Scenes From the Death of My Mother

Sorry to bother you, finally got your number when I called your dad... she did a lot to herself but she's still your mom... her organs are shutting down... I don't know how to get ahold of your sister or your mom's dad but the way things are going they need to be notified... The pieces of a long, frantic text jump out at me. I understand from "organs shutting down" that my mother is going to die. I don't panic. I don't cry.

The nurse has a tone to her voice that's trying to be gentle. All the nurses and doctors the entire time tried to be gentle. They don't understand that we've already accepted this. They are't used to dealing with families like ours.

It's been two years since I've seen my mother in person. A woman that ruined my life, but gave me the best tools to save it. My father joins me at the hospital. I start to the elevators and he goes the opposite way. "Gift shop is right here, babydoll. I want to get your mom some Ike & Mike's, those are her favorite."

Dad and I have coffee in the waiting room and we talk, heart to heart. Now, after things have somewhat settled, I realize only he really understood how hard things were going to be on me. And him.

I think the doctor is frustrated. "Who is authorized to get information about her?"
"Well I'm her daughter, she's got another daughter Sam, her father Don is still alive, Heather is who has been taking care of her and would know more about her medically-"
"Yeah... usually one person is authorized and they pass around the information to everyone else."
I look the doc in the eye. "You're dealing with people that aren't very connected. It's a loose-knit family." He doesn't protest again. He likes me better after a few Grey's Anatomy jokes.

Just dad and I in the room with her. Talking to her, about her. We don't know if she can hear us, but she grunts and snorts sometimes, so I believe she can. I don't remember what was said at most points. It strikes me that my father and I are the two people in the world that loved her the most, and we're here. I feel good about that. I didn't tell my mother I loved her. I wait until dad leaves the room and whisper "I showed up. Just... y'know. I showed up." It's the last thing I say to her and I don't even know if she hears.

My sister calls the next day from the hospital. "We need to make decisions, mom didn't bother leaving an advance direct." Even if she woke up or healed somehow, she'd sustained the coma for far too long. Brain damage was a sure thing. We both already know that our mother would not want to be a vegetable, so it's not hard.

After that, I abdicate my responsibilities. My sister comes down, my aunts, et cetera. I don't answer their calls. I don't answer the hospital. I check out entirely. I still do not cry.

They transfer my mother to hospice to die peacefully. They move her from the main hospital to the one in my town(a coincidence; it's just where they had a bed). The same day my boyfriend's mother goes in the hospital in town, and is transferred to the main hospital to live. We keep my mother a secret so they don't worry, but his father keeps talking. On and on about how, the last time he was here, his mother died. I manage. I only come close to breaking once; "When a parent dies, it's like somebody snapped a rubber band, takes your legs right out from under you." I almost cry, so I drop my head to collect myself and stop it. He notices. "Hey, your dad's doing alright, ain't he?" I'm grateful for the out and recover quickly.

I still don't answer my phone. I still don't cry.

Sunday evening, around 10pm, I'm lying in bed. My phone is across the room on the charger. I miss a call and receive two voicemails. I already know what they say, so I don't let myself check them until morning.

Dad informs me that there won't be a service. They're going to cremate mom and put her with the "family plot." I do not think she would want that, so I consider taking the ashes. How much time do I have to make that decision? I text my friend at the funeral home.

Hey Bradley, how long does a cremation take?
About three days, two if we're not busy. We can even get it done in one, but that costs extra.Half an hour later: I believe I just found out why you asked me that.
...do you have my mom?
I think so. Carole. I'm so sorry.
It's alright. Just be kind to her.
Of course.He asks later if I'm coming in, curious if he'll run into me. After the robust description my sister has given, I've decided there's no need to pay my respects. It's a shell now anyway, and not an easy one to look at. He understands. I still need to thank him for his kindness. I still do not cry.

Monday I go have lunch with a friend at the college. I just wanted a nice moment, and I got it.

I'm packing my bedroom up for the move. I find a sweatshirt, still wrapped in the Christmas paper from a year ago. It's cream, with cardinals on it. She would've loved it, but I never visited her again. My roommate finds me fighting the urge to cry. I win.

My sister surprises me at work that afternoon. It's awkward. I don't know what to say to this person that I'm somehow bound to, but is nearly a stranger. Thankfully one of my coworkers comes in and relieves the tension.

Chatting with the two ladies is actually sort of fun. I hear a few stories from my childhood(mostly cute ones, a few less so). Is this what reunions are like?

"The doctors said she could hear what was going on, but she couldn't do anything about it, so I let her have it for two hours straight!" I suddenly realize this, more than anything else, sets my sister and I apart. She was too angry to let a dying woman have a moment of dignity.

"Yeah, you always were closer to your dad. You used to hang off the back of the couch and stare at the window, waiting for the cloud of dust. He always had a bag of mini-muffins for you."
"...Is that why the hell I love those things so much?!"

Nothing is certain but death and taxes, and both will drain your bank account. Even an obituary costs money. I still haven't written it. I still have not cried.

We start cleaning out her apartment. I find a box of photos, most of which I'd never seen before. I was a cute freakin' kid. And there are hundreds of photos to boot. At one time, mom was very happy to have me. A lot of memories and emotions, swirling about. I get to know my nephew again, now as a teenager instead of the baby I took care of. He was less of a smartass then. Dad is there, my boyfriend joins me, my sister is there, and my nephew. I buy everyone pizza and grab some of my mother's lovely clothes, the ones I've always coveted. If there's a sunspot, this is it. I go home. I still refuse to cry. When it wells up inside me, I find a distraction. It's very easy not to cry. It's very hard not to cry.

Her favorite book was Jonathon Livingston Seagull; the gull that tried harder, flew faster and further and better than all the other seagulls, while they laughed and criticized. I've decided to spread her ashes from somewhere high, somewhere near the sea. I will not cry.

Heather took the cats; my sister is taking most of the furniture; my dad got her car out of need; all I've requested is the mother/daughter book I tried filling out with her(she was too high, too drunk, wouldn't couldn't focus) and the turquoise seagull pendant I gave her.

Carole Lee Dayton Crump died on November 4th, 2018. She lived fifty-eight very long years. Her life was filled with pain that she couldn't overcome, and she eventually drank herself to death. It's a sad story, but typical. I will not cry.

I knew her, I never knew her, I've run out of time to know her.

I will not cry.  I will not cry. I will not cry.