Long life

My mother is on hospice. In hospice? Entering the hospice phase of her long life? I don’t know if there is one correct preposition for being in hospice care. Anyway, she’s dying.

She’s 92 years old, born in 1931. In October she’ll be 93. She doesn’t want to live that long. Her husband of 68 years died during the summer of 2023, shortly after moving both of them into a nursing home. He needed the nursing home more than she did, at the time, but true to his covenants, he provided for her the best he could for as long as he could. She loves him. They made each other laugh.

I said he moved them into a nursing home; that’s not strictly correct. He decided they should go. He asked my sister and her husband, with whom they were living, to research nearby nursing homes. They did, and brought him results, along with their recommendations. My dad made the decision. My sister and her husband and other family members helped them move. I prayed for them and visited, staying with my sister and brother-in-law.

My mother’s mind is going, and not to heaven necessarily, just wandering off; she asks questions again, she doesn’t remember asking or what the answers were. She writes letters and her schoolteacher’s perfect spelling is sometimes incorrect. She longs to be where her body won’t hurt or be so tired. She told me with a twinkle in her eye that she needs to keep an eye on her husband, all those beautiful sisters up there chasing him.

I’m sobbing, thinking about them. I knew from childhood that I wanted to live a long time, and be married a long time. I bought a new metal roof with a life of the house warranty, because I may be here 40 more years, until I’m 93. Right now that feels really, really long. I’m having to consciously put my hand in God’s hand and cling, because I don’t know if I want to keep going that long.

Faith. It means continuing, without knowing what the end will be, because I believe there’s something more I’m supposed to do here.