Early morning phone calls are never a good thing. And the
one I got about two months ago was no exception. My husband picked up the phone
before me, but I got on the line just in time to hear my dad say that I needed
to get to my parents’ house as soon as possible. He said, in a broken voice,
that my mom was dying.
I didn’t really believe it. I mean, I knew she was in the
“process of dying,” something my new hospice buddies said could take up to six
months. Mom was only on hospice for a little over a week, so I was pretty sure
my dad was overreacting.
And yet I jumped out of bed, got dressed and ran out the door
in less than five minutes. I figured we’d at least have the day together. That
I could crawl into her hospital bed one last time, put my head on her shoulder
and feel her warmth next to me.
Maybe the rest of the world was on fast forward or perhaps I
was moving in slow motion, but as I drove to their house I was acutely aware of
cars speeding past me. I didn’t want to get pulled over on the way to see my
dying mother, so I made an effort to drive the speed limit. Besides, she wasn’t
really going to die anyway; I had no real need to speed. She’d wait for me.
Only she didn’t.
Like most things in life, my mom’s death didn’t go according
to plan. My plan. She took her last
breath just a minute before I walked in the door. As soon as I saw her, I knew
she was gone. Her eyes were closed, her mouth was open, and all of the color
had left her face. But I still ran to her, unwilling to let my heart believe
that of which my brain was certain. I ignored my sister and my dad crying on
the other side of the bed. I even got a little angry with them for giving up on
her, for saying “she’s gone.” I checked for her pulse and listened for her
breath.
Nothing.
The small room where she lived out her last few months
suddenly felt very, very big and very, very empty. I immediately become aware
of deep aloneness that I imagine I’m going to live with for the rest of my
life. It began as an ache in my chest that I can still feel, just takes letting
my guard down for a brief moment. Something I still find difficult to do.
After my dad and sister left the room, I crawled in bed with
my mom one last time. There, alone with my mom’s body, I closed my eyes so that
I could remember the feel of her next to me. I’d done this many times before in
the recent past, a constant effort to burn the sensation into my brain. To
remember how she felt, her physical presence. But this time I could feel that
she was losing her warmth, had taken it with her in death.
I’m not sure how long I lay in bed with her, but when I
finally got up I felt bad leaving the room. She looked so lonely lying there,
an embodiment of what I was feeling on the inside. I knew the clock was
ticking, that soon her body would be swept away and forever changed—things
taken out, things put in. To leave her would be to squander the last few moments
I could ever have with my mom alone, even if I knew she wasn’t really there.
Eventually they came for her. A kind, but awkward conversation at the door followed by what seemed like a friendly "introduction" to my mom. I left the room and it felt like I was giving her away. Giving her to someone I hardly new myself. It wasn't long before they brought her out. Seeing my mom covered in a white sheet, I felt a small part of me die. As they approached the door, I realized it was the last time I'd be with her as a complete person. My whole mom. Just a few feet away but beyond my reach forever.
