Four years ago, today, I was sitting at a restaurant with my Spouse-type fella and my youngest beauty. We were doing what family’s do, enjoying a meal and conversation. But it is a meal I will never forget.
I sat, chopsticks in hand, Pad Thai on my plate and my youngest, then 17 years old, says, “[Miss K] says when mom gets old… if she gets dementia … she’s gonna put mom in a home, [a rest home].”
When I asked Miss E why she replied, “she said, ‘because I know [mom] will ask where’s Ethan and I won’t be able to handle that,'” Miss E added, “And then I told Miss K, yah it’s a home for her.”
The tears that fell from my downcast eyes blurred my vision. The noodles lost their individuality. The table became quiet as it was noticed I had become still and silent. Unable to speak really. The Spouse-type fella gently touched my left arm. Tears still descended to plate.
It was a reality that broke my heart, yet again. My surviving children have had their hearts broken, broken so that they anticipate it never being repaired or put back together or a strong enough band-aid being applied that many years down the road the mere mention of their brother’s death will re-injury this family. Re-injury us beyond repair.
Lord, please spare my children this agony and let me keep my faculties about me ’til the end.
— signed a loving teary eyed mom.