CW: loss of a loved one
It was about ten o’clock at night. I had just crawled into bed and closed my eyes when I felt Nora’s hand on my shoulder. I had been awake for days, and my head was pounding. I rolled over anyway and looked up with dread, because I knew in my bones what she was going to say. I couldn’t breathe. “You asked me to wake you if anything happened,” she said. “Grace said that it’s time—if you want to be there, you need to come now.”
My body felt anchored to the bed. I had been preparing for this moment for a year and eight months, ever since the day in the sandwich shop that changed everything. I knew it was coming. Still, I wasn’t ready. I forced my body upright and walked into the next room; the room I’d grown up in. Almost everything looked just the way I’d left it when I redecorated in ninth grade. The room was still a pale pink, with gold trim and sheer curtains. Christmas lights hung on the walls, and the shelves were overflowing with books. The only difference was in the center of the room, where my bed used to be. It had been removed and replaced by a hospital bed.
Donna was there, in the new bed, eyes closed, rasping slowly. She hadn’t spoken for about two days. The lights were low. Grace, her nurse, was by her right side, next to Donna’s father. Her mother was seated on the bed. Nora, her other nurse, was in a chair by the door. Donna’s husband had come into the room for a moment, but left quickly. It came as no surprise to any of us. He hadn’t been there when we were all taking care of her. He had spent no nights making sure she didn’t fall out of bed. Changed none of the adult diapers that so achingly humiliated her. Spared no thought for her happiness. Why would he start now? We wouldn’t have wanted him to stay, even if he decided to. He kept her boys away too. They were just 11 and 14, so maybe it was for the best. Maybe not. I can’t say.
I took my seat lower on the bed, next to her feet. Her breathing seemed to slow and slow and slow. Every time she exhaled, more time would pass before she inhaled again. I looked around the room. It was a small gathering, but we had all been there since the start. Every doctor’s appointment. The awful, awful diagnosis. Both surgeries. The six-month stay in the hospital after the second one, when she lost the use of her left side—we made sure she had someone there with her every night. The transition home. The twenty-four hour care. The wheelchair bound, exhausting, day-long treks to chemo and physical therapy. And of course, for the past two weeks, hospice care. We did what we needed to do. We gave up sleep and food and time, without batting an eye, knowing always that this was where we would end up.
I looked at my sleeping mother’s face. Her hair had to be cut short after the surgeries, and her face was puffy from the steroids that prevented headaches from pressure buildup. It was still the most beautiful face I had ever seen. She took another slow breath. I remember murmuring something reassuring to her. I wasn’t sure if she could hear, but I said it anyway. “I love you. It’s okay. We will be okay. I love you. I love you.”
Of course we wouldn’t be okay, but what she wanted to do most was to take care of everyone else. She wouldn’t have fought as hard as she did just for herself. As we were doing for her, she did for us. And at that moment, she needed our permission to let go, even if we didn’t want to give it. She was still with us, and after all of the indignities she suffered, she deserved at least that much.
And there it was: another breath. Grace stood with her stethoscope. Ten seconds between breaths. Twelve. Fifteen. Every time we thought it was the last, that too much time had passed, she took another. It was agonizing, just waiting for the very event we had been dreading, unable to do anything but be there. It felt unnatural, as though I was watching myself watch her. After what felt like hours of labored breathing, my grandmother finally fled the room. I just kept my hand on Mama’s leg, holding myself together as tightly as a hand grenade. I needed to be strong for her. Another pause. Another breath. The clock was ticking seconds, almost obscenely, as if to mock our waiting. But what else was there to do? It felt like forever since she last exhaled. Was she gone? No. Another breath. Grace looked at my mother’s father. “"Tell her you’re going to keep her boys safe.” He choked up. “Of course I will, Donna. I’ll always take care of them, and Charlotte.” Another exhale. That one was the last. I fell apart. And I don’t know if I’ll ever put myself together.
Mom and I leaned back in beach chairs, sipping mixed drinks. The water was very blue and the sand was very soft. I don’t remember what we talked about, but I remember her laughing. I always remember her laughing. My mother passed away at the age of 44 from stage four brain cancer. She liked to watch football and read true crime novels, and she was an amazing photographer. She loved her children and her family more than anything in the world.
When Mama was diagnosed, she wrote, for several months, in a journal. I’d like to share the last sentences of her last entry:
“What is most important for me to convey is that no one should take those around them for granted. Learn lessons from everyone and do your best to be a good example! I will always be watching over you, and I look forward to our next embraces!”
Me too, Mama. Me too.
By Charlotte Caulfield
Image provided by Charlotte Caulfield
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