Update 11

I really don't have much to say. Today was a day where I actually got out of the house for a bit.

When I was in college I joined a sorority, and today was Bid/Pledge Day at Muskingum. So I trekked over to the sorority house around 10:30am to meet the new sheep. As I prepared to leave I gradually became more and more nauseated and had no idea why. Figuring it was because I was wearing a turtleneck for the first time since I was maybe twelve years old and it was making me overheated, I grabbed a can of Sprite, took three ibuprofen and walked through the single digit chill to campus.

My sorority is the Christian sorority, and many of my sisters read my blog (and sob. or so I'm told) so they were extremely understanding and made a point of taking all the pictures that included me first so I could leave.

The rest of Pledge Day includes dinner at the dining hall, games at our advisors, dinner at The Forum (switched to Ruby Tuesday since The Forum was closed for remodel) and then more games at the house. I declined lunch and games, opting instead for dinner since it's usually fairly quick. However, as I left for dinner that nausea from earlier in the day came back and it seemed to stem from the stress of leaving for any extended period of time.

Anywho, when I got back from meeting/praying over/taking photos of the new sheep (our mascot is a Lamb) I came home to find some old friends we haven't seen in years sitting in the family room with my mom, who was once again propped up in the rocking chair. Part of what makes this situation so hard is seeing in my mind's eye how my healthy mom would look in that chair, rocking a very little since she got motion sick so easily and laughing and smiling and sharing stories with our friends. So to make up for her lack of health I played the recording I have of her on my phone for the room to hear. And it was beautiful.

I asked my Dad when I came back from dinner and games this evening how Mom was and if she did much when I wasn't here. He told me that she mostly had an episode around lunch time where she again wanted to go home and kept wanting to get up to use the bathroom when nothing would happen. Otherwise the Xanax has knocked her out. Her color has gotten, if possible, even paler and sallow. She didn't want to die on the same day as my cousin's baby was born so Anne just told me she's waiting for midnight. Which is in 17 minutes.

Days like today, which was a remarkably good day, remind me that though there is sadness and despair, and though I feel like we've been torturing my mother over the past week with this palliative care, my life will go on. There will be gladness, there will be joy. Even though God saw fit to take my beautiful mother instead of a serial killer, rapist, murderer or any other horrid sinner in this world, I can wake up in the morning full of joy. And now that I think on it, yes, those serial killers and such may deserve death according to human standard, but perhaps God chose to take my mom over them because my mom was so strong in faith and He wanted her home. Letting the felons live gives each and every one of them a chance to hear the gospel and change and repent and become another member of the family of Christ. :-) Mom would love that.

Update 10

Early update today, there will most likely be two.

Last night was rough. We decided when it was time to sleep that she seemed chill enough we didn't need to give her Xanax. As a result, at 5:45am she was saying "Drink!" I looked up to see her skeletal frame sitting up in bed stretching her arm out trying to reach the cup on the table a good three feet from the bed. Erin (who made it home late last night), Anne and Dad all jumped up to stop her and to give her almost all of the water in that cup. But it wasn't enough. "Drink!" I ran up to get more while Dad prepared her meds. She wouldn't lie back down. I came back and she had finally sat back on her now-raised bed and fallen asleep again. Dad put the cup on the table and went to sit back down.

"Water!" She sat up again. This time Dad gave her water and then shoved a Xanax in her mouth. "You guys are too slow," she said.

We gave her the Xanax and the liquid morphine and she settled back again. But not an hour later she was sitting up again trying to get out of bed. Jennie and Erin and Dad all went over to her. "I want to get up," she says. "Okay, where do you want to go?" asked Dad. "Upstairs. I still have things to do." "Well it's still early Lynnie, we can do those things later." "I still have things to do. I want to go home." This conversation went on until Dad finally got Mom to lie back down and eventually all the drugs kicked in and she calmed down and slept. I feel as though if she was able to cry she would have.

None of us knows what those "things" she has to do are, but there's no way she's leaving the family room. Last time the only way we got her up the stairs was by having her sit in a chair and Jarrod and Uncle Steve carried her like the Queen of Sheba up to the couch for the family photo last Sunday.

However, as all of this stress and sadness has been happening my poor cousin has been in labor for two whole days trying to birth her first child. Her husband is in India, unable to get here to see it, and the little munchkin kept making it hard for Julie. First the baby wouldn't turn so it could drop. then when it did, Julie's cervix wasn't dilated enough. Finally they took her to a hospital because she began to run a fever. At 2:35 this morning a little baby girl entered our family, and as soon as they are able my aunt and uncle will be coming here to tell the news to my mom in person. You see, Mom, before all of this craziness took off, was positive she would die the day the baby was born. We want Polly to see Mom alive at least once before she goes, and I know I at least am worried that's why she's still holding on.

We shall see.

Update 9

The days just fly by as we watch and wait. Ever since we began to give mom Xanax she has been sleeping more and talking less. She's significantly weaker. She's barely had any water and has slept pretty much all day.

