It was a year ago yesterday afternoon that my Mom spent her last day at my house. After being my next door neighbor for over ten years (and living in this house for 17 years before I took it over), she had to move in with me at the beginning of 2019 because she was getting sick and had lost everything because she couldn't work anymore. So we got the bed out of my tiny guest room and put it in the corner of the living room. That was her home for seven months, not including the several stays at the hospital and hotel. She had gotten so terribly ill from cirrhosis, each day was another disaster. I came home from work one year ago today, and Mom was halfway on the bed, barely able to do anything. She had messed herself, and couldn't even answer basic questions like her SS number, her full name, names of the president and governor. It was a nightmare to cap off seven months straight of living nightmares for me.
I called 911, and she was carted away one last time as she mouthed "I love you" to me. One week in the hospital, then two weeks at a nursing home until her untimely and devastating death on August 16th at age 64. I haven't moved or thrown away anything of Mom's in my living room. Her bed is still there, liver disease books on her nightstand (she had been misdiagnosed for months by typically uncaring doctors, so I frantically bought books to try to help, but it was far too late). Her clothes still sit crumpled in a basket behind a special lift chair I bought for her because I thought she was going to recover. Time stopped in my living room on July 25th, 2019, and one full year later, it's still stopped. I spend very little time in there anyway, sometimes just to talk to her bed like Mom's still there, but I know this can't stay like this forever.
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