When Isaac is five weeks old, my mother dies.
It is the last night of her life, a Wednesday. Last Thursday night, I dreamed that my mother was in the hospital and about to have major surgery for a hideous gangrenous sore. So when I get the call, in reality, on Friday that she has collapsed, I have a sense that this is serious. I’ve wept hard since, trying to be quiet so that my sounds won’t disturb Isaac.
On this night, my home phone rings while I am taking a nap with the baby. It awakens me, and I decide to let it ring. I am awake now, though, and when I hear my cell phone begin to ring, I realize that it is probably the hospital trying my second number. I get up to answer it, feeling heaviness in my chest. They tell me her oxygen levels are dropping, and despite an oxygen mask at 100%, they can’t get her levels above 78%. I know I need to go to her, and I must go this night, not tomorrow. I just know. They don’t need to tell me.
I cry, hard, for a few minutes. I think—I can’t do this alone. It’s already evening; I’m upset; I have an infant to care for; and I need to drive an hour and a half. I know I need help. So I call a friend, and she says she will be here as soon as she can. I pack, and I find comfort in planning, organizing: this many diapers, this particular diaper cream, my toothbrush, soap, changes of clothes for us both. My sadness and fear dip beneath the surface of the tasks at hand.
When we arrive, I see my mother’s room and her profile, and I want to talk to the nurse before going in. My mother is clearly gasping for breath, and as I see her, I feel like the little girl I once was, about to be in big trouble. It’s like all the times she wanted me, as a child, to fix things that were far beyond my ability to fix. Right now, I feel a panic, wanting to fix her and relieve her suffering. She looks like she must be afraid, and I feel short of breath just watching. I ask the nurse, but she says this is what the body does as “part of the process.” She says my mother has been talking until recently, and the nurse also tells me that she can hear.
I go in, holding Isaac. I will hold Isaac the whole night as I sit by her side.
“We’re here, Mom. Isaac and I are here. We love you.” I stroke her hair for a moment, and I see her eyes flicker just a bit—it is the last time I see her focus and think that maybe she can see me. Her focus passes quickly, and she says nothing. Karen, the friend who has driven us, lets me know that she is free to help at any time, and she goes to the waiting room.
Isaac and I make ourselves comfortable in a recliner for the night ahead.
My mother is schizophrenic, has been all my life. She has indicated before this that she wants no intervention or testing should she fall ill, so we don’t know what causes this fatal illness now. I sit with her in the quiet of her room and accept that I can’t fix her now, never could.
I have never seen a person die. I feel afraid, watching her die. I wonder how long her agonal breathing will continue, and I wonder when to say what I know I must say. Nurses come in periodically and tell me what they are doing as they check her bed covers, her heart. And then I know it’s time.
“We’re still here, Mom.”
There is no response in her eyes, but I hope that she can still hear me.
“I want to tell you a few things.