This morning we had a visit from the hospice nurse. She checked mom's blood pressure and heart rate and it's 104/80 today. Supposedly the closer the numbers get the closer Mom is to meeting Jesus face-to-face. She told Dad that there is a marked difference between Mom today and Mom from two days ago and that she can go at any time. It could be tonight, she might last the weekend, we don't know. We just don't know. But what I know is that most of me wants Mom to go. It's time. She needs to go so she can be at peace, so she won't have her worried and loving family shoving pills down her throat and she can go to heaven, have a party with Jesus, and eat the most amazing food, see the most beautiful flowers, reunite with her mother in-law, father, and my cousins and never, EVER have cancer again.

As Mom slept I went upstairs and found envelopes full of old photos from her childhood and pulled the drawer full of cards from her dresser so we could find photos for the Memorial service. The rest of the afternoon was spent sorting through photos, cards, letters, and jewelry she saved over the years. For example, we found a gold pinky ring with an "R" inscribed on the top that no one, not even Aunt Lauri, has ever seen before or knows the back story. And Mom is too far gone for us to ask her so we will never know. However, I discovered a gold mine in the form of letters written by my Dad before they were married as he lived and worked in Windsor, CT and she finished her degree at Marietta. She saved every one, along with every card or little note Dad ever gave her. It was beautiful to read their early relationship firsthand, even if it was very one sided.

I really don't even know what else to say. As I watch my mother waste away I cry less and less and the more I listen to the recording of her I have on my phone or read the last text she ever sent me, which I will now share with you.

From Mom's Cell on January 5, 2010 at 6:03pm.


Hi honey. I'm doing well and hoping dinner comes soon! You are never forgotten, even if you did see the note on FB first. Now you'll be the first to know that I'm going home tomorrow and won't have chemo until next week because my protein levels need to come up first. So don't try to stop in: we'll let you know when I'm cleared to start chemo. Love you!

I intend to save this text forever and ever, just like I plan to transfer the recording of her story onto my computer, an external hard drive, a flash drive, and burn it onto five or more CDs as well as email it to myself so it will never disappear. I would share it with all of you on here, but it's for girls only. Sorry guys!

I'm just.... I just don't know. I don't know. I hurt. This sucks. I feel lost. I want my mom back. And that's all.

My turn: Mom Memories - another piece of the 52 year old pie

As much as my sisters are talented I am mediocre.

As you read in my previous guest posts, both of my sisters are extremely talented. It has been obvious to both of them for many years exactly who they were and what they intended to do with their lives and they went out and got it. Erin went into theater. Jennie went into music. Anne is nearly done with her degree in math (I know, we don't know where she came from either). Then there's me, the girl who doesn't know what she wants to be when she grows up.

When I was a child my mom would come in and read to us. She loved to read, a past time she passed on to all of her daughters, myself and Jennie especially. We had SOO many books and she would do voices or sing the story as we sang along. But when I hit my obstinate age (around 3 or 4) I decided I would do it myself. So when Mom came in to read I would say "I'm going to do it!" and then sit there looking at the pictures because I had absolutely no idea how to read. This lasted all the way up until first grade when I suddenly realized one day during class that I could read. There was much rejoicing.

The point is, I spent most of my life with an "I'll do it myself! attitude. So while Erin had mom coach her in acting and Jennie was working on her singing I was off trying to figure how best to be as different from my sisters as possible. So unlike Erin and Jennie I do not have a beautiful story about how my mom helped me become who I am or learn what I wanted to do with my life. I acted in college, but not very well. I sing, but really only in a group or on a stage or alone in the house. If anyone appeared when I was singing to myself I would immediately stop or lower my volume till I was merely humming. Unlike Jennie, I didn't want anyone to critique my singing, I just wanted to sing, and I was afraid if anyone heard me they'd try to coach me.

Notice my streak of stubborn independence?

But I will tell you this: my mom gave me her sense of humor, her issues with weight, and her love.

There was one day within the past year when Mom told me a story about her humor. When she first moved here to our town she had a lot of trouble making friends partly because no one understood her humor. Apparently they all thought she was being mean, but she really wasn't! It was just her humor. Similarly, Johnny has told me a few times that if I wanted to be I could be a real b**** (note: he wasn't being mean, this was during a pleasant conversation). But the thing is, I'm not trying to be that way, it's just my humor. I have dry, sarcastic, odd sense of humor. Mom never thought our humor was anything alike because she didn't understand mine at all, but according to others I inherited it from her.

Mom was always working out. She tried almost every fad diet ever created, every workout video, she went walking all the time, she swam, she tried yoga, she tried everything. I remember being a child watching as she wore herself out doing some crazy cardio from The Firm thinking to myself how glad I was that I was naturally thin and that I would never, EVER workout in the family room. Now, however, I do yoga, The Firm, pilates, all of that, and I do that in front of the TV, first in the family room and now in my apartment living room. So much for my promise to myself! I haven't yet stooped to the Adkins or South Beach diet (and as I dislike meat I doubt I ever will), but I do worry about my weight. All the time. And whenever I would mention it to my mom she would give me a look and proceed to tell me that she wished she looked like me because she's just so fat. To which we would all chorus that she is NOT fat and tell her how beautiful she is.

