"difficult or labored breathing" is the official definition according to the dictionary.
Yes, that's suitable. There are times when I walk into my mom's living area or going through Christmas décor at the store and it grips me. It is no respecter of persons, nor time, nor place.
She's not coming home.
Ever.
At least not in this particular home. I'm from the mindset that where there is breath, there is hope but it would be a Lazarus type miracle. And even if we found transportation, this house is set up in such a way, we couldn't get a wheelchair into it at this point. In the small engineering cove of my brain, I don't see how.
I'm so thankful for my job that distracts me at times from her reality. Oh it's always there. My mom's new life. New diagnosis. New home. But there are sweet moments it's not all I think about. Instead I'm dealing with someone else's diagnosis at work, CHF, post-CABG, wound care, etc.
But this morning, I walked into her room and BAM. I feel suffocated because it's so painful. She loved the home the Lord gave her. I loved she was able to have her own area to live in. We were all so giddy with joy over His provision for her. Selfishly, it also helped us have some privacy. It was perfect.
And even now, as painful as her new world is and will probably always be in this lifetime, His provisions are perfect for her. She was accepted into an extended care facility that is staffed with RN's. The food is homemade and she gets to order off a menu. They ensure small things like brushing her hair before she leaves her room and snacks. I HAVE to find the good or I cannot breathe. It truly is a wonderful place for her needs. I'm sincerely thankful for that. And I continue to hear very good comments from past patients and their families. Thank you, Lord.
I selfishly wonder if it will always take my breath away. I don't see how it can't not. These are the moments I call out to God, sometimes landing on my knees, almost always in tears. Dealing with my own diagnosis of dyspnea. Dealing with my sweet mom's tears. I would rather have to do anything else than listen to her cry and try to explain to an already cognitively compromised 64 year old with dementia why. Because reality is I don't know why. When it becomes too painful, I feel like I'm in a spinning room with nowhere to get out. I don't mean to make this about me at all. I cannot fathom how it is for her. But writing has always been cathartic for me and the Lord laid it on my heart this a.m.
So God gave me today and today only. I'll push back the thoughts as I looked around that she will never sit in her recliner again. She will never sleep in that bed again. Nor wear her church clothes that she was so proud of, again. Today, I will focus on praying for her throughout the day like every day. Today, I have laid out the wall décor she asked for. Today, I will concentrate on breathing.
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