My mother is dead. There she is, right in front of me, fake-looking and waxy the way department store mannequins imitate life. And for sure, I’m crying, shaking, but not about death. The truth is, I have no idea why I’m crying. I’m holding her hand, cold and that cyanotic blue, but none of this is affecting me.
I am granite.
I’m holding a vigil of sorts while we wait for the hospice service to come and dispose of this thing. You’d never believe it until it happens to you, but the transition made in that one moment between life and death, person and thing is palpable and real as anything. There’s my mother, except she’s not.
For quite some time now, we’ve been taking care of her, waiting for the eventual end. This was never about healing. This was never about hope. In that sense, I guess, this whole ordeal was the vigil. I’m just sitting here to tie things up, get at least some points for consistency. My sister and I have been biding our time while this woman, who used to be my mother, slowly became anything but. Near the end she spoke only in tongues, occasional moments of clarity reserved for accusations and terror.
“You’re trying to kill me! You put Morphine in my eyes and eye drops in my mouth!”
And this was our life for the past six months. By the time she said that, she had no eyes anymore, Thrush had long since sealed them shut. We moved past food and the need for a toilet. We have a room full of the most sophisticated medical equipment around; devices meant to stay out of the way while a person dies. Machines that have a voyeuristic streak, aroused and bearing witness to that transitory moment. Hundreds of thousands of dollars of this junk is on loan to us from, courtesy of the Ohio Cancer Services Collection. Unfortunately, the exhibit is closed to the public at this time.
These six months flash through my head as I wait. It’s been three hours now. Really, you’d think that these people should be more timely. I wonder about how long I’ve been holding her hand, kissing her Mr. Clean skull—already starting to resemble a Halloween mask. Is this normal? I’m choking on tears, snot, still not sure of why. And this is when the coroner arrives.
After we’re done with the checking of vitals and such, a team of stout and vaguely Polish men join us to remove the offensive item. That they bother with vitals for a woman icy, cerulean and sitting in a puddle of her own waste—bureaucracy never ceases to amaze. This is called going through the motions. They roll her up in the bed linens and carry her out, hammock style. I suppose they’ve done this before, but even with my novice status, I have to wonder if there isn’t a better way to do this.
“We can bring the sheets back later if you want. There’ll be people in and out through the day to pick this shit up.”
This is Al. Al is lazily gesturing to the room full of now obsolete machinery. Pills. For real, I could dope myself through the year 2010 with this supply. Play a little narcotic operetta for myself and conduct what’s left of me into a whole other place. These are the wonders of pharmacology. I consider all of this, but am jostled by Al’s snapping fingers in front of my face. He’s asking if anyone’s in there. And I have to wonder now, have these people really done this before?
“Uh, we’ll be okay. I mean, they’re cheap and kind of stained and all.”
He’s turned around before I even have the chance to finish. And like that, the door’s shut and they’re gone. Mom’s gone. There seems to be something errant about this day, this ten a.m. on a Friday. I can’t remember the last time I was up at this hour. That must be it. Yes. Circadian Rhythm disruption. That’s all. There’s an odd denouement, a lull. I wonder if there isn’t something to do, IVs to set or drops to give. And then I remember again, Mom’s not here. Mom’s gone.
Bye, Mom.
And the question of what to do now lingers like the smell of her in that vacant room.
