2004-07-04 - 10:44 a.m.
Independence Day
My sister called me at work Thursday to say that the nurse told my father he should call a priest to give Last Rites to our mother.
"The nurse said she has about three days at most," my sister said.
When I got to the house I saw my mother—skinnier than the last time I saw her, unable to respond. It's been painful to watch.
My father ordered a hospital bed, and the delivery guy set it up in the living room. IN THE LIVING ROOM!!! He said that's where my father said to put it. My father's reasoning is so that way people don't have to go to her room to disturb her. Instead, they can disturb her right out in the open. And disturb they have.
EVERY FUCKING DAY SINCE THURSDAY HAS BEEN LIKE NEW YEAR'S FUCKING EVE!
People have been coming in and going out. People's kids have been running all over the fucking place. People have brought their kids' friends. Drinks have been made. Copious amounts of beer have been consumed. Video games have been played by people we didn't even know were in the house.
"You know your mother. She would have wanted it that way," my father slurred through more than a six pack.
"That's a bunch of bullshit!" I told him. "She'd fucking hate this. There are way too many people here! This isn't a party!" He tried to validate his way of thinking and then told me to shut up and that I didn't know what I was talking about.
Two of my brothers, my sister, one of my sisters-in-law, and I agreed yesterday that so many of these people are taking advantage of the situation.
"Yeah. That IS bullshit!" my oldest brother said, as he rocked the baby that someone had left on a bed.
I also discussed the situation with a cousin and the neighbors who we consider family. They also agreed.
My mom was conscious yesterday morning. She said my name when I spoke to her. My sister asked her if she wanted the bed moved into her room and she nodded "yes." Finally! We were able to convince our father to put my mom back in her room. The bed was moved. Things weren't that bad after all.
Yesterday afternoon things changed—my mother's skin looked worse, her facial features looked worse, her eyes were open, but the pupils were no longer there.
The dog ran and hid under my brother's bed and stayed there until late at night. More people came—people who hadn't already been here, and who'd actually come to pay their respects and not for the free food and party atmosphere.
An older, female cousin wanted to go in to see my mom.
"Was last weekend the last time you saw her?" I asked.
"Yeah," she said.
"OK. Take a deep breath before you go in. She looked GOOD last week compared to today."
"Forget it, then," she said and started to cry.
She walked away and I felt bad. I went in to see my mom, and then went to the kitchen to get my cousin.
"I didn't mean to make you cry. Come on. We'll go in together. I'll hold your hand, and we can cry together. We went in, she looked at my mom and immediately began to cry.
It was like that with everyone who hadn't seen her. The father of a long-time friend went into the room when I was sitting in there. My brother went in with him. The man stood at the foot of the bed, looked at her for (maybe) all of 15 seconds and said, "Pobresita" [Spanish for "Poor little thing"], began to cry, and had to hold himself up against the wall once he left.
Later, his son, a very close friend since we were kids, came in and had a worse reaction. "I'm sorry," he whimpered to my brother and me. "I just can't believe it." We still can't either. He spoke very nicely of her—her unselfishness, her willingness to help others even if it meant that she had to go without something. He made us cry again. It will probably happen over and over again, throughout the day today.
I stayed in the room last night with my mother. I thought someone should be with her in the event that it finally happened. She used to joke about how some priest or other would say, “Death comes but like a t’ief in da night.” Perhaps tonight will finally be her night.
About an hour ago, my sister, who has been taking care of my mother through all of this, suggested I go about my business.
“If you want to go for a bike ride, go brother,” she said. She’s not here anymore. They rolled her over and she wasn’t in pain.”
“Go,” my father said. “You’ve been here. She knows you how much you cared. Just go.”
So here I am. Tired. Hungry. Stomach cramped and knotted. Eyes teary and puffy. My mother is in her room. Eyes open. Breathing shallow. There, but not there.
Today’s the 4th of July. Independence Day for the United States—and maybe for my mother too. She’s suffered enough. Hopefully, today’s the day she’ll be free of her suffering.
Peace.
