Turbo Cancer: Day 178 - December 6, 2022
A New Phase of the End of Life
On this day, last year, I wrote:
The wonderful hospice nurses came yesterday and adjusted my mom’s pain medicine. They also taught Margaret and me how to keep my mom’s bed fresh and how to keep her clean.
I texted the nurse this morning to tell her that my mom has been confused and agitated throughout the night. She kept trying to get out of bed to use the bathroom, and forgetting where she was or why she was stuck in place. Margaret was there to remind her that she was sick and that she was safe.
The nurse shared with me that it is partially the drugs, but that this is also a sign that she is entering a new phase of the end of life.
When Nurse Anne had come the day before, she was shocked to see my mom in so much pain. She said that, with the amount of narcotics my mom was taking, she shouldn’t have been feeling anything at all. She said that it was beyond belief.
I loved my mom so much. The last thing I wanted to do was to hurt her. However, her pain was so intense that I was forced to hurt her, in order to care for her.
There are several images from this time that I cannot get out of my head. My memories of these days haunt me.
My mom was like an angel lying on a cloud. Her air mattress kept the pressure off her body. The lights in the room were dim, and over the soft hum of the machines, there were the gentle tones of holiday music.
She was peaceful, as long as nobody touched her.
But we had to touch her.
As death nears, the body releases whatever remains inside. We didn’t want to move my mom, but we had to move her, in order to keep her clean.
We were forced to hurt her, in order to care for her.
In order to bathe an adult person in a bed, they have to be on their side. With the help of a sheet underneath, they are first rolled onto one side and then onto the other.
Margaret and I stood on opposite sides of the bed. We first rolled my mom toward me. Trying to be gentle, I hugged her frail, bony body in my arms. While I pulled her to my side, Margaret pushed from behind.
I held her tight against me, while Margaret cleaned her up.
As I held her, she screamed. She wailed. The pain caused her to cry out. Her body would tense up and she would clutch at me with her thin hands. She stared at me with wide, fearful eyes.
Without speaking, she was begging for mercy.
I had never before heard a human being make noises like that. Her screams were coming from an ancient place. The pain had defeated the rational part of her brain. All that was left was the raw expression of physical sensation.
Her bones had cracked from the inside. Her nerves were on fire. She had fought hard, but turbo cancer was celebrating its victory over my mom. She had already surrendered, but it continued to mock her in her defeat.
It was relentless.
It was designed to be relentless.
Over and over, I said “I am so sorry. We just need to keep you clean. It will be over soon. I love you so much. I am so sorry.”
When we were done on one side, we rolled her onto the other. Margaret did the hugging and the comforting, while I did the cleaning.
At this point, my mom was being administered 100 mcg of Fentanyl via a time-release patch, as well as 5 mg of sublingual Dilauded drops every two hours, around the clock.
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Oh God have mercy. I can't stop crying.
Fauci and his ilk are demonic. One can only hope there is a special place in hell waiting for them.
This side of eternity they need to be tried for crimes against humanity