Finally, at church on Sundays mom would get up to tell a story or pray or sing for choir and as she did she would start to cry. A month or so ago she got up to tell about the peace she felt about her illness and she apologized for crying saying that she wasn't sad, she just had a tender heart. This is something I also inherited from my mom. I'll see someone cry, I will cry too. I see someone immersed in worship, my throat would tighten. Mom and I have far more in common than she probably ever thought we did.

Now, I know what all of you are probably thinking. I have read your comments about my writing and I appreciate every single one of them, but I am of the opinion that I am a terrible writer. Mom once told me that I'm the best writer in the family, but that means nothing if we all suck. Plus Mom never helped me hone this skill, I just write what's in my head. So thank you for the sentiment, but I stand by my opinion. And anyway, it keeps me humble.

This does not, by any means, mean I didn't learn from my mom. I learned more than anyone will ever know. And I hate that we have to say goodbye. But the things we learned from her will stay with us forever, and in the end that is all that matters.

Guest post: Jennie Blood

My second ever guest post, written by my older sister Jennie Blood about our beautiful mom. Enjoy!

See, there was this Sesame Street episode...

I remember a song. It didn't have an official name. But I always thought of it as "Be My Echo." It was from an episode of Sesame Street, when Madeline Kahn guest-starred. She sang the song with some of the Muppets: "Be my echo, sing what I sing, follow the leader and sing after me!" Madeline would sing different vocalises, some simple, some more advanced, and the Muppets would echo her.

Mom spent a lot of time teaching my sisters and me that song. She kept it simple for us at first, then gradually taught us more complex things, like runs, octave jumps, and harmonies. But there was this one run in the song that we simply could not mimic. Mom would sing the beginning of it, "Fiddle diddle dee," and then suddenly take off on this fantastic roller coaster of pitches, flying up and down, adding trills and triplets up in her high range. We usually would sing the "Fiddle diddle dee" part accurately, and then just kind of muddle around and end on the appropriate note. I wanted so badly to be able to sing that run as perfectly as Mom did.

From my earliest recollection, I was always dying to sing. As a child, I often felt envious of both Mom and Erin because they had opportunities to sing that I didn't have. I would sit, entranced, in the musty velvet seats of the Cambridge Performing Arts Center, watching Mom sing solos for musicals like South Pacific, The Mikado, and H.M.S. Pinafore. Erin sang solos for P.T.O. programs, and she performed with the Muskingum College Children's Choir, a group that went defunct just as I finally got old enough to join it. For me, there were no opportunities for singing...except at home.

Erin would bring her choir music home with her and teach me the second lines. Then we would sing duets for Mom and Dad. They were our first audience. I can remember Mom applauding, glowing with pride, as we finished a song. Then she would critique us, in the sweetest, most loving way. She taught me things like good breathing and posture. She taught me how to pronounce my words clearly so they could be understood when I sang. She taught me stage presence, and how to make my face light up. Never did it occur to her how much all that meant to me, or how important it would be for me later. I also doubt she ever knew that I continued to desperately try to sing that run at the end of "Be My Echo." As of fourth grade, I still could not sing it the way Mom could.

When I got to fourth grade, my teachers got ambitious and put together a huge P.T.O. program, all about the history of New Concord. They parodied dozens of songs, wrote pages of speeches, and created over a hundred costumes. I was supposed to sing the song "In the Jungle," with the words changed to be about the Wilds, the new wildlife reserve which had opened that year, south of New Concord. The audience for that P.T.O. program was packed. And Mom was there, ready to watch her second daughter sing her first public solo. Later, Mom said that she cried when I sang my part. "I didn't know you could sing like that," she told me. "I never knew until that day."

That compliment carried me through every audition, every concert, every musical, every solo that I ever sang afterward. I had a lot of great teachers, yes, but Mom's opinion as a musician mattered the most to me. Mom's voice was beautiful. She had a sweet, mellow quality to her singing: it reminded me of a gentler version of Shirley Jones. Her pitch was always perfect. I cannot recall a single time she ever sang out of key. Her support was wonderful, her breathing incredible. And she always sang like she had been mute for years, and then healed: it was an expression of pure joy. She knew how to inject just the right amount of feeling into a piece, and nothing ever felt forced. Her love of music poured out of her when she sang. Whether it was dramatic, like her rendition of "Some Enchanted Evening" in South Pacific, or joyful, like "The Hallelujah Chorus," or mischievous, like that dratted run in "Be My Echo," you never failed to see the emotion.

My solos increased as I got older. I sang choral and solo music at church. I auditioned for, and was awarded, solos for my school choirs. I had a secondary role in one musical and a starring role in another, when I was in high school. And for every single performance, Mom sat out there in the audience, applauding me when most of the credit should have gone to her.

