The Kindest Person in the World

Mon., January 16, 2006

I spent the past seven days in room 3007 at the Baptist Hospital in Jackson, MS. I'm now on American Air 1049 flying to LA for a board meeting. Mom's small room got crowded at times with all five Murrell "kids," a few grandkids, an occasional family friend, and the ultra-friendly nurses all squeezing in space designed for one patient, one doctor, and a visitor. Mom has been up and down. One day we are all crowded in room 3007 laughing together as we tell old family stories—with Mom laughing along with us. The next day Mom is in constant pain, can barely breathe, and says things like "I feel like I'm dying." Up and down. The doctor says she may last another hour or another month. He can't predict how long, but he can predict that she will not recover. Her heart is just too weak. Her internal organs have started shutting down. We moved her to a hospice today. The average hospice stay is 21 days. The doctor will be surprised if she makes it that long. Watching my Mom suffer the way she has this past week confirmed something I have long suspected—that she is indeed the nicest and most patient person in the world. After all the poking and pricking, she always smiled at the nurse and said "thank you" or "oh, I hate to be so much trouble." To all who have prayed, called, or emailed—THANKS.

 

 

 


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