“Let’s get a photo,” there was
urgency in her voice. “I’ve always wanted a photo with the grandchildren,” she
added softly.
“Not all the grandchildren are
here, Ma.”
My mother stood near the hedge of
tall yellow flowers that appeared out of nowhere one summer along the back
property line. She disappeared for
a time and reappeared in different attire. Her sunflower blouse purposely matched the preferred
background. It was all so perfect,
like she had orchestrated this photo shoot.
Arms in motion, without a word she
directed her precious few grandchildren to gather and pose. Elizabeth had already plucked a yellow
flower from the overgrowth and tucked it behind her ear. Her brother Alex, cousin Taylor and
sister Gabrielle followed suit. My
mother’s flower touched her right cheek, but not before she withdrew the oxygen
tubing that made a parallel imprint on the ridge of her cheeks. The children entwined arms, yes because
they truly loved each other and were bonded through their grandmother, but they
too seemed to sense the gravity of the moment.
Over time, my mother left the house
only for doctor’s appointments.
The movements necessary to pull on her pants or wriggle a shirt on over
her head, robbed her of breath.
She required help with most things and the doctor’s prescribed cocktail
of drugs did not relieve her of the anxiety that came with minimal lung
capacity that accompanied her genetic condition. My mother slept through
daylight and darkness. My sister and I took turns, bathing and dressing
her. After sleeping on the floor
to be close, early one morning I slipped into bed with my mother. With an arm hooked over torso, I discovered
the loose flesh-on-bone. My mother had lost so much weight. Our bodies melted into each other.
“I can’t stand that you have to
take care of me,” my mother croaked in a whisper.
“Ma, you took care of me all these
years. It’s my turn now.” I could not imagine being anywhere else
during that moment in time. “I
love you forever and always.
Forever and always,” I added.
That night, I lay on my back,
staring at the ceiling and listening.
Listening to the ragged breath. Wondering when I would hear the last
exhale and consider the emptiness I would feel with that last breath my mother
was sure to take soon. I shook my
head thinking, Mummy’s still here. She’s alive now. I grew still and quiet, listening for
the breath. Don’t miss today getting ready for tomorrow, I thought.
There
was one more trip to the hospital.
My mother looked so tiny in the hospital bed as she slept. Her blue eyes would open now and
again. All energies went into
breathing. Speaking was too
difficult and became minimal, for only the most important matters.
“Last
night I dreamt that I died.” she began.
I
paused and thoughtfully considered a response. “How was it?”
“Peaceful. But, I don’t want to leave. I worry about you and your brother.”
This
was not a conversation I wanted to have, certainly one that I had dreaded for
sometime, but I knew that my mother needed it, needed to be reassured.
“We’ll
be OK, Ma. We’ll take care of each
other. Promise me you won’t go
anywhere without saying goodbye first. It’s OK for you to go.” My mother drifted off to sleep, while I
tiptoed out of the room. Tears streaming, mouthing,
“I love you Ma.”
Four
days later, my mother placed an unanswered phone call to my home. She died a
few hours later in silk pajamas that matched her striking blue eyes.