Mom was a beautiful singer. Mom was an incredible actress. But Mom was also an absolutely brilliant teacher. Everything she knew about performance, from the makeup to the monologues to the music, she passed on to her daughters. If I know anything at all about music, it's because Mom taught me about it when I was small. She used to tell me, laughingly but with a bit of envy, that I was getting all the solos she'd dreamed of getting. I told her many times that I never would have gotten them without her, and she could sing them equally well. Being the self-deprecating person she is, she would laugh and shrug this off as nonsense. But it was true.

Fast forward to student-teaching, fall of 2006. I was discussing music for the fourth grade with my supervising teacher, Maizee Craft, and somehow, the "Be My Echo" song came up. I told her about how much I'd loved singing it with my mom. "Well, why not teach it to the fourth grade?" Maizee suggested. So that afternoon, on the way home from school, I sang the song to my dashboard. I came up to the "Fiddle diddle dee," and sang it. And then...I sang the run. Perfectly. Effortlessly. Finally, all my hard work had paid off. I did a little dance in the car and laughed.

I taught my fourth graders that song the following day, and I looked forward to that run the way a kid looks forward to seeing someone sit on the whoopee cushion he set up. I told the kids to echo me and then began to sing the song. They got along pretty well for most of it, only crashing occasionally. Then came that run, and with a mischievous grin on my face, I sang, "Fiddle diddle dee," and then took off into the fantastic run of triplets, trills and high notes. Then I looked at the kids, and saw my totally stumped, five-year-old face mirrored in theirs. It was a joyous moment. The Echo song had come full-circle. On my way home that day, I said a quiet thank you to God for my mom.

Now, four and a half years later, I sit here in my house, knowing I only have my mom for a few days more. I feel so privileged to have been there for her final solo. At the time, I didn't know that it was her last. But I knew it could be. It was for Christmas Eve service at our church. We had just found out the previous afternoon that there were no more treatment options for her, and that at best, she had six months left. She, Dad and I were the only ones who knew about it. I wasn't even supposed to know, but I caught Mom crying and forced it out of her. She told me not to tell anyone because she "Didn't want to spoil Christmas for everyone." So, yielding to her wishes, I kept it to myself...the hardest night I've ever spent...and went into the Christmas Eve service tired and sad.

Mom had wanted for years to sing Natalie Cole's version of "The Holly and the Ivy." It's really beautiful, but it was far too low for Mom's soprano. This year, we got Tim Thomas to create a track, and he transposed it up for her so she could sing it. "I know I'm going to cry," she complained to me. "I always cry when I sing solos." It is true that Mom often cried during her church solos. Her faith made her emotional. She once informed all of us daughters that we should not expect her to sing at any of our weddings, because she didn't want to ruin the moment with her blubbing. But I managed to convince her to sing this piece.

By Christmas Eve, she couldn't sing standing up anymore. She couldn't wear a dress because her stomach was too bloated from the tumors. So she sat there, on a stool, in a red sweater and khaki pants, and sang that beautiful carol.

The holly and the ivy

When they are both full grown

Of all the trees

That are in the wood,

The holly wears the crown

O the rising of the sun

The running of the deer

The playing of the merry organ

Sweet singing in the choir

The holly bears a blossom

As white as lily flower

And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ

To be our sweet Saviour

O the rising of the sun

The running of the deer

The playing of the merry organ

Sweet singing in the choir

By the end of it, I was crying. Again, it had come full-circle. Sixteen years previously, at the 1994 P.T.O. program, Mom had cried when I sang my first solo. And now, Christmas of 2010, I was crying because I was hearing Mom sing her last.

What do you do when your inspiration for your music is gone? Your one loyal audience member, your one unbiased critic? How do you heal from that? I can't answer that question. But I do know one thing: everything I sing is for God first, and for Mom second. She's going to be singing in heaven soon, where no one sings flat, where everyone pronounces their consonants crisply, where everyone cuts off their notes at the exact same time so there's no "mess of S's." She'll be immersed in the music of her Creator, and she'll get to sing her first heavenly solo with no pain, no struggle. She will be on her feet, clothed in her perfect heavenly body, singing with all the joy she has in her being.

I wish so desperately that I could be there to hear that solo. But at least one day, I'll be in heaven with her, and we'll sing our first duet to our Savior, mother and daughter, sisters in Christ.

Guest Post: Erin Rollins

Here I give you my first ever guest post, written by my older sister Erin Rollins about our beautiful mother. Enjoy!

"Mom memories - one slice of a 52 year old pie"

by Erin Rollins

My mother is and was many things.  One thing she was, was an actress.

It was my mother who introduced me into the world of theater.  It was my life, in fact, from a very young age, and that is also because of Mom.  She had been told by a professor in college that she would never be a professional actress, and dejectedly studied English Education instead.  But she couldn't get performing out of her system, and as a result my entire early childhood was a montage of shows... Music Man, Annie, Camelot, Mikado, South Pacific, Sound of Music, Fiddler on the Roof, HMS Pinafore.  I didn't participate in all of them, but I remember every single one.   She was pregnant with Anne when she was a nun in Sound of Music--they needed her voice, and the habit covered the bulge.  She was Fanny in South Pacific, and she had to kiss another man.  Dad kept smiling amusedly because it was so weird.

