“Momma, it’s me, your Immy. They have decided to turn your life support off.” I stare at her, hoping for some miracle. But there’s none. I can hear Sally and the doctor talking softly outside the door. None of this feels real. “If you can hear me, mom, please know I’m sorry. I tried, I really did. I love you Momma, but I have to let you go.” My eyes burn with the need to shed tears but I hold them back.
The time has come. I’m supposed to be prepared for this but why don’t I feel like I’m prepared at all? I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to say to her now that this is goodbye. So instead, I just hold her hand, rubbing circles into her soft thin skin.
The doctor walks in with Sally. I look up when they enter, Sally looks heartbroken for me and I turn away from her. I can’t handle seeing the sadness in her eyes.
I know once I let myself cry, I will never stop. So instead, I take a deep breath and close my eyes, telling myself I can do this, hardening my resolve. The doctor asks me to step out so she can remove the tubes and switch everything off. I shake my head at her. I want to be here for every last moment, no matter how hard. I owe mom this since I haven’t been able to stop it.
When she pulls the tube out of her throat, my mother makes a gurgling noise and gasps, but the doctor reassures me it’s the body’s normal reaction. I squeeze my mother’s hand tighter, trying to ignore the noises her body makes. The machines erupt into a scream of beeps, screaming to the world that the patient isn’t doing well. One by one, the doctor shuts them off, leaving us in silence with my gasping mother.
When she’s done, she squeezes my shoulder tightly before walking over to the side. The doctor says my mother can last a few hours or go quickly. Mom leaves quickly. Her breathing slows, her lips turn blue, and her body convulses, making me jump to my feet. I wrap my arms around her neck, pressing my head to hers.
“It’s alright, Momma. I’m right here, I’m right here,” I tell her. After a few seconds, it stops and so does her breathing. Her chest no longer rises up and down. The room falls silent, the only noise is my own heavy breathing. I lift my head from hers, Mom’s skin is dull and lifeless, and her hand loses its warmth. I know she’s gone. The doctor walks over and places a stethoscope on her chest and listens before nodding, confirming her heart is no longer beating and making a note of the time.
I stare at my mother’s dead body lying on the gurney – she’s gone. I’ll never hear her voice again, never hold her again. I can’t handle it anymore. Getting up, I pull the blanket up, tucking her in as if she’s asleep and I’m saying good night instead of goodbye. I lean down and kiss her head. My lips quiver and my eyes burn with tears that want to fall. Tears I’ve lost the will to fight.
I just stare down at her. Now what? Do I just leave and never come back? Turning around, I walk out in a daze, almost robotic. When I step into the blue corridor, Sally tries to grab my hand, but I pull away from her touch. I don’t want to be touched. I know I’ll break. I’m nearly to the end of the corridor when Tobias steps into my view. I don’t know what he sees on my face, but he reaches for me. I quickly step out of his reach. What is it with everyone and trying to touch me? I won’t break. None of these people will see me break. Tears are a weakness. I’m not weak. My mother didn’t raise a weakling.
I keep walking down the long hall, I can hear people talking to me, I can hear Sally calling after me, but I just ignore them and keep on walking. I walk out of the hospital doors. My phone vibrates in my bag that is over my shoulder. I ignore it.
I drag myself to the park across the road.
I collapse on the park bench. The darkness surprises me, but I welcome its ability to hide me from the world. The stars shine brightly down on me, the trees sway in the wind. The night is cold and silent, the only noise I can hear is the beating of my own heart, which I’m sure is broken beyond repair.
I’m completely numb, and I pray I stay that way. I don’t want to know what this pain will feel like. The wind whips through my hair, fat drops of rain hit my skin as a sheet of rain passes over me. I can’t feel coldness, I can’t feel the sting of the wind or the bite of the rain on my skin. For the first time in my life, I don’t know what my next move is. There is no plan. I realize I was in denial this entire time because I never planned to get to this point. I knew this time would come but I don’t think I believed she would ever actually be gone.
So instead, I let the rain fall drench me where I sit. I don’t care if I get sick. I don’t care what happens to me. I somehow made myself believe that she would pull through, even though my mind knows she isn’t coming back.
At some point I drudge back to my car. Tom has left the parking garage door up slightly. He must have realized I wasn’t in my car. I walk up to my car and pop the trunk, grabbing a bottle. I pop the cap and gulp the vodka down. I just want to sleep and forget about this day, or maybe wake up to find this is all a nightmare, one I’m just having trouble waking from. Only I know it isn’t, it hurts too much, and you don’t feel pain in dreams.
I jerk my car’s door open and plop down, bringing my bottle with me. I twist around in my seat, grab my duvet off the back seat and wrap it around myself, seeking comfort in its warmth. My teeth chatter but I can’t be bothered taking my wet clothes off. Right now it’s too much effort. After a while and a few more mouthfuls of my bottle of jet fuel, I slip into the darkness of sleep huddled into my little ball of grief.