How Dead Women Need Lipstick and Orange Juice

Mom died on my daughter's 30th birthday. Again. My phone rang - cutting through the nighttime silence with an ominous undertone. I wanted to keep the memories fresh from the celebratory day filled with birthday cheer, but, whatever. The Memory Care Unit nursing station number glowed with a brightness I instantly resented. "I'm calling for transport to the hospital. Your mother is off and doesn't recognize me." Surely enough, the ER doc confirmed the intensity of mom's stroke and the center line shift of her brain resulting from the massive quantity of blood that exploded in her right frontal lobe. The admitting doctor bandied about the same terminology as the ER doc, using "comfort care" and "end-of-life" expressions I know well. Both doctors spoke with a foreboding sense of urgency - can I return to New Jersey quickly? "She's non-communicative, non-responsive, her eyes are cloudy and vacant, she's disconnected, and the prognosis is grim." Maybe this was her time to go. I didn't pack, though. That happened last Thursday night. By late morning on Saturday, Mom's shaky hands slowly navigated the little hospital cups of peaches and yogurt to her mouth. She attempted to use a napkin and peered at her niece. "I need lipstick." My cousin witnessed her progression during daily visits to Mom's hospital bedside. To the doctors' befuddlement, (my polite way of saying they had no idea what in the hell happened to the lady with a reservation to the morgue my dead mother had decided once again that she wasn't going anywhere. Unlike the doctors, my cousin knew exactly what transpired as I did, too. She and I gave virtual high-fives and hugs through the phone. "Rebound Sue" did it again. The docs discharged Mom late on Monday afternoon. Back in Memory Care and confused but content, she asked a nurse to Facetime me on Tuesday morning. Back in Memory Care and confused but content, she asked a nurse to Facetime me by Tuesday morn- ing, blissfully unaware of the trauma her brain had suffered. Five days of her life no longer existed and she picked right back up on her rambling stories as if her clock had reset. Each stroke leaves Mom battle-weary. She wears fragility well, though. The lipstick helps add brightness to her face and decorates her slightly crooked smile. The next morning, Wednesday, she took her meds and died again within an hour. The phone calls started. The scripted words from the hospice nurse and other medical personnel echoed the doctor's from less than a week before. "It's not good, come quickly." "She's non-communicative, non-responsive, her eyes are cloudy and vacant, she's disconnected, and the prognosis is grim." Once again, I explained "Rebound Sue" to the unknown staff. Mom teases death, tastes it, and rejects it with seconds to spare - highlighting my belief that she is the 8th Wonder of the World or a witch. Once again, I explained "Re- bound Sue" to the unknowing staff. Mom teases death, tastes it, and rejects it with seconds to spare - highlighting my belief that she is the 8th Wonder of the World or a witch. It's difficult to describe her history of rising before the ink is dry on funeral plans without sounding like a lunatic. The hos- pice nurse wasn't buying what I was selling. "Not this time, Lisa," she pressed. Again, all involved medical personnel responded slowly yet with cautionary insistence that Mom wouldn't return from this. The grim reaper hospice nurse gasped at my mention of driving a thousand miles after the 4th of July - to avoid the highway missiles on crash courses. Once again, I explained "Re- bound Sue" to the unknowing staff. Mom teases death, tastes it, and rejects it with seconds to spare - highlighting my belief that she is the 8th Wonder of the World or a witch. It's difficult to describe her history of rising before the ink is dry on funeral plans without sounding like a lunatic. The hospice nurse wasn't buying what I was selling. "Not this time, Lisa," she pressed. Again, all involved medical personnel responded slowly yet with cautionary insistence that Mom wouldn't return from this. The grim reaper hospice nurse gasped at my mention of driving a thousand miles after the 4th to avoid the highway missiles on crash courses. Again, all involved medical personnel responded slowly yet with cautionary insistence that Mom wouldn't return from this. The grim reaper hospice nurse gasped at my mention of driving a thousand miles after the 4th of July - to avoid the highway missiles on crash courses. How dare I wait? Who does that when their Mom is dying? Hushed updates throughout the day on Wednesday solidified the nursing staff's assessment that her end crept closer. Until nearly 4 p.m., Mom was lifeless and non-responsive. Come on, Mom, show 'em what you can. Late afternoon, she stirred. Mom's wobbly finger rose to scratch her nose before her eyes cracked open. She surveyed her space through a haze and requested orange juice. Swear. My angel cousin ran to get the nurse. When the nurse walked in, my Mom's glazed-over eyes showed signs of twinkling. Her raspy voice greeted the RN with, "I'm back, Jen! I'm back!" And she was. She is. Rebound Sue was in the house. They discount me as the delusional, hopeful daughter but I'm not and that's not what's happening. They believe me now. I do understand the cycle of life. Each traumatic event may be her final. It doesn't scare me. My mom and I have walked hand-in- hand through the good, the bad, and the ugly. Our goodbyes have been said. Our love is solid. I mapped out my drive north and will leave the morning after Independence Day just like I told the hospice nurse. No rush, no panic, no emotional upheaval. My mom is not in pain, has Returned to roughly 75% of her pre-stroke personality, and may continue to defy medical textbooks for years. Eventually, she will die, we all will. Be first, first Rebound Sue needs Lipstick and orange juice. And I need to pack.