Another day at the hospital. We’ve moved upstairs to the oncology unit now, room 712, up from the cardiac level that was the only one that had a bed open when we transferred her here. The view is better, but she can’t see it from her bed. She’s resting about as peacefully as she can right now, although true rest no longer seems possible. She’s under a do not resuscitate order, so we could be near the end.

Yesterday was a tough day. The hardest thing about all of this is she wasn’t ready to give up yet, but everyone we talked to, including the oncologist my mom trusted most, told us we were out of real options. The option of surgery was one only in theory–considering the risk she’d be under in her condition, and the very small chance of a meaningful recovery, it’s unlikely that we’d find someone to actually willing to proceed with it.

We tried to explain this to her yesterday, and it was hard to do. At one point it seemed like she understood where we were going with the conversation, and Mike asked her if she wanted to be with dad. We got the biggest reaction we saw from her yesterday–a sharp look and vigorous shaking “no” of the head. A short while later, I had to explain that we were out of options, and the main thing we needed to do was make her comfortable. I broke down crying as I told her, and she looked at me not out of shock or anger or disagreement, but of concern for a son who was crying.

This sucks so much. I’m angry but have no one to be angry at. She’s so young–68–and there’s so much she wanted to do. Just days ago she was talking about travel, about being at Mathias’ birthday, about visiting her close friend Jean in Marquette. And now she’s here and may never leave the building.

Friends and family are coming here today to be with her, to tell her they love her, and say their goodbyes. I hope we get a few more lucid moments from her–we had a great one this morning–so she can see everyone who is here for her, and how much she is loved.