When words are more or less enough

I had a good workout this morning.  I ran faster than before, pushing myself just a little harder, to go just a little farther.  Ran into someone I knew at the gym this morning.  Recognized each other by face and then caught up by filling in the gaps for everything else.  She remembered by dad.  I told her about my mom.  From the words I used so causally, she asked if it was stage 4.  I simply said yes.  My father said last night that sometimes words just don’t help.

My mom is having harder time breathing and using the oxygen more than when she came home last Thursday.  Her coughs are more violent.  She says she is not in pain.  My dad says, what can he do to help beyond what he’s doing?  It’s better for her to be quiet.  She said her children know they are loved; she doesn’t need to say anything more.  She said it’s hard and she’s trying her best to fight.  What she didn’t add is that it’s a losing battle. 

I went to see her last night with my oldest son in tow.  I started to cry and he climbed up on my lap and hugged me and said, she’s going to stay forever.  I wanted to believe him.  It would be so damn easy.  I wanted so badly to believe him. 

Then there’s the coughing.  Her coughs were so hard and violent to behold that I just stared at my son’s face.  His eyes opened wide and turned black.  I could see the concern in his face.  The faces of children are so honest compared to ours.  When it was time to leave, he had to have a drink.  I refused.  I started to do the countdown but then thought better of it and just picked him up. 

I told him calmly that yes she was sick but she was not going to go back to the hospital so he could go home and come back the next day to see her.  They delivered a hospital bed and oxygen and a whole bunch of other stuff so she wouldn’t have to go back to the hospital.  Yes, she was very sick.  I didn’t say she’s going to get sicker.  He hasn’t been able to hug her since before his birthday.  I sat him down next to her on the bed so she could hold him.  He wouldn’t look at her.  I know how he felt; I just have more words to express it than him. 

It’s tough being the child watching your parent slowly lose a battle they can’t win.  It’s hard coming to terms with the inevitable loss of a parent.  As fortunate as I am to get this time to say good bye to my mom, I can’t quite wrap my head around the idea of her absence from my life.  It’s harder still being the parent, explaining the inevitable loss to you child.  I wish I could protect him from this loss.  As his father said, it’s our job to not protect him, but to help him get through this loss and learn to cope with it. 

In short, my job sucks.