Peace, sort of

Mike is in a peaceful place. It is a really lovely facility. But it is of course a Skilled nursing facility, however nice. It has the requisite confused little old ladies and one yeller. Mike says there is always one. He is quite the veteran of hospitals.  The energy there is much calmer. Things move slower, time moves slower.  Mike talked to us slowly and methodically. We had to ask him to repeat himself several times because his speech was slurred.  Cris came by to see him. She told me later that he seemed pretty coherent. She pointed out that the morphine was probably making his speech slow.
The hospice nurse came. We had a lovely discussion about what measures we do and dont want taken.  I was out at the nurses station signing more papers and the nurse started talking to me about funeral plans. I lost it again. sheeesh!
In spite of these constant reality checks, I just cant wrap my mind around the idea that Mike is dying. I have seen him this sick before. And he has gotten better.  Why should this time be different?
Im not going to sugar coat this experience. Im not entirely the grieving mother. Part of me selfishly wants her life back. I want to do the simple things I usually do, such as spend the evening in my room with my cats and dogs and computer and TV.Do my therapy dog work. Refocus my Weight Watcher's program. Go to the gym and the Wild Animal park. Have an easy ebb and flow to my life.
When you take away the drama, sitting at the bedside of a dying man can be tedious, and very depressing. After talking with Mike's friends, I realize that they knew a Mike that I hadnt seen in years. With them he was fun and witty  and kind and compassionate. The Mike I have known these last years is entirely different. He is a sick troubled man, who is capable of being unkind to those who love him most.  I find it hard to love this man. Even if he is dying. And  by his own hand at that. Im his mother. I guess that means I do love him. If I didnt why do I break down and cry again and again.