It wasn't long before I was participating.  Mom had taken a small role in a college production of A Dolls House.  I believe the conversation went something like "I really need to find three girls ages about six, four and two."  "Um, I have three daughters aged six, four and two..."  And next thing I knew I had a pretty blue velvet dress and two lines to say and the director was exhorting me to speak up because he couldn't hear me from the back row of the theater (which was only about twenty feet from the stage).  Next was Music Man, then I think Camelot.  Then auditions for Annie were announced, and I asked if I could go.  I got in, and Mom staunchly announced she was not taking part.  She relished the thought of just being a stage mom for a bit.  She would work with me at home, help me with my lines, with my vocal intonation, watch me practice my tap number (the dance captain had to teach me separately, because I had no idea how to tap dance).  But then the director started begging  "I just need a singer, Lynn, just for two minutes.  C'mon, Lynn, please, it's only a bit part."  "No, no!  This is Erin's show!"  But she finally gave in.  She was poised, beautiful, talented.  And dogged.  I remember hearing stories of how, during Fiddler on the Roof, she caught some sort of horrible sickness, and kept pushing herself to stay upright until she would get offstage.  Then she would faint and her stage husband would have to revive her. 

After a few years her involvement in the local theater scene abated somewhat.  But there was still the local summer ampitheater show, year after year, part after part.  She taught us stage makeup, acted in dinner theaters and church shows.  I remember once her doing some really serious aging makeup on me.  I was doing a small dinner show where I had to play a 90 year old woman.  She taught me how to make my hands shake, how to walk.  I left the makeup area to change, and came back practicing my walk.  She started.  "I didn't recognize you!  I thought some old lady had walked into the room!"  By the time I was in high school, performing had become something I just did.  An intregal part of life.  Play at home, go to kids choir, do a show.  Go to band practice, run track, do a show.  And Mom was always there.  Singing, taking lead characters or a bit role, helping write puppet shows for kids, whatever.  And no matter how many compliments I got, how many praises came my way, it was Mom's opinion that mattered the most.  I somehow could never form an opinion about my own work until I had heard her thoughts.  She never sugar coated, and often corrected some aspect of my performance, like the coach she was.  And I knew she knew better.  My senior year I got the lead in the high school musical (she did all the makeup, by the way), and when I got off stage after opening night, I asked the fatal question.  "How'd I do?" "I couldn't tell it was you,"  she said.  I felt, somehow, like I had arrived.

When it was time to go to college, I expressed a wish to be an actress.  Later I would hear stories of people who's parents fought them tooth and nail to keep them from pursuing an artistic career, and I was always surprised.  Mom and Dad never batted an eyelash when I announced I wanted to perform.  Mom explained the realities of the profession, warned me of it's struggles, and then never said another word.

Then I began working for the ballet.  Now, an interesting thing about Mom is that she could sing, she could act, play piano and guitar, but when it came to dancing she had two left feet.  Slow dancing gave her motion sickness. But she adores dance, and especially ballet.  It's one of the few things that puts stars in her eyes.   I remember my first season of Nutcracker, an injured dancer was incorrectly diagnosed and frustrated, and I tentatively offered my father- who is an athletic trainer- as a second opinion.  He was delighted, and we made plans to have Dad come backstage during intermission and meet him at a specific location.  I called Dad to inform him of the plan, and it was hilarious to hear him struggle between absolute glee and professional inquiry.  I hung up with him and two minutes later my phone rang again.  It was Mom, and her voice was plaintive and whining... "Dad gets to go backstaaaaage???  Can't I go backstaaaage?"  I had never heard her like that before.  "Mom, I can't... I just got here... I already had to go through red tape to get Dad back here, I don't wanna get in trouble..."  I ended up asking my boss if Mom could accompany Dad.  She looked at me like I had two heads and said "Of course!"  I'd never heard Mom so excited.

I heard later that, on her way across the stage, she had grabbed Dad's arm and practically squealed as she caught sight of the lighting instruments used to color the cyc.  Once they reached the dressing rooms, she became her usual professional self, gracious and at ease.  But I could see beneath the exterior that she was only barely containing her excitement.  It was all she could talk about later "He was so polite and handsome!  SUCH a nice man!"  Mom was an avid fan of BalletMet for many years after that, even dragging her 5th grade class to see a performance.  "Now boys, watch their muscles.  Think about how hard it is to do this!  They're lifting over 100 pounds in the air and then running around with it!"  She triumphed when she saw her boys leaning forward in their chairs, mesmerized by the athleticism.

The many years of acting were behind her by that point.  She was too tired for it, she said, and the opportunities had dwindled.  It wasn't until well after college that I began to comprehend that my childhood had been somewhat different than many-- that my mother had surrounded me with artists, because she herself was surrounded by artists.  Some thought she was wonderful, some thought her mediocre.  And she cared what they thought.  She cared a lot.  But in the end it didn't stop her.  She did what she loved, and didn't think twice about encouraging me to do the same. I tried to thank her for this last week, kneeling by her bed in the dark.  I messed it up totally, said something incoherent about being poised.  A moment later she responded.  "Well, of course you're poised!"  Fail.  :)  But it doesn't matter.  It was something she gave me, something she lived.  My mother is and was many things.  And one thing she was, was an actress.

