JULY 23rd 2012
My mother died today.
I barely arrived in time to say goodbye.
She was laying in bed, in the ICU and my eyes teared all over again to see how small she looked.
She was asleep, surrounded by family... all of them were silent as my father, my brother, and I entered.
I nodded hello's to my cousins, Nathan and Deidre, but didn't make a sound.
Stepping past a chair, I set my bag on the floor and hid my eyes.
I couldn't look at her. She was too still.
Then my Aunt Stephanie hugged me.
Hugs are the worst.
They bring all the pain and fear to the surface and there is nothing I can do to stop the tears.
I cover my face and I'm not sure who I'm hiding my tears from.
My family, my mother, or myself.
After a few moments of my strangled sobs, my father's painful gasps, and my brother's brooding silence, my grandmother's quiet sadness, everyone else leaves to give us a moment.
I slide down the wall, my legs too weak to hold me. I drop to the floor, my tears flowing all the more freely.
I have to work hard to stop my shaking.
But I still can't look at her.
It hurts to look at her and every time I do the tightness in my chest increases, until I'm sure my lungs are going to implode. My eyes ache, my skin feels too tight, and my head is pounding the tempo of my uneven heartbeat.
But Mom... she still doesn't move, doesn't utter a sound besides the occasional gasp of troubled breathing, doesn't truly acknowledge us; doesn't acknowledge Dad holding her hand.
Someone offers me the chair at her side.
I shake my head.
I just can't do it.
My eyes look anywhere but at her, anywhere but at anyone else. I notice a drawing on the room's whiteboard. Its a drawing of whats wrong inside my mom.
One of the major arteries that leads out of the heart and down into her stomach branches off into three directions to feed her internal organs and lower extremities.
They're all blocked.
Everything from the waist down is necrotic, her organs are dying... and there's nothing they can do.
I know I'm going to lose her.
Tears threaten and I choke on them, the bitter taste in the back of my throat tells me that Pain is nowhere near finished with me.
Another hug; another pat on the head. The dam is broken again.
I feel helpless and small and desperate.
I want someone to tell me they've found some way to save her, some way to give her more time, some way to bring her back to me...
But no one does.
Doctors with mother-saving-miracles in their pockets seem to be in short supply today.
After a while of choked silence, my Grandmother leaves the room as well. Now it's my father, brother, and I. Even with my eyes closed I can tell Mom still isn't moving. I can hear all the little things. The machines beeping, the footsteps of nurses in the hall... My father whispering to my mother about how she is the best thing that ever happened to him, and that he loves her so much...
