Transitions.

I was caught by surprise yesterday morning when they called to tell me my mom had passed. Less than 12 hours prior, the resident psychiatrist had called to tell me mom was "profoundly" depressed, citing Mom's 24/7 accessory, the sleeping blinders. She did look pretty cute in them, and I figured they gave her some sense of comfort. The doctor felt confident that starting mom on an anti-depressant would help tremendously. She said that my mom hated being at the facility, even thought the whole point was to get stronger so she could come back home. She also told me that my mom's cognitive impairment/pre-senile dementia, was mild, comparatively, for her age, and that she thought all the other behaviour stuff could be lumped under the oh so clinical term, eccentric, or idiosyncratic. This is one of the reasons I love being from the South: One DSM-IV-TR under God, indivisible etc.  

I had talked to my mom the night before in a rather uneventful conversation:

Me: "Hey mom, How are ya?" What's new, How's the weather?" "Are you doing therapy?" "Are you eating?" "The doctor said you're not using the call button when you need to get up." "You know the whole point of you being there is to get you back home, right?" "I'm almost finished boxing stuff up. I'll be there soon to break you out." 

Mom: "I'm okay, I'm okay." 

Me: "I know you're okay." I just want to make sure you're eating and doing therapy." 

Then mom probably said something about trying to sleep, or maybe she sounded agitated with me asking so many questions, so I said I love you and I'd call her tomorrow.

They were moving her from either the bed to the wheelchair or vise versa. I can't remember now. I just remember she was in transition when they said she gasped, and that was it. And for some reason I have that as a mental image- that she was neither sitting, standing or laying down but that she was in some state in-between.