therealljidol Moments of Devastating Beauty
Her skin was colder than usual, but it was still just as soft. My mother had always had the softest skin. This was one of the only things about her body that hadn't changed in the past few months. Her once beautiful face had aged decades. Her body, of which I had always been envious, had wasted away. Every bone was now visible. The whites of her eyes had taken on a yellowish hue. One breast that had once nourished me was gone, replaced by a scar so deep that a portion refused to heal. Her hair, which had once framed her face in brown and then blonde, was now a soft gray down. If I hadn't known it was her, I would think it was someone else I was lying next to. Someone foreign, someone old. But this was my mother, who had raised me, who had loved me. I knew this, because even though her skin had turned yellow and paper-thin, it was still so soft.
I thought about the snowstorm in Boston on the weekend of my college audition. We had bundled up in enough clothes to keep us warm and braved a blizzard, walking in the middle of vacant streets as we tried to find a restaurant that remained open. It could have been a miserable experience, but my mom would never have that. We laughed and talked and savored what we knew would be one of the last experiences we'd have together before our relationship changed. I would soon be going off to school. For the first time, there was going to be distance between us. There wasn't any sadness about this, just a sort of knowing that these were special moments.
A gurgling sound brought me back to reality. Without letting go of her hand, I reached over my mother's chest and took a tiny bottle of drops off the nightstand. Two drops in her mouth might bring relief to her breathing as the fluids built up in her lungs. We would have to drain them soon, but maybe the atropine drops would stave off the inevitable a little longer. Or, perhaps she would just stop breathing. The thought caught in my throat like a sob. I swallowed it, instead allowing a stream of tears to roll down my cheek. Her breathing quieted. I watched her frail chest rise and fall. Her eyes flashed beneath her eyelids, and her hand clenched around mine. It would be nice to think she was squeezing my hand, but I knew that she was grappling at a dream instead. Her mouth moved as though she were talking, but no sound came out. The hospice nurse had told us that she might talk to people that weren't there. I found myself hoping against all my beliefs that there was someone there. Perhaps someone she loved in her past had come to hold her hand during her transition out of this life. Maybe it was time I let go of her hand so that this other person could take it.
I momentarily withdrew my hand from hers. I half expected her to draw her last breath, but her breathing continued. I stroked her arm instead. Should I be talking to her? "I'll be ok," I said quietly, hoping to ease the anxiety I had heard her talk about so often. "We'll be okay." The sound that came out of me said otherwise, though. Perhaps the silence was best. "I love you," I whispered, and then laid my head on the pillow next to hers. Her eyes fluttered again, but she was far away. I could distinctly feel that she was only half there, floating between two realities. I realized right there that my beliefs had to be reconfigured, and that things I once knew were no longer true, but those things could wait. Right now, I had my mom. Tomorrow, I would not.
My hand found its way to hers again. As I took it, my mind flashed to the chemo room, where surprisingly, we had shared countless of my favorite moments. Chemo was a party when my mom was there. There was always food, friends, and jokes. She would wear her "Chemo Sucks" hat and talk to everyone. Even the side effects were often funny. Once, her second toe had a spasm that caused it to point straight up in the air for ten straight minutes. I don't recall ever laughing so hard as we did then. I found myself smiling at the memory. Back then, we had imagined that things would be very different. Through every stage of diagnosis and treatment, my mother had the highest hopes that she would beat this disease. Just two weeks before, when they had told her that they were sending her home with hospice care, she had smiled. "That'll give me a chance to regain my strength so we can try something else," she had said. I know she was scared, but humor and hope always stuck with her.
She felt cold. Every instinct in my body told me to act, to do something to keep my mother warm, but it was futile. This was her body preparing to die. Her circulation was slowing. She had stopped eating many days before. We kept her mouth moist with wet sponges, but she drank little more than that. This was so very different from the movies, where the doomed heroine draws her family close and tells them the healing words that they'll need in order to carry on. Dignity when facing cancer death is merely a fantasy. The reality is ugly, sickening, and unfair.
As anger crept into my chest, I noticed my mother's eyes flutter open. I sat up, ready to tend to her needs, but she just looked at me. Our eyes connected. The sides of her mouth crept up into a tiny, almost imperceptible smile. She began to speak, but instead, closed her eyes again, drifting back to wherever she had just been. I relaxed too, knowing that she knew I was there. With her hand in mine, I let my breathing fall in rhythm with hers. Sleep would not come for me, but I rested. I allowed all the foreign ugliness to fall away, instead drinking in the familiar softness of my mother's hand.
