Denial: Not a river in Egypt

**Written One Month Ago**
Here I am sitting at my mom's house, I think they call this a vigil.  My mom is "actively transistioning", I don't know exactly what that means but I know she is dying.

In November, my mom sat my oldest brother and I down  to tell us that her breast cancer has come back and was everywhere.  I tried to mask my emotions and remain strong in front of my mom.  I excused myself later and sobbed in the bathroom saying, "I don't want to do this."  This is my mama, and she is broken so bad the doctor can't fix her. 

In desperate times, desperate measures are taken.  My mom started an alternative medical treatment that had shown promise.  Western medicine couldn't save her, so we turned to whatever medicine that claimed it could.  It required waking up several times during the night to take supplements.  My dear sweet dad who never thought he would live long enough to bury his wife, was convinced this treatment would save his loving companion.  In the past few weeks, it became evident that nothing would save my mom. 

My dad pulled me aside just two weeks ago and said, "Your mom needs a new purse, one with pockets. I would love to get her one for Valentine's Day, will you please buy her a fancy one for me?"  

My mom had not left the house in a week, barely gotten out of bed, and was eating two bites of food each meal.  She would not  be leaving the house with her purse the next time she left.  I knew it, my brother knew it, and the medical staff new it.  My dad may have known it, but he did not believe it.  

What do you do?  Buy the purse?  Refuse my father's request?  I wrestled with this for nights, knowing this was just a display of my father's deep denial.  How do you tell someone the love of their life is dying?  Who am I to crush my dad's hope?  How can I help my dad accept the reality of the situation?  Help him grieve?

**Fast Forward 1 month later**

On the Thursday before she died, my mom begged me to help my dad understand that she was dying, she wanted to stop the alternative treatment.  She was ready to die, and didn't want my dad to feel like she had given up on the one thing that could save her.  I looked in her eyes as they pleaded with me. My first reaction was to say, "Mommy, I don't know what to do, I'm seven, you're the mom, tell me what to do?"

I constantly feel like I am seven, I want my mommy.  That whole night I didn't sleep, I wrestled with the task my mom had asked for my assistance in. How on earth do I help my dad come to this realization?  Do I burst his bubble?  My father, is very stubborn, a trait he passed on to me.  What would happen if he dug in his heels and said, "No, this treatment is saving her."   The next morning I called the Hospice Nurse to do our morning check in.  I told the Hospice nurse my concern and she said, the worlds greatest phrase.


Wendy, that's not your problem anymore.  That is my problem, I will handle it.

Where have these hospice nurse's been my whole life?  I just want them to follow me around and remove all my problems from my life.  "Drats, they are out of salami at the store."  Hospice Nurse,  "Wendy, that's not your problem anymore.  That is my problem, I will handle it."

The hospice nurse sat both my parents down and had a very tough conversation, where my dad came to realize that his wife was dying, nothing could save her.  Hospice had come into my parents home at the request of my brother and I, it was not something my father wanted.  Somehow over the course of two weeks, this angel of a hospice nurse had wiggled her way into my father's heart.  He trusted her, and so when she said, "It's time to let her go in peace," my dad trusted her.  It was the right thing to do. 

Letting her go in peace was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. However, hospice provided great comfort in the darkest time. I love this picture of our hospice nurse comforting my dad after my mom passed.   When my mom was given the peace of mind that she didn't need to fight anymore she succumbed quickly, having no fear. She was ready to put this all behind her, and we were ready to let her go.   It was so hard.  I didn't want to do this.