red appears in the sky before it slowly darkens outside. I gently stroke her forehead, holding the familiar old hand. The bedside lamp lights up, and behind the sofa a dim reading light illuminates. A small flock guarding – daughter, son-in-law and granddaughter feel grateful that we are here together. We are witnesses in the struggle that is ultimately just the old woman's.

A little half an hour later, the clear blue eyes open. With her hands and upper body movements, she tries to show that something is wrong, something that must not happen! «Are you a thirsty mother, or hot? Is your breathing worse? ” A desperation appears in her face, her body is thrown out in large, violent movements, the duvet is kicked away, she wants out of bed and onto the floor. She has newly operated thigh neck and large wounds on her legs, it is impossible. But for her it is not at all impossible. She wants far from here, not just to lie down. I run in and out of the abandoned guard room, no one to see or hear. Out in the corridor I shout in an unrecognizable crazy voice, I need help! A young female nurse from one of the other rooms sticks her head out into the corridor.

- Mother must have pain relief now – she is suffocating!

- Yes, I will call the nurse on duty immediately. We only have one here this evening, for the whole nursing home. It's Sunday, you understand…

I do not know what to understand right now. Mother's desperate screams are heard through the wall. Now it's just getting back to where she is. What meets me is worse than I could have imagined. She is held by force by her two closest relatives who sit with her. A painful death struggle, inhuman sounds come out of the foaming mouth, the eyes beg for mercy and disappear back into the eye sockets. The face is unrecognizable and frighteningly hideous. Is this the true face of death? She just wants to get down on the floor, towards a final end that does not come. Forces are mobilized from an unknown location. We hold and comfort, comfort and hold everything we just can. All attention is focused on persevering and taking some kind of control in an impossible and relentless situation no one gets away with, least of all mother.

Time has stopped. At the end of life, reason, justice, and order do not exist – there is only one truth: the brutality of suffering. The great uncontrolled movements, with such unknown forces in them. Do our words in the death struggle where we try to reach her have any meaning? Does she want the physical resistance of our arms as a help? Can death struggle be tamed and pain relieved? The dying will disappear, and no one can complain afterwards.

Outside, in the corridor, I run, shout – no one comes. Then the friendly nurse appears: – Here I have written down the nurse's mobile number. If you have any questions, feel free to call, he's a little busy now. She smiles embarrassed as she gives me the note with the number on it. Then other patients are heard crying for help from their rooms.

- Is this just normal? Come back, there is no time for questions!

The nurse is back with me, stops and pulls out his mobile phone, trying to get in touch with the person who should have been here a long time ago. The sounds from the mother's room become louder.

Back by her bed, I also hold everything I can, as a reverse maternity helper in the belief that it will soon be over. The cries of pain from the depths will blow up the roof and open all the windows. Mom is already on the train. The nurse we've been waiting for so long, finally comes running in. After five long minutes, he is back with the syringe, it is pulled up and pressed into the mother's upper arm. Suddenly sounds and movements subside, she falls slowly against the white brick wall by the bed. The dull sound of the head against the wall, an unspeakable relief for us inadequate guards the last hour.

The candles are lit in two tall candlesticks. We talk low.

Traumatic theater

It became apparent to all of us who were there that the death of Mother this Sunday became unbearable. Reality became a drama in which predictability was turned into fear and confusion. We became participants in a traumatic improvised theater where significant actors were missing. Was the hell of pain that the mother was exposed to, a one-time incident, an accident or a miss – which in the next round was to be registered as a "deviation"? A "normal" course – a Sunday night at a hospital in Oslo municipality, when night shifts are at a minimum?