ICU - Just Put Me on Ice

I've been through almost all of the phases of life with my mother. Infant (my life depends on you); appreciative child (you are the best mother); rebellious teenager (you don't know anything); overconfident young professional (I'll teach you a thing or two); mature women (I'm the same age I thought you were); and caregiver (we need to arrange a new living situation). I say almost all the phases because we have just entered a new one that I did not know I was not prepared for.

My mother had regained her health after a dire diagnosis of three major diseases: ulcers, diabetes, and emphysema. In the 10 years she has lived 5 minutes away from me I got used to the “event crisis” mode, followed by a recovery: albeit a recovery that left her at a slightly less functioning level. Through it all, she has been gracious, loving, thoughtful, and most characteristically, hilariously funny.

This week I got “the call” that she was on her way to John Muir ER in an ambulance. Getting checked in to the ER usually takes an hour or two, so I did not dash out the door, but continued to work until I got the 2nd call that she had been seen and I could visit her. Her blood pressure was 50/30 and they were pushing liter after liter of dopamine, to no avail. I had been planning a trip to India in two weeks, when I will be out of phone contact most of that time. When I walked into the ER she pulled me close. I thought she might say something like, “I love you, Mary.” Instead, in usual Mother fashion, she made me laugh out loud. She said to me, “Mary, if I die at a time too close to your trip, you just put me on ice and bury me when you get back. I've been waiting here to tell you that. I mean it, you put me on ice.” The sound of our laughter cut through the usual sounds of bells and groans and electronics of the ER.

My mother today is still living. But a change has happened. She wants to change her Do Not Resuscitate order to Do Not Treat. After this visit to the ER she spent a hellish 3 days in the ICU, as those angels (who are those people who work there day after day anyway?) brought her back once again to life.

But today when I visited her she cried. She told me “Mary, I am ready to go. I want to go. You have to let them let me go.” The scenes enacted on television of deciding to “pull the plug” on an unconscious person are nothing like being asked by the only person on the planet who has known you your whole life to please not interfere with a slower, less dramatic process. Being old is not for the faint of heart, and winding down a life is not an organized, predictable process. It is messy, and unclear, and sad. My mother held me like I was 5 years old, and I cried my eyes out.

This process will be hard enough, even though my mother has taken the time to fill out the new form, and has been very, very clear with me and my brother about her wishes. But imagine if she hadn't been so clear. What if someone you love had to make these decisions on your behalf without knowing what you truly wanted? If you have not completed a living will that outlines specifically your wishes, I urge you to do so TODAY. It's the most loving thing you can do for those you love.