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

I put my hand in my pocket and a forgotten toothpick pierces my finger, drawing blood.

It makes me aware of the pain my mother has experienced these two days of blood work and IV’s. Is this the only way we’re allowed to die, poked and prodded until our body collapses in despair? I’m thankful she’s here. I have always feared finding her in her apartment, afraid that it would be my fault that I wasn’t there when it happened, my fault that I didn’t do better.

I’m right by her when she sits up, abruptly waking, eyes wide open. I’m thinking she might be seeing the angel of death when she looks at me piercingly and asks, “Am I dying?” I summon the resources for absolute truth I never could summon with her before this moment. “Yes,” I tell her firmly, with my hand gently on her head. She asks me if that’s why I’m here, what she’s dying of, and then falls back into her restless sleep.

I remember her years of hospital volunteering when she was independent, and want to believe the outstanding compassionate care she’s getting here is indeed a Divine thank-you for her own helping effort.

A wonderful nurse has come to check vital signs. She stays to tenderly stroke my mother’s forehead. Standing at the other bedside, touching the familiar hair that two days before I have cut and shampooed, I watch the nurse in appreciation, with a twinge of guilt that a stranger’s caress might be more loving than my own. Several times today she has monitored improvements in blood pressure and temperature, obviously pleased at the unexpected power of this tiny person. “She’s tough,” she says before she leaves, with a heartfelt smile of approval that I wish I had a snapshot of. She looks at me, and I nod enthusiastically in agreement.

I go to the bathroom and put on lipstick. I try to organize my purse, glancing at the villa scene, deciding it looks more like New Mexico, remembering being there decades ago. How I loved those years of traveling, getting away from home and really feeling free. I look back to check her state. Her breathing is more labored now. I let myself imagine, just slightly, what it will feel like tomorrow, after she’s gone. A different sort of cry rumbles up. It hits me that I’m crying for both of us.

It’s getting dark now. I see my mother’s breathing change, and I go out to alert the nursing station. The phone rings. I step outside the curtain. It’s my boyfriend, getting directions to come up. While I’m talking, three staff members arrive to check on her. The kind male nurse steps around the curtain in what seems like seconds and tells me he can no longer find a heartbeat. As I lay down the phone, he hugs me. They tell me they will give me time alone.

I stroke her hair. I say prayers. I lay my head on the side of the bed and say I’m sorry she suffered so much, I’m sorry things weren’t better between us. I’m crying from deep within my chest. This is new to me, seeing someone you love die firsthand. I just sit there, wondering what I should be doing next. I feel a wave of peace that is more than relief for the end of our respective pain.

I surprisingly identify it as newfound respect for my mother’s strength, as if all our negative history suddenly transformed into lighter, more pleasant memories. “Why don’t you cut that hair and get it out of your face and mine,” she had grumbled yesterday when I leaned over to kiss her. I repeat the sentence in my mind several times with gleeful relief that it no longer hurts my feelings, and actually feels humorous.

My boyfriend arrives to be with me. We sit in the room until all arrangements are done. We talk in hushed tones, as if she could hear. We well up with tears. We smile at each other, conscious of blossoming freedom. We both have the same thought. We want to take Mom to New Jersey, where she really wants to be. And, we laugh out loud; this time I can be gone more than two days.