My mom would be sooo pissed that I am posting this picture. But I LOVE it! And would do anything to have her hand on my face right now. So, if you want me to take it down, Ma, you better show yourself to me somehow and say so! Otherwise, it's staying! You hear me, Gigi!
A year ago today I spent the last day I ever would with my mom. Having been up since 3am that morning---we had tea and split an English muffin in the middle of the night; our final tea party---we talked about how we wanted to nap the day away together. She’d stay on her couch, which she barely moved from in those last days, and I would take the hospital bed, she said. But things happened---a few visitors came, I had to try two different pharmacies and fight construction traffic to pick up a refill of liquid morphine, and relatively unremarkable hours of the day passed us by. By then I had the morphine administering down. Its conversion from grams to ounces, its equivalent dose in
Oxycontin. I would fill the dropper, sometimes twice, and if it was a good day, my mom would get relief. This was not her worst day. Had it been, there would have been no visitors---even daughters---welcome.
There was no reason to suspect it was the last day of her life. Except for maybe every reason. We all thought we had longer. We were waiting for the stuff of comas and catheters and while I'm so grateful it didn’t get to that, those were the markers we were waiting for. Because they never came, we were all shocked.
It’s still light out so I haven’t died yet today. When it gets dark lately, I die a little and cry on my couch and wish I could just be asleep and unfeeling. I downloaded
Little Women to watch tonight--- the movie my mom, Cherie and I watched this night last year. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to watch it or if I even want to. I’ve never felt so unsure of what I want or how to be. Settled in this pain or afloat in distraction?
Outside myself. Away from me.
We ate Halloween candy. My mom’s appetite had returned and though she couldn’t walk, or sleep lying down, or breathe without oxygen flowing at its highest setting into her nostrils, we saw her appetite as a sign of improvement.
You see what you can.
I told her I loved her. See, I didn’t know but somewhere I knew.
I slept on the hospital bed that night. She stayed on her couch. Around 3am I woke up, startled and surprised that we hadn’t been up yet in the night together. I brought all my blankets with me to the couch and sat beside her and covered us both. She was alive. I made sure our skin touched. Our arms. The outside of our thighs. I rubbed her back and neck. I didn't know.
Somewhere I knew.
The sun is already west. Our day together nearly gone.
My head on her shoulder, I held her hand. She was barely awake and I suppose barely alive, but we held hands.
We took our nap together then.
