In November of 2015 my mother was admitted to the hospital for an infection that had turned sepsis. Like many systemic infections it began to settle in her lungs and brought on pneumonia. My sister and I took turns sitting vigil by her side in the intensive care unit. We had spent several hectic days making phone calls and having discussions with everybody from doctors to specialists to insurance companies. My sister and I sat in the stiff, plastic chairs in my mother’s ICU room waiting for the ever elusive doctor visit. My sister and I are both goal-driven, results oriented people. We are the kind that start planning Christmas during August, so when the doctor arrived and started relaying my mother’s status my sister firmly asked, “what is the next step?”
The doctor paused for just a heartbeat, took a deep breath and said, “there are no next steps. We’ve done all we can to fight the infection it is now between her and the medicine.” My sister and I did not know what to do when there was nothing left to do. How do we plan? The doctor continued, “how do you feel about your mother being ventilated if necessary? Or her stance on life support?”
Why was he asking me this question? I’m not old enough to make this decision. I’m not qualified. This is a decision for an adult — for somebody older. I’m just a child.
I’m 46.
There are so many decisions in life that feel like the moment you become an adult — getting married, buying a house, deciding to put a pet to sleep, having a child, buying a car, quitting a job— but none of those moments feel more adult-like than deciding on your own parent’s health care.
I don’t feel any different than I did at 36 or even 26. I still love a good mystery that drags out the inevitable reveal. I am still suspicious of people who stifle a sneeze or a laugh (some things are meant to be released). I still reach for chocolate chip cookies when I’m stressed. I still love going to the movie theater and eating popcorn. I’m the same person, aren’t I?
Life experience is just that — experience — and you can’t escape it. Those experiences build on themselves until one day you are an adult and you realize that nobody asked for your permission for such a thing to happen.
Perhaps that feeling of always being a child is the most beautiful part of life. It is that small part of innocence and wonder that we must protect and cherish for as long as possible, because that is the part that makes life worth living — even when life feels impossible.
