Barring sudden miraculous discoveries or interventions or something, we're going to do palliative care for Mum. Dad wants her to do it at home. Today I am meeting with a palliative specialist and a social worker and calling the CCAC, because the CCAC does in home palliative care. Mum can no longer swallow, and the choices were stomach tube or palliative. Stomach tube doesn't extend life very much for late stage dementia patients.
My head is full of details, all of them painful. Rearranging the living room at Mum and Dad's, how do we get private care to fill in, we need a hospital bed, My aunt is flying in, we will need to plan the funeral, we need to find an undertaker. Planning the funeral, which feels like a betrayal, because she is still alive. But palliative this way tends to last for seven to ten days. I was lying in bed last night, thinking blankly, "Next Saturday. By next Saturday my mother won't be alive anymore." It's not something the mind can grasp.
The children test my patience and ground me in now at the same time. We're still reading, playing, they still need clothes and food, I still need to shout, "Go make your beds!" and "You can't hit your brother with that dinosaur!" all the time. They are, thank God, not going to stop being little sinkholes of need.