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A daughter is filled with hope when she discovers her mother's hospice care is in good hands.
I sat in silence beside Mom's hospital bed, not even the oxygen tank whirring now. It, along with her medications, had been removed from the hospice room. Soon it would be over. Tears filled my eyes as I gently stroked her hand. I felt so alone.
In six short weeks Mom had gone from a cheerful octogenarian piecing together a bright red-and-blue quilt to a still, silent form lying beneath it. I felt so helpless. Whenever I'd needed something, Mom had been there. Now, when she was barely clinging to life, there was nothing I could do.
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Mom was in the hands of doctors and nurses I didn't know. I yearned for someone to care for her the way she'd always cared for others, with kindness and love.
Please, God, I prayed, please send Mom the right person to look after her.
I hadn't eaten all day. I got up from my place by her bedside, walked down the hall to the cafeteria and picked up some soup. Across the room I saw a nurse getting her fork and napkin from the counter. Something in her face caught my attention. Who is that?
Then it hit me. Angie Pawlowski. My treasured babysitter way back from when our kids were little. They loved to have her come over and play, and my husband and I never worried, knowing they were in such great hands.
"Angie," I said, giving her a big hug, "how are you? It's been years!"
"Why are you here?" she asked.
"My mom's in the hospice room," I said, feeling my eyes welling with tears.
"It's your mom in the hospice room?" she said softly. "Oh, Wanda, I'm the one caring for her."
That's when I knew. God had answered me before I'd even asked, providing the perfect care for my mother's last days. Yes, we were both in God's hands.
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