Telling the Truth

I don’t remember what the nurse asked her, but I remember her answer.

“No. I don’t want any more of this. I’m tired and I want to go home” she said, quietly but firmly.

“You want to go back to your house?” the nurse asked.

“No, I want to go home to the Lord.”

The nurse paused and looked at me, her eyes asking me “is she saying what I think she’s saying?”

I froze. My mind raced. I could lie. I could say “no, she’s just tired… another bag of saline and she’ll come around”. If I did that, I could keep my Mom. I felt tears in my eyes. If I did that, would she ever forgive me for overriding her wishes? I tried to negotiate with myself. I argued, maybe in an hour, when her blood sugar was restored and they could drain her chest, she’d be able to breathe more easily, she’d feel better, and this would pass.

But I knew. She knew what she was saying. She’d made the decisions years before about how she wanted to live her life. We’d talked about this - even if it had been an abstract, philosophical discussion at the time. Today, the only voice that mattered was saying the time had come to stop fighting.

Slowly, I nodded to the nurse. She looked at Mom and said “OK”.

She crossed the Emergency Room and informed the attending physician. He came to Mom’s bedside, asked her questions, and again look to me for confirmation. He seemed to deflate - accepting a decision he obviously didn’t like. He walked away. The nurse told Mom she would call hospital administration to arrange transfer of her care to the hospice group.

Mom closed her eyes to rest. I turned away to blink hard and let a few tears fall so I could wipe them away. I wanted to lie. I wanted not to be part of her decision. I wanted to keep my Mom. I told the truth. Less than a week later, she was gone.