Blue Lips

When my sister happened by my parents house one winter afternoon twenty years ago she found my mother blue in the lips and struggling for air; The idiopathic pulmonary cystic fibrosis that had reign over my mother was robbing her of breath. My sister took charge. Bundling my mother and her oxygen tank into her car my sister made the ninety minute drive to the Deaconess hospital. It was there that my mother was undergoing experimental outpatient treatment for her respiratory malady of unknown origin. On that particular afternoon due to her condition my mother was admitted as an inpatient with the understanding her stay would be short term, just until she had regained her strength. Ten days later however on the twenty-eighth of December, 1989, my mother would take her final precious breath.

Memories of those last ten days of my mother's life have mostly tattered and frayed and gone the way of forgetfulness. Some images and happenstance of then however have left there indelible mark. They still have me marveling some twenty years on. Chief among these is the matter of coincidence: I was at the time of my mother's stay at the Deaconess working there through a random assignment of the temp agency I was employed by. I could just as easily, as with a coin toss, have been working somewhere else. But as fate or the cosmic alignment of the stars would have it I was working at the hospital and thus able to be in my mother's final days close to a constant at her hospital bedside.

My mother's condition was such that every breath was a labored one and the last thing she needed was an exchange of words emotionally charged. Thus I held my tongue. For you see at the time I had issues that were I believed childhood based and I wanted almost more than commonsense would dictate to have my mother confess her shortcomings in parenting. But as I said I kept my opinions to myself and as I watched my mother weaken regardless of her doctor's insistence she was on the mend I kept my accusations of her perceived failures to myself. At the close of visitor hours each night I bid my mother well and went home to place late night calls to fellow members of a support group for painful childhoods. I cried that I was watching my mother die. And I was advised by those wiser than me that I could be a loving son by simply being at the bedside of my mother, and that by doing so I might also heal the places where they hurt.

Shortly thereafter one morning when I entered her room my mother implored me to her side. She'd had awaken in the night from a horrible dream in which television newscasters were pronouncing her imminent death. She had responded to the nightmare by tossing a water pitcher at the offending television screen. That morning as she told me of that awful dream she gripped my hands tightly and fought for the breath to tell me how frightened she'd been. I did my best to comfort her and reassured that I was there for her. Later that evening at the end of visiting hours I made my leave saying, "Sweet dreams, Mom." My mother replied, upon freeing herself from her oxygen mask, "Then I will dream of you." It would remain one of the most cherished moments in my life.

That Christmas my brother and sister and father and I gathered around my mother's hospital bed. We did our best to prop up the illusion that soon my mother would walk away refortified by her hospital stay. Her weakness however did not bode well. But there was hope. And there were prayers. We leaned upon the both of them as crutches. And with their support we stood around her bed doing our best to deny what our eyes were telling us, here was our loved one in the act of dying.

On the morning of her final day my mother's sister and I conferred. My mother's condition was noticeably worse than it had been up until that point. We debated whether it was time to call the rest of my family for a final vigil. In a decision perhaps born of our refusal to face the truth we put off the call until at least later that night when I got off from work. I went about my courier duties and my aunt stayed at my mother's side. At the end of my shift I ate a hasty dinner at the cafeteria of the Beth Israel hospital. Afterwards I stepped outside and facing west I saw a magnificent sunset of vibrant pinks, oranges and reds.

When I got to the Deaconess my aunt and I rallied around what I should do. There was no getting around the fact: My mother appeared to be at the end of her life. I made the call. In the time it took for my father and sister and brother to arrive my mother's vital signs crashed. It was then only a matter of hours.

We gathered about my mother's bed. A priest was summoned to administer final rites and holy oils. In turn each of us made our final goodbyes. At one point as my brother agreed with my mother that there had been some rough passages in their respective lives my mother said with a chuckle, "not so fast." She did so with the timing of a seasoned standup comedian. And I thought who is this woman cracking jokes on her deathbed? Certainly it couldn't be my mother. But it was. My father meanwhile was railing, "Why couldn't it be me instead." As my sister stood off to the side, her fists tight to her lips. I watched it all unfold around me while remaining detached as if a documentarian.

My mother was hooked up to a machine that administered morphine. She and my father had both previously agreed to no extraordinary means of prolonging her life. She would go when her time came. My father and brother and sister and I sat about my mother's room not talking, waiting for my mother to take her final breath. Hours passed. We sat there waiting. She labored on as if not fully willing to die. Then we four all fell asleep. It couldn't have been for any longer than a moment. And in that moment my mother died. For just as quickly my sister snapped awake and found her so. We were now a family of four.