Immersed

Immersed is the perfect word to describe how I feel when a story coming on. In between these exchanges its similar to walking along a flat plain, the mechanics of the story completed have taken over and and it becomes a level field. In the story though, it’s an immersion as if you fell into a well. Lost in your thoughts, nothing in your field of vision except the thoughts and contents of your creativity. Somewhat of a struggle to get back to the surface, a frantic effort to get it all out. My short story Memoir, Fairview¬† Bungalow helped me to realized that.

Elements of the story of the life of my mother have been in my mind since I was old enough to listen. Filtering out the information not necessary for this short story had to be calculating. I have entered enough contests limiting word count to know that ending up with double the word count is not good. The editing can ruin the essence of the story, I know this to be true. I have a tendency to get lost in the story, writing short stories is a good discipline for me.

I am still in the well. I have been blogging about this for three days now. I have included some of my own story in much of the writing I have done. I tried however, not to “tap” the mother-load — so to speak.

My mother died in 2002 of Non – Hodgkins Lymphoma she also had dementia. She lived with me until the last three months of her life, she was too sick and needed hospice at the end.

After a routine visit to the doctor she ended up in the hospital and needed to be taken by ambulance to the nursing home of our choosing. She refused to go, I had to insist and chose a place close to our home, I brought her there myself — heartbreaking.

In the first month at the nursing home, she was angry and wanted to go home. She was moved up to the critical care unit after one week. I was still able to sit with her at lunch and dinner while she ate and I visited with the kids. The second month I noticed she was eating less, I would help her, but that only lasted about one week or so, then she stopped eating.

She had always told me no extraordinary efforts to keep her alive should the day come. Even in her diminished state, she insisted. I researched the disease the decision to watch her die seemed inhumane, it was the disease that kept her from eating — morphine was administered. She was able to talk to us as we visited her in her room, she knew me until the end. She was hanging on, at first I didn’t understand her wish not to try everything and anything to stay here on earth. Anyone I talked to about Non – Hodgkins Lymphoma said the cure can be worse that the illness. Maintaining the quality of life for the short term was preferred to living with the side effects of chemotherapy. I would be going against her will, I chose to let it go.

She passed away two days before Thanksgiving at 83 years old. I have put her story in a memoir — I miss her and others may hear her story.

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