‘I can feel it coming in the air….’ , Phil Collins filling the room. Lovely to see Jason enjoying the concert dvd. His feet resting on the coffee table, slouched sport socks rocking back and forth. Great energy was beginning to build with the anticipation and excitement of Jason’s favourite part of this song, the famed drum roll. ‘I’ve been waiting for this moment all my life, oh Lord..’ , the cue to start getting ready. Air drumming on deck, bated breath, Jason quickly glancing over at me, checking that I was ready….the explosive BA BUM BA BUM BUM BUM BUM BUM…. both of us in sync. Wonderful!  Jason had included this song on the ‘Truck Tunes CD’ that was often playing when we were in the truck. Drum rolls alternating between left and right speakers, Jason drumming slapping his thighs, me drumming on the steering wheel. Sometimes I would go a bit overboard to add an extra spark. Jason would shake his head, whole face beaming, “That’s my Mum!”  as I played it up.

It was such a relief that Jason was now feeling comfortable on the new prescription of hydromorphone. Last week had not been the case. Percocet had rapidly become ineffective for extended pain relief. Messages and calls to Dr. B’s office. My head spinning from their gentle nudge towards palliative care. Catching me off guard. I am sure he mentioned a year. How does the family prepare for this? How does one prepare, for your child to die? How does one prepare, for the agony of watching your other children suffer? Such anguish knowing there is nothing I can do anymore to protect each one of my beloved children, such a lack of control against the harsh realities of tomorrow.

Yes, with the unrelenting force of NF2 raging through Jason’s central nervous system, I had visited the terrifying ungraspable thought, that burying my son was plausible, but it was a damaging territory for me to be in. When trapped in there, it was a dark place, almost like a poison creeping in with the capability of bringing me down crashing. I couldn’t afford to venture into this territory. My children need a strong capable Mum. I need to be a strong capable Mum. I have a horse business to run. Need to source hay for the winter that is upon us. Jason wants to go Christmas shopping. So hard to clear my mind and bring some order to it. Need to just stay in the present.

Today was a good day. Plans were made to go out this afternoon to Jason’s favourite spots. With immense relief, hydromorphone every 6 hours was giving Jason effective extended pain control. Jason was full of life. His foot tapping away, tucking into his second sandwich, Jason was happy, Phil Collins performing his encore set, it was all good. Jason settled down for a nap. Once asleep, I dashed out to tend to the horses. Jason’s sleeping pattern has been changing, now getting up in the night. Behavioural changes are happening. Jason doesn’t remember how he felt yesterday. Each day is a fresh start. This truly is a blessing. Jason is in a great mood most of the time, witty, positive, and determined. Making plans. Jason wants me to set up a meeting with the disability employment worker after Christmas.

Rapid changes were soon to pounce upon Jason again. Jason now needs the hydromorphone topped up every 2-3 hours with ibuprofen in between. Losec has become ineffective for stomach pain. Palliative referral started. Neurological weakness increasing. Traumatic seizures on the stairs. Declining hand-eye co-ordination. Jason needing lots of help with most daily functions. So incredibly difficult trying to get through the demands of the day inside and outside. Instrumental, was the enormous help from my close friend, an amazing support on so many levels. Frightening how fast everything is happening to Jason. Palliative referral still in the paperwork stage. Auditory hallucinations. Visual hallucinations. Confusion. Loss of use of left arm. Ataxia. Palliative papers fast tracked.  A Palliative Doctor on the phone, she lived close by, she needed directions. She will be here soon. Quickly wafting sprays of ‘clean linen’ air freshener in the porch and kitchen hoping to cover up the lingering barn odour from an early morning of mucking. Anticipating the arrival of a Palliative Dr coming into my house triggers intense anxiety. Trying to keep it together; counting the 17 steps as I pace back and forth. Running upstairs to check out of the bedroom window for signs of her car coming up the long driveway. Running back downstairs. Quick check on Jason. Still sleeping. Back to pacing. Back upstairs……Sweaty palms, body trembling. The Dr.is at my door. Sitting beside her at my kitchen table. Jason still sleeping. Trying with urgency to keep my emotions locked down tight in order to competently brief the Dr. Her voice, “…and if he should stop breathing do not call 911” met my ears. Listening to her explain why, was mind altering. Is this really happening? “Have you already signed a DNR form?” the Dr. said. “What is a DNR?” I ask. The answer so heavy and final. Signing the Do Not Resuscitate order…watching the letters of my name gravely appear on the dotted line. The Dr. was a very supportive, compassionate person; had children of her own. I was instantly fond of her and felt relieved that she was here to help Jason and the family. She really got the dynamics of the family. I woke Jason up, introducing this new Dr. as a friend of Dr.B’s. Dr.B. had asked her to pop by. With this approach, Jason would be accepting of her but most of all not be alarmed. Jason had never been open to anyone in the medical profession coming to the house. The Dr. was really lovely with Jason. She treated Jason exactly how I was hoping she would. Jason soon warmed up to her, feeling comfortable with his new Dr., even treating her to a taste of his dry humour. I could tell that Jason was quickly gaining another inspired admirer. She examined Jason and started him on Decadron to reduce cranial swelling and Domperidone for his tummy. Her estimation 3wks-3months. Can’t breathe.

That afternoon Jason was in great form, chatting away with his sisters laughing. I wanted to freeze frame this moment in time and stay in it forever. I felt so much love for them. Watching the three of them; drinking them in, inhaling them in, desperate for this scene to permeate deeply into each and every cell of my body- the sight, the sound, the feel, all to be secured within.

That evening under a clear night sky, the bright moon casting just enough light, I stood filling up the water trough behind the barn. So quiet. Solitude. A hush in the crisp night air. My body crying, wanting permission to physically collapse. A quick glance behind me. My eyes met with the purity of fresh untouched snow gleaming under the moon, beckoning me to rest there. Before I even realised what was happening, every muscle released. Falling, the journey in slow motion, I fell straight back and just lay there. Completely still. Snow up against the perimeter of my body, keeping me snug. Calmed by the organic sound of my exhalation; the white fog floating out of my mouth illuminated by the moon.

Desperate phone call made to the Palliative Dr. after a most upsetting collapse of Jason, bringing us both crashing to the bathroom floor. Loss of upper left side. Hospital bed arrives into the living room. Two days later – Dec.16th, ambulance transport pulls up to the back door. They have been informed, “Where Jason goes, the Mother goes”, as I climb up into the back to be beside Jason. Talking to him. Reassuring him. Jason snoring and unresponsive.

Each day the hospice with the amazing staff became our new home from morning until very late at night at which we headed back to our own beds for a recommended night’s rest. ‘They will let us know when Jason is near the end but meanwhile we need to stay well for Jason’, which I realised and understood. Still never quite sure whether to ignore their well-intended advice. “Expect to be here well over Christmas”, said the Dr. at the latest examination of Jason, late evening of December 22nd. With the added stress of my Mum who had just arrived- swelling in her legs from flying I needed to take her home. The fold up cot all ready remained resting up against the back wall of Jason’s room.

It is the following morning. My cell phone on the bathroom floor rings: I’m in the shower, soon to leave; Kelsey is about to leave her apartment; Siobhan has left her apartment, probably almost there;  Tom is leaving work mid-morning. I answer the phone. The voice, “I am so sorry but Jason has died 15 minutes ago.”