Is she conscious? Those three words tore away at my being during those last two days. I had never realized what it actually meant to miss someone. I’ll be forsaken to let death get the best of me. Or will I?

A day before she fell into her coma, I gave my mother a kiss for the first time in years. Her chapped lips were no matter to me. I loved her for what she was, regardless her state of health. Which, in this case…would be the final stage before her grimly departure. Her last day was both the longest, and most vivid of my entire life.

En route to St. John’s Hospital, my sister kindly remarks, “put your seatbelt on, would you?”

As if avoiding a ticket was the first thing on our agenda. Sharon’s thoughts were indistinguishable to my own. I can’t quite remember if the music was playing or not. I can only assume that if it was, the volume knob would have been turned double what it normally would. I can then, once more, assume that it was a feeble attempt to drown out the multiple scenarios playing out in her mind. Would time do us justice?

I distinctly recall a parking spot becoming increasingly hard to retrieve. A second later, one of our cellphone’s start to go off. The caller ID displaying my father’s number, my sister frantically picks up.

“We’re here,” she immediately says. “We’re about to walk in.”

Nodding her head in compliance with the additional “alright” spoken in response, she sets her phone back in the cup-holder, slightly more wide-eyed than before.

“What’d Dad say?” I asked, with more worry in my voice than I care to ponder of.

“He said to hurry.”

I didn’t bother asking details. I could tell by my sister’s face that it didn’t sound good.

Giving up near the front of the building, Sharon sped past the ‘Pedestrians X-ing” sign, making a sharp turn right onto the narrow path winding back towards yet more general parking. What a coincidence: no parking. Turning the wheel rigidly, my sister’s impatience is shown through her newly acquired driving style.

Back towards the front, we see a black SUV of some sort backing out. Success was bleak; we were only subconsciously aware that time was running short. Pulling haphazardly into the now open spot, I silently cursed her inability to stop smoothly. I’d deliberate with her later.

Gathering speed with each footstep, we began to sprint towards the Main Entrance. Weaving our way through the countless doctors and patients, we found the elevators at long last. My heart began to skip beats every so often. It was either because I just had a lot of coffee, or because my anxiety levels were remarkably high. Although I knew it was the latter of the two.

Finally making it to the ICU floor we stepped out onto the hard tile below. We turned left and made our way toward a desk full of nurses. We ask which room our mother is in, and as we start for the room, a red-headed, heavy-set woman meets us halfway. She stops us and tells us that we may not want to enter the room.

“What wrong?” Sharon asked, although we could already feel it in our bones. We knew what had happened.

“I’m so very sorry…” and with that, my sister ran to the room.

I dragged along, only because it was hard enough for me to visit her in the hospital while she was living. How could I face her, when her eyes no longer had light in them? How could I ever look into the blank face of someone who cared for me so much? It was at this time that I forced myself to keep moving. I told myself that everything would be fine. I told myself that I was strong and that life goes on. Except something was wrong. For some reason I didn’t think life would go on. The moment I walked into the room and saw her calm, lifeless face, I imploded.

My mentality changed a lot in that one instant.

I did not cry. I cannot recall why. I’m not sure if it was because I felt the need to be the one person in my family who would show no emotion, or because I felt that my family already viewed me as a selfish, unloving being. Whatever the matter, I, myself, felt no need to cry. So many thoughts wove their way in and out of my mind, that it’s hard to say what exactly I was thinking after that point. It may just be because I was blank. Blank of emotion, blank of presence, and more importantly, blank of any response to what any family member said to me.

I’d love to pretend and say that I love my family…or, a majority at least, though, how could I possibly lie? I suppose it is selfish of me to proclaim my hate, or rather…strong dislike of a person (probably plural), though I’m at peace with that. If my being mad at my grandparents for what they did is selfish, then so be it. I find it funny that someone who can seemingly care about an individual at the extent that they said they cared for my mother, and yet not once visit her while she was sick. You see, my mother was diagnosed with Esophageal Cancer. The necessary steps were taken to try and fight off the illness. Radiation was okay for the most part, however…Chemotherapy was another story. The first treatment was terrible. She couldn’t drink anything too cold, or eat much of anything for that matter. It pains me to admit that I was closest to my mother while she tried her hardest to fight the cancer.

I’ve never been good at simply moving on. Such as the grandparent incident…you can come to the hospital half an hour after your daughter-in-law dies, but any other day you’re too busy to make sure she is doing well? I’m sorry. Maybe I’m just delusional. It’s a possibility, I’m sure, but not likely. I’m not going to talk negatively about anyone anymore. It does no good, even if it does in fact relieve stress.

I’m not sure why I’ve written this exactly. I think it’s because I realize that although I didn’t have the best relationship with my mother before she died, we had the best connection those two weeks before she did. Most people never get that chance. Two weeks is more than I could ever ask for.

Through the pain, blood, time and tears, I still have not gotten over her untimely death. There are a lot of people who tell me I need to get passed it, and that there is nothing I can do about it. I can certainly agree that there is nothing I can do, but there is no getting passed it. Being adopted alone has put a tremendous amount of pressure on my parents to try and make it so I do not wish situations were different. For my mother, however, I can honestly say…she was my one and only mom.

I’m no tough guy. I’m just as weak emotionally as the next person. I let go and cry as often as I need. Which could be monthly, weekly, or even more frequent than that. I do what is necessary to cope with my mother’s death. I use the pain that it has caused to make myself a better person. I experience what I can, and try to not linger too long on negative instances. I just hope with everything in me, that she is proud of what I’ve done, what I do, and what I will do in the future.



Joined May 2009

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