Mom's sick again. Really, terribly sick. And, god, I wish I were joking.

Last weekend my mom stopped making sense. She couldn't answer questions or follow conversations. Then on Sunday she developed a cough and Monday it got worse. Tuesday we took her to the ER.

It's double pneumonia, which means both lungs and the last x-ray, taken this morning, shows the right side is worse. Yesterday, after most of the day spent on the bipap machine - essentially air blowing down a tube to a mask, effective but not comfortable - she was able to get off and just be on regular air. But today, I get there and Mom is back to  a mask clamped around her face, eating her words and rubbing her nose raw. She sleeps a fitful sleep, her face contorted in agony, the agony of breathing when you have no breath to take.

The doctor comes in and says, we need to intubate. Stick a tube down her throat to breathe for her while she's put to sleep - real sleep, not 'put the dog to sleep', sleep. She needs the rest; she needs the break from all the pain she's been in. I call my sisters and they are true to form; Amy takes it in stride, "Good, well that probably needed to happen." Karen explodes, "What!! Why is this happening??!! Why did it reach this point? Put me on with the nurse! Where's the doctor - let me talk to the godd**n doctor!"

I hold Mom's  hand before the procedure and sing songs she sang to me when I was little, "Mareseatoats" and "Jesus Loves Me" and try to think of ways to keep her mind off of what's coming. But finally I just lean down and say, "Just focus on one thing. A song, a Bible verse, a memory - and when something hurts, just think back to your one thing, just focus in on it.' She looks at me and says, halting between labored breaths, "Coulda used this three days ago."


But it's time to intubate and suck some of the infection from her lungs, so I go to the waiting room to call my family. I run into Karen, or rather she runs  into me and accuses me, in a roundabout way, of being at fault for this. Saying Mom got this way because she didn't have a strong enough advocate; when I'd been there already. Really, she is upset and is looking for someone to blame, even herself. She keeps repeating, "If only I were here this morning; I knew something would happen if I didn't show up this morning." I ask her if she could have held off the infection, breathed for Mom, or made her better. Karen reluctantly replies, "No...but I could have asked about her antibiotics and got her on a stronger one and staved off the infection, or worked with Mom...(etc.)".

The first view of Mom after the intubation was...ragged. Wires everywhere and from her throat, a gaggle of tubes. One, the ventilator; one, a small, clear tube full of blood that was being suctioned from where her throat had been banged up during the intubation; the third, a clear tube of a yellowish brown ick, which the nurse informed us was stomach bile.

Eventually my dad and sister Amy arrive, but we are shooed out so a picc line (a central line) can be installed. Mom is diagnosed with Adult Respiratory Distress Syndrome. It is a very serious condition. The doctor said it's about a 70%  recovery rate; Karen, who works with  people at a rehab facility who catch this thing, says it's more like a 40%. So. We'll see. Your prayers are deeply coveted.

I'll try to keep you updated, but I won't have time or energy for email. I love you, darlings.