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What We Allow To Die Within Us—
A One-Day Journal of My Mother’s Passing  Part 2 of 3

“Iron-willed”, the highly competent female doctor called my mother yesterday when we spoke in the hallway of the emergency room. Somehow I felt in those two words she recognized the hidden sacrifice of my life. It liberated me, having a total stranger in a small amount of time comprehend what a steely little person my mother was. I knew the doctor understood my mixed emotions; my deep sadness stirred in with equal longing for relief from a lifetime of being hampered by the looming presence of a critical parent.

Where would I be now, I leaned on the red villa door and asked, if I had spoken up to her when I was teenager? Or if I had not brought her to live near us twenty years ago when she was low on savings and fearful of living alone? When was the pivotal moment when I decided to serve her yet keep my inner self private from her intrusion? Have I fulfilled my payments to the karmic bank? An unfamiliar sense of pride wells up in me, as if blessing my contribution as the only living child. I savor it like warm sunshine, and feel like singing it out loud. “I have honored my mother all these years, despite personal hardship.”

My mind replays two days ago, before the paramedics brought her to the emergency room. I had shopped at three stores to get the items on her list. As usual these past few months, I had fixed her supper. She was upset that I had arrived later than expected. She’d been greatly disturbed earlier that day by a neighbor who checked on her and told her she should have me take her to the hospital. Hearing that, I was overcome with weakness and confusion, for at this point she was still refusing any medical help. Then she was angry because I had forgotten Lifesavers on her list. She snapped at me, “You mean I’m going to have to wait till 7:00 tomorrow night for my Lifesavers?” The words stung me in my despair. I left to go buy them, crying as I went down the hall, praying with the utmost sincerity for God to help us both have the strength to do what needed to be done, asking for assistance from all departed family members who loved her. When I returned she was doubled over on her bed. I cradled her head in my lap, leaving for just a minute to call a nurse friend for advice, then back to hold her again, when she finally said yes, she would go to the hospital.

It was hard to ask her the death question. She had told me long ago, but I needed to know her current desire. I did it in the emergency room, in between tests they were taking. “I want to be cremated, “she said. I asked if she wanted to be in the New Jersey family plot where my sister is buried. She said no, that would cost too much money. “Just cremate me,” she repeated roughly, “then I don’t care what you do with me.”

I’m sitting at her bedside now, holding her hand. She’s crying out a lot and they’ve given her more painkiller. No one knows how long it will be till her frail body goes wherever it goes before it becomes the ashes she requests. Then where will it go, I suddenly question.

Just the thought of cremation makes me shudder and here I am in charge of my mother’s physical legacy. I think of TV shows where ashes are cast upon the ocean or favorite wooded places. Not an option here, I muse. The only place my mother really liked was a good mall to shop for clothes. I entertain myself with the image of arriving at the mall late at night and sprinkling her ashes at the edge of the parking lot, knowing of course she wouldn’t like that either.

Part 3 of this 3 part article will resume next month.