Update 8

Last night I slept so well that I did not hear a single time Mom got up, and according to Dad, Jennie and Anne she was up and down all. night. long. Dad chose to sleep in the recliner last night so I had the glorious privilege of sleeping on the couch. All of those sleepless nights finally caught up with me and I made up for it last night. In fact, I was under the impression we had a fairly quiet night because when I got up at 6:30am to start working everyone was zonked out and snoring. But then Dad told me the truth later on. I felt kinda bad.

Mom has been really restless today. She's been up and down and keeps talking about how she wants to go home and how much she hates this and just a moment ago she spread her arms wide and asked the room in a rather disgruntled voice if the water ever came down and then told Anne to fix the pillow behind her back. Dad says this irritation and belligerence and anxiety is due to the morphine and the beginning of her body failing. I will admit, however, that I'm actually just happy to hear her ask a full question. 

I just asked the family members in the room for stories about what mom did today, since I honestly didn't spend much time down here this afternoon, and apparently she turned on a light by herself. We have this floor lamp with a table attached to it and it was, until a couple hours ago, right behind the head of her bed. Well apparently Mom decided it was too dark in here so she turned around, whacked all of the boxes carefully stacked on the lamp's table onto the floor, and turned the lamp on! If you saw how she looks right now, how weak and disoriented she is, you would see that this was a tremendous feat! 

Later, while we all ate dinner, she decided she needed a change of pace and asked Aunt Lauri if she could sit in the newly fixed rocking chair for awhile. So she did. We wrapped her in a blanket and she sat in the chair with pillows supporting her sore back half asleep as Lauri read my older sister's note on Facebook all about Mom's acting career out loud for her entertainment. I told Dad about this and Dad was pretty thrilled, saying that it was fine if she wanted to do that, and once he finished eating he came down and began to read the cards and notes from various students at Dresden and Adamsville schools. And I took a picture.

Some of these cards are absolutely hilarious, especially the illustrations from the first graders. As the back of the rocker isn't high enough to support Mom's head Anne was standing behind her so she could rest her neck every now and again. 

Tonight Dad intends to give mom Xanax for the anxiety with the hope that it will help her stay in bed for the night so Dad can get some sleep and she won't be so freaked out. Hopefully we can get the demands for water and bathroom use and random moments of trying to stand on her own down to a minimum. 

Conversation just a moment ago:

Dad - "I love you."

Mom - "Love you too" (breathed in a barely heard whisper)

Dad - "I like it when you say that."

Update 7

I am SO sorry that this post took so long. Today has been a bit of an ordeal, and I haven't really had a chance to write anything.

Every day all of this gets harder. Today Mom was bathed by the hospice nurse, which was nice, and she seemed a little like herself during that, but there is a marked difference between Lynn Blood now and the Lynn Blood of yesterday. After her cleaning we put a sleeveless shirt on her. BIG mistake. Every bone in her upper body is visible. You can count every rib, see where her collarbones attach to her shoulders. Her pain continues to get worse and we have had to give her liquid morphine many, many times in the past 24 hours. Dad, Jennie, Anne and I have been sleeping in the family room with her every night for the past week ever since Erin left, and I know that I personally have had no more than 2 or 3 hours of sleep each night.

The drugs that are supposedly making Mom comfortable have completely screwed with her mind. She has moments when she knows what's going on, she knows the names of the people around her. Often she'll have a decent conversation with Dad, but only in the morning. The longer the day goes the less she is herself. She's become slightly belligerent and even the tiniest bit aggressive. As I watch her continually get worse and worse all I can think is that this woman is not my mother. Oh she's somewhere in there, but she can't escape. She's trapped in a cage of pain, cancer and morphine. And my heart breaks and part of me dies with each and every passing day, every time she asks for a name, wants to know where Anne is in the lineup of her daughters... she suddenly sat up this morning when Dad was off teaching a class and Jennie was helping her get out of bed because we thought she needed to go to the bathroom. But as she was standing she looked around and said "I don't understand what I'm doing." The only time she was most herself today was when one of the cats was scraping its claws on the side of the old couch and mom said, "Hey!" and clapped her hands three times. A very Mom thing to do.

I think as this goes on, as we get closer and closer to the end, there will be less to say. She gets worse. It gets harder. And our hearts break because that beautiful woman we all know and love isn't there anymore and we won't see her again for a very long time. My mind is filled with memories even of just talking to her last week. A week ago today, around 10pm, she was lying on this new hospital bed with Anne next to her chatting about baby names with Erin and telling a great story about when Erin was little and her imaginary band made of imaginary friends that helped her sing her Bible songs before bedtime. Now, a week later, only a week, she's so confused that she had to ask Aunt Kim what Kim's name was.

