We are in a darkened room, curtains drawn, just one dim lamp, a Coles green bag full of snacks, a special blanket, and familiar things placed on the bedside. Essential oils and music settle the mood in the room. We have dragged mattresses and bedding from the store room into her room and have camped there with her since we got the call that it had started. We are making a list of people we will need to call and we have our phones switched to silent but there, so as to stay in touch.
The stages are remarkably similar to going into labour. I take some comfort from that.
And we wait, and wait, and wait for something to change, for a sign that shows that we have moved over into the next stage. Mum is dying at last.
Death, like delivering a baby, is the challenge of a lifetime, an emotional, mental and physical rush like no other. Death completes the cycle. It feels like she is going out almost the same was as she came in.
The stages of dying, like the stages of labour, are clearly defined. Mum progresses from one into the next. First the false alarm, a few weeks out, followed by the prediction – she won’t see the month out – and then it starts for real: restlessness, laboured breathing, cold fingers and toes, some of the ‘good stuff’ to help things along. Then, as it gets closer, there are long long pauses between breaths and we encourage her, ‘breath, breath, breath. Push, push, push.
Another transition into the final stage, and her heart stops beating and its over.
We sit with her, not knowing quite what to do next.