So. Am here. It's pretty grim, as expected. She's in her bed, in amongst, no exaggeration, 17 pillows. She's such a bag of bones she's almost hard to find in there. When I got here at 8 PM last night she was sleeping. I cuddled her, she didn't seem to understand who I was. Just mumbled. Didn't open her eyes. She's on oxygen, getting Ativan and morphine to ease the breathing and anxiety. She will not be leaving her bed again. This is it.
I sat in the kitchen with Terri and cousin Leah from Boston, sharing a bottle of red wine that Leah had brought. I decided I needed food, had nothing on plane and nothing in fridge, so made popcorn. Burned it. Found another box, set the microwave for less time, undercooked it, plus tasted of "light" fake butter, so pitched it. Found yet another box, this time it came out perfect but discovered to be half sweet half salty, which makes me gag. Pitched it. Terri then produced a box of Skinny Girl brand lime-flavoured popcorn, which sounded disgusting but by this time the only kind left AND I WANTED POPCORN, so cooked it and it was fabulous and need to buy more.
We checked on Peg every 5 minutes or so. At 11 I crawled up next to her in bed and cuddled her. She grabbed my hand and wouldn't let go. Her strength is phenomenal. Vice grip. I held her for about 2 hours or so. She knew it was me, finally, and then said over and over, "I can't believe my baby is here with me" and told me how much she loved me. All a whisper, with no teeth in, so you're straining to hear especially over the noise of the oxygen machine burbling but--at least she was reading the right script.
"It's raining," she said, at one point. Know what it was? My tears dropping onto her face.
I'm actually pretty together, on the whole, except for when someone asks me how I'm doing, or when I'm cuddling her. It must remind me of the little girl I once was and the mother she once was. We take it in turns. Bonnie, Terri, me. Cuddling her and holding her hands.
I went upstairs around 2 AM, unpacked, took half a Zopiclone, went to sleep. Woke at 5. Fretting. Got up.
It's now 9:30 at night and am ready to drop. Answered 101 mails, spoke to realtor, newspaper obit people, Hospice social worker arrived for a "chat", walked to the garage to get some air, having spent the day before in a car or plane and today closed up her in the Becket Tomb. The downstairs is an utter shambles. And guess what's all over the kitchen and den and porch and office? YES! The Blue Book Project. I knew we hadn't seen the last of it. Apparently she dragged it all out when she got home from the hospital--and I do mean "out". All carefully-organized and labeled folders now empty and piles of stuff everywhere, 9 million more copies of everything, from fishers to wedding snaps to reviews of her show. All mixed up. Scattered. Like someone had deliberately messed it all up. Cant think she did this but it sure looks that way. In half an hour I had 4 hefty bags ready for the garbage. Now at least you can sit at the table and eat. On one side of it at least.
I was about to throw out a string of crystal beads--quite long. Pretty. Various shapes and sizes and colors. Looks like handmade. And like a pattern had been begun, then abandoned, then another idea took hold, then...and it's open ended, just long plastic strings needing finishing. Anyhow, asked Bonnie about this (my new tactic for anything I don't recognize, instead of saying : 'Whoa, what the fuck is THIS crap?' and finding out it was something they've given Peg specially...) and it seems it's a necklace that Peg made for me. Made! With Bonnie and Terri's help. Seems they've all been stringing crystal beads since I last saw them. I now adore it and don't care that it's nine miles long.
Today. At one point Peg lets out a horrible cry and tries to sit up. What? What? What? we all say. What's wrong? Are you in pain? What can I get you? What do you want, Mama?
And Peg, loud and clear, in a voice I haven't heard in years, her old voice, says: "LIFE!"
Which pretty much sums it all up. She does not want to leave, she does not want to go, and she is angry, very very angry at whoever to whatever has done this to her body, and is forcing her to do something she clearly does not want to do.
She has told me she loves me, over and over, that she is sorry for anything awful she's ever said to me or done, that she is so proud of me. Whispers almost, spoken quickly between breaths. This morning Terri put on the the audio version of DK's book, which Peg insisted on hearing again. So for 3 hours I had Den at top volume throughout the house. She speaks of Alex constantly, and what a lovely grandson he is.
Her breathing has become shallower this evening. She's sleeping now. Still not eating. Not drinking. This can't go on for too long. Dominick is here, insisting I go to bed and get some sleep, he will sleep in the den and be near her.
Bonnie cried when she left. Terri has rung 6 times. Peg could not be in better hands. They all genuinely love her to pieces. Even her hairdresser. And the support I have had is equally impressive. So so many offers of help. I am quite touched.
A story I heard: Peg last month on a gurney, blue cap on head, en route to her hip operation, being wheeled down the hospital corridor, when asked if she was all right:
"Yes," she said. "We're hoping for a girl."
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