The following isn't meant to be a part of my entry, but I thought I would include it as a tribute to my mom. I made it for her funeral.
I thought about the snowstorm in Boston on the weekend of my college audition. We had bundled up in enough clothes to keep us warm and braved a blizzard, walking in the middle of vacant streets as we tried to find a restaurant that remained open. It could have been a miserable experience, but my mom would never have that. We laughed and talked and savored what we knew would be one of the last experiences we'd have together before our relationship changed. I would soon be going off to school. For the first time, there was going to be distance between us. There wasn't any sadness about this, just a sort of knowing that these were special moments.
A gurgling sound brought me back to reality. Without letting go of her hand, I reached over my mother's chest and took a tiny bottle of drops off the nightstand. Two drops in her mouth might bring relief to her breathing as the fluids built up in her lungs. We would have to drain them soon, but maybe the atropine drops would stave off the inevitable a little longer. Or, perhaps she would just stop breathing. The thought caught in my throat like a sob. I swallowed it, instead allowing a stream of tears to roll down my cheek. Her breathing quieted. I watched her frail chest rise and fall. Her eyes flashed beneath her eyelids, and her hand clenched around mine. It would be nice to think she was squeezing my hand, but I knew that she was grappling at a dream instead. Her mouth moved as though she were talking, but no sound came out. The hospice nurse had told us that she might talk to people that weren't there. I found myself hoping against all my beliefs that there was someone there. Perhaps someone she loved in her past had come to hold her hand during her transition out of this life. Maybe it was time I let go of her hand so that this other person could take it.
I momentarily withdrew my hand from hers. I half expected her to draw her last breath, but her breathing continued. I stroked her arm instead. Should I be talking to her? "I'll be ok," I said quietly, hoping to ease the anxiety I had heard her talk about so often. "We'll be okay." The sound that came out of me said otherwise, though. Perhaps the silence was best. "I love you," I whispered, and then laid my head on the pillow next to hers. Her eyes fluttered again, but she was far away. I could distinctly feel that she was only half there, floating between two realities. I realized right there that my beliefs had to be reconfigured, and that things I once knew were no longer true, but those things could wait. Right now, I had my mom. Tomorrow, I would not.
My hand found its way to hers again. As I took it, my mind flashed to the chemo room, where surprisingly, we had shared countless of my favorite moments. Chemo was a party when my mom was there. There was always food, friends, and jokes. She would wear her "Chemo Sucks" hat and talk to everyone. Even the side effects were often funny. Once, her second toe had a spasm that caused it to point straight up in the air for ten straight minutes. I don't recall ever laughing so hard as we did then. I found myself smiling at the memory. Back then, we had imagined that things would be very different. Through every stage of diagnosis and treatment, my mother had the highest hopes that she would beat this disease. Just two weeks before, when they had told her that they were sending her home with hospice care, she had smiled. "That'll give me a chance to regain my strength so we can try something else," she had said. I know she was scared, but humor and hope always stuck with her.
She felt cold. Every instinct in my body told me to act, to do something to keep my mother warm, but it was futile. This was her body preparing to die. Her circulation was slowing. She had stopped eating many days before. We kept her mouth moist with wet sponges, but she drank little more than that. This was so very different from the movies, where the doomed heroine draws her family close and tells them the healing words that they'll need in order to carry on. Dignity when facing cancer death is merely a fantasy. The reality is ugly, sickening, and unfair.
As anger crept into my chest, I noticed my mother's eyes flutter open. I sat up, ready to tend to her needs, but she just looked at me. Our eyes connected. The sides of her mouth crept up into a tiny, almost imperceptible smile. She began to speak, but instead, closed her eyes again, drifting back to wherever she had just been. I relaxed too, knowing that she knew I was there. With her hand in mine, I let my breathing fall in rhythm with hers. Sleep would not come for me, but I rested. I allowed all the foreign ugliness to fall away, instead drinking in the familiar softness of my mother's hand.
The following isn't meant to be a part of my entry, but I thought I would include it as a tribute to my mom. I made it for her funeral.
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