I wish I could give you a fun anecdote to make you smile. I wish I could tell you that God will heal her. I wish I could say she wasn't going to die after all. I wish I could say I've made my peace with God. This is so hard for all of us, but I can't even begin to imagine what it feels like for Mom. I can't imagine what it's like to see the people I love and not be able to talk to them, to sleep all day long and be overwhelmed by pain. I feel guilty bringing any food downstairs to where her bed is because I know she can't have it and I don't want to show off the fact that I can.

All I know is that I never, EVER want to go through this kind of pain again.

As usual, thank you all for your prayers. I'm so glad that you follow my blog, but I'm always reminded of the fact that you're not following it because I'm a fabulous writer. You're following it because of your love for the woman I write about, a woman I am proud to call my Mom.

And to finish, I want you to know that Anne's cat Abigail just jumped onto Mom's bed. Mom petted her, and she laid down next to her and now Abby is licking Mom's arm. And I hope that made you smile.

Update 6

"Pizza time!" - Mom, after taking liquid morphine, which tastes terrible. 

You know, one of my consolations for this situation is that, because Mom was taken off of a lot of her treatments for a short while, her taste buds came back with a bang. I clearly remember overhearing her on the phone one day a month or so ago while she told a friend how food now tastes just wonderful. And after all those months of skewed flavors from those horrible poisons I'm just thankful she was able to really enjoy and savor her food before she was unable to eat anything at all.

This morning began with Dad coming up to the kitchen to get some of his pills and then looking down into the family room to find mom standing on her own trying to cover herself with Dad's comforter to sit on her new potty chair. You know, when you have to go you have to go! Dad got down there quick, especially when we saw her trip over the comforter and stumble against the bed. Otherwise she has been semi-alert all day, talking and actually finishing sentences. When I came downstairs to get my headphones so I could concentrate on my work she said my name and when I looked she waved at me. Brought tears to my eyes. 

Dad said her pain is a little higher today and we've actually been giving her liquid morphine, which we didn't do much of yesterday. But otherwise it's been fun. Our good friend Chelsea, whom we all consider part of the family during this crisis, arrived from Florida today and most of us spent the entire afternoon down in the family room playing Scrabble and reading online pop-culture trivia from the late '70s. I won Scrabble for the first time in a long time, and when Anne was announcing it Mom said "Actually, I won," as Dad helped her back into bed from the bathroom. We have no idea what she meant, but it was funny. 

Over the past few days Jennie has been fixing and restoring an old rocking chair that belonged to my great-great grandfather or something. It's a chair we have had for as long as I can remember. Mom rocked every single one of us to sleep in it, and it has been broken for a very long time. Last night she finally finished it, and during one of the moments when mom was up walking past she decided she wanted to sit in it. And we took a picture. 

We are all aware of the reality of our situation. It's something we can't change, can't escape, and yet we pray continually for a miracle. As I read all of the posts friends and family have posted on Mom's group wall I wish that I had more time to get to know her better. However, it also brings to mind something I heard once in a movie. 

The night before he "departs", Mr. Magorium, of Mr. Magorium's Wonder Emporium, tells Molly Mahoney about how Shakespeare described the death of King Lear. He wrote, "He died."

          "That's all, nothing more. No fanfare, no metaphor, no brilliant final words. The culmination of the most influential work of dramatic literature is "He dies." It takes Shakespeare, a genius, to come up with "He dies." And yet every time I read those two words, I find myself overwhelmed with dysphoria. And I know it's only natural to be sad, but not because of the words "He dies." but because of the life we saw prior to the words.  I've lived all five of my acts, Mahoney, and I am not asking you to be happy that I must go. I'm only asking that you turn the page, continue reading... and let the next story begin. And if anyone asks what became of me, you relate my life in all its wonder, and end it with a simple and modest "He died." "

 My mom has led a beautiful life. And through everything she did, all the people she touched, the plays she was in, her beautiful voice and her amazing testimony she will continue to live, even when she's gone, in our memories and in our hearts. We WILL see her again someday, and we will join her at the breakfast table in paradise. 

Update 5

Today was another full day. Mom has begun to forget things, so when her close friends stopped by she would say things like, "Did we teach together?" and at one point she apologized to her good friend Susan for not returning her chair. None of us has any idea what she meant by that. She slept for most of the day but every time she wakes she guzzles water due to sleeping with her mouth open. We know she's in a deep sleep when she begins to snore.

The day ended with a visit from the eight week old daughter of church friends, and as weak as Mom is she wanted to hold her. And we took pictures.

She was a fussy baby and when Mom took her after the baby ate the baby just squalled at the top of her lungs. Calmly Mom asked for a hot wet washcloth, and we all learned something new as she wiped the baby's face gently and then let her suck on the cloth. Immediately she calmed down and was downright pleasant.

Yesterday they decided to up her meds and as a result she has become very disoriented and she doesn't get up as often. We have a potty chair that she has really only used once as she really prefers to use the actual bathroom. To quote my Dad, she's still fighting. She falls asleep in the middle of doing things, like she'll scratch her arm because the drugs make her itch and in the middle of it suddenly she'll stop and her arm will still be up because she fell asleep and forgot to put it down. Someone usually goes over and helps her.

