As I walk
into the doors yet again, I am filled with dread. I hate coming to this place and for this
reason. I hate the smells of the entire
building, so clean it holds a stench. I
hate seeing all these people in either scrubs or lab coats. It’s depressing to know that I have to spend
yet another day in this place, trying to keep my spirits up in order to not be
a burden to her. As I ride in the
elevator, I am both relieved and anxious about being alone. I am relieved because I know the tears will come. I am anxious because I don’t want them to
come. You would think my tear ducts
would stop creating tears. I don’t eat,
don’t drink, and barely sleep, so I am not sure where they are coming
from. As I ride up in the elevator, I
try to hold my breath, floor 2. On the
third floor, I exhale loudly. On the
fourth floor, I feel my eyes watering.
On the fifth floor, one sole tear escapes and rolls down my cheek. On the sixth floor, my destination floor,
tears are streaming down my face, but there is no sound, silent tears. As the door dings and opens, I wipe my tears
and take several calming, deep breaths.
My self-talk, “get it together, you can do this! You will not walk in there with tears running
down your face! You will be strong for
her!” I get to the room, gently push the
door open, and walk in. I look towards
the bed, and I see my mom.
How do you
prepare for someone you love to die? I
mean, you see them every day struggling to stay in this world, for what? For me?
My mom was holding on literally for dear life for her children. Me, the baby of the bunch, refused to believe
that my mom would leave me. I mean, I
had two sisters, but only one mom. How
could she leave? Could I let her go? She appeared to be sleeping when I walked in
so I took a seat next to her bed and began to pray. I prayed for healing. I prayed for longevity of life. I prayed every prayer I knew to pray,
silently. I touched her hand, and held
on. There was a sixth sense that this
would be our last time alone. At one
point my mom opened her eyes and looked directly at me and said, “I am
ready. I am not scared.” My heart broke. My world shook. My breath was gone. “NNNNOOOOOOOO!” rang in my head, but no words
came from my mouth. I couldn’t chance
trying to voice anything. My mother; my
rock, my world, closed her eyes, squeezed my hand, and went back to sleep. I stayed for at least another hour. I had to savor that moment.
Not until my children called, did I find the
strength to move. So, in slow motion, I
stood, and walked to the dreaded isolation box called the elevator. It seemed it took an eternity to get to the
first floor. I headed to the exit,
hating and loving the doors at the same time.
Loving it, because I was going to get away from the stench, the lab
coats, the scrubs, and the dread. Hating
it, because I was leaving my mother in this place of death preparation. For, all they could do was “keep her
comfortable”. What exactly does that
mean? I should have asked when I had the
chance.
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