I'm sitting in the room with her as I write this post and Dad just finished giving her pills. She can only take one at a time. This from the woman who used to take a whole handful all at once. Dad stood there coaxing her. "Put the pill in your mouth, Lynnie. Atsa girl... just two more, here's another..." until she has taken all of her pills. I really admire Dad's strength, I have only seen him have to leave the room, unable to talk, once.

At church yesterday morning, after my sisters and I sang that song that made everyone cry, Dad got up and apologized but said he had to start his sermon with an unrelated story. He told about how when Mom was pregnant with each one of her four daughters she would put on music and dance and sing to each baby. BUT she wouldn't allow him to sing to the baby. "And that," he concluded, "is why they sing like that and not like me!" I now have every intention to do the same with all of my children, and the first daughter I have will be named Ellen after my mom.

Her stomach is bigger, she gets thinner. Her eyes are sunken and surrounded by dark circles. Her cheekbones stick out from her face. When she smiles the corners of her mouth don't rise. But for all of her fatigue and confusion she still has her sense of humor and when Jennie's friends stopped by, Mom heard them up in the living room and demanded they come down and join her because it was boring down here. I cherish those moments when I see little bits of the woman she really is instead of what drugs and cancer have done to her.

Forgive my language, but I think my friend Jaynell said it best: "Cancer, you are a bastard."

Update 4

Yesterday was a super busy day. We did get our photo taken, as you can see in my previous post, and actually one of Jennie's band members took the photos for us before they played. There were four boys and Jennie, two guitars, a bunch of singers, and a conga drum. Mom's eyes were closed for the whole thing, but she clapped after every song and hugged every member of the band. After they left the leader, Rich, sent Jennie a text to tell her that was the most meaningful thing he has ever done and thanked her so much for letting him be part of it.

Last night my sisters, Johnny and I all camped out in the family room with Dad, grandma, and Aunt Lauri. Anne and I had a major scare when mom suddenly made a gasping sound and stopped breathing for a minute. Due to this grandma and Aunt Lauri stayed up all night watching over her as Dad slept. I actually slept on the floor, something I haven't been able to do in years. None of us slept well, though.

Mom looks a little worse every day. She hasn't eaten anything but ice chips for almost a full week now and all we can do is watch as she slowly starves to death. Today the hospice nurse came to bathe her and brought a bedside commode and bedpan since mom is now too weak to walk to the bathroom alone. My only consolation was when I took mom's hand last night and I felt the strength of her grip.

At one point Dad came to Mom's bedside and she immediately reach out her hand and he took it in both of his. It was such a loving gesture, it held all the evidence of a love deeper than many of us have ever known. All I can ever hope for is that Johnny and I, when we've been married for thirty years, love each other as much.

Update: Family Photo

From L to R: back row: Jarrod, Dad, Derrick, Johnny. Front row: Anne, Jennie, Mom, Erin, Me.

Update 3

I have decided that any posts about my mom will be titled "Update". Just easier that way.

Short post, the doctor is coming by today and will probably up mom's dosages for morphine and ibuprofen. My older sister's band is coming by and giving a little acoustic concert. At 3-ish Derrick, my brother in-law, is coming back from Columbus and before Anne's fiance leaves we're going to take a family photo. My aunt and a family friend helped mom get "showered" and lotioned and dressed so she was presentable, and she'll be coming upstairs for the first time in about four days so we've been cleaning up the living room so she isn't stressed out by a messy house.

This morning we Skyped the church service to my mom and some relatives at home since she couldn't be there. Jarrod, Anne's fiance, helped another family friend hook up the computer to the television so it was a big screen and everyone could see and hear. As Jennie, my older sister, is the worship leader she began to sing Chris Rice's song "Hallelujahs" for the offering and began to cry and couldn't sing anymore. So when i saw she wasn't going to sing again anytime soon I went up there and took over the singing. A moment later Erin, the eldest sister, joined us as well. Jennie just played the piano while I sang and Erin joined in on the chorus. Halfway through i began to cry, and by the time we finished the song there were few females with dry eyes in the congregation. It was a very meaningful, special moment, and I know my dad was holding back tears as well.

Yesterday morning, around 10am, my aunt suggested I create a facebook group for my mom that anyone could join where they could post photos and memories. As of this morning the group has 144 members, in less than 24 hours. The posts just keep on coming, and before I left for church I read them to mom and showed her pictures so she could remember and know just how loved and special she is. My Aunt Polly, the one aunt who is unable to be here right now as her daughter is past due for a baby, called as well and mom talked to her on the phone for a bit. And I took a picture.

This was the first time I had seen her smile like that in days.

When my brother in-law gets here we are going to take a family photo, a photo of EVERYONE. Of Mom, Dad, Derrick and Erin, Jennie, Emily and Johnny, and Anne and Jarrod. The first and last of everyone. I promise I will post it later for everyone to see.

"The pulse of life within my wrist, the falling snow, the rising mist; There is no higher praise than this. And my soul wells up with Hallelujahs."