by Bob Purssell
Of course, I told my mother that I understood her wishes; that I realized I was making a sacrifice; that I was okay with her plan. Of course, I said all those appropriate words.
All those words that I mouthed; all those words that I intellectually accepted did not address my emotional needs. Like my mother had so clearly described, every day I knew I would feel I was abandoning her.
* * *
At Thanksgiving, I flew home. My mother’s chemo had a week to run before the first course of treatment ended. I had heard the horror stories; I had heard my parents’ brave words; I had steeled myself for what I expected to confront.
It was worse.
When I got off the plane, Elizabeth Sue and Mrs. W met me. A glance at either woman’s face left no doubt. As I waited for my bag at the carousel, I asked Elizabeth Sue, “How bad?”
“Awful.”
On the drive to my house, we did not discuss my mother’s condition. My father greeted us at the door. Shocked by how old—elderly really—he looked, I gave him a hug, I asked, “How are you doing?”
“I’m getting by, thanks to my helpers. This has been rough.”
Steeling myself, I went to the living room where my mother, wrapped in blankets, was sitting in her reading chair. Seeing me, she said, “Child, come and give your mother a hug.”
Only words like gaunt, sickly, emaciated could accurately characterize my mother’s condition. Doing as she asked, I gave her a gentle embrace, fearful that anything remotely vigorous would hurt her frail body.
Every moment I could, I spent with my mother. The operative words were “I could.” She was so tired that even brief conversations exhausted her. Most of the time I read to my mother, but even listening to me read was often too much for her. When she nodded off, I would put down the book and just sit by her side, my heart breaking in the process.
Elizabeth Sue was a godsend. She was like a good sister, helping all in the O’Leary family. She would appear and say, “I’ll sit with your mother,” or “I’ll spend some time with your father.”
My mother’s illness hit my poor father simultaneously from two directions: First, since he was well into his seventies, the stress of taking care of my mother, of watching the cancer and the chemo ravage her body was draining the man. Second, my mother’s illness had effectively taken my father’s best friend out of his life. Distraught was an appropriate description of his condition.
Saturday night, I told Elizabeth Sue, “I’m not going back tomorrow.”
“You know, that’ll kill your mother.” Not challenging her statement, I focused on the young woman’s face, “She’s fighting to stay alive for your graduation. When you call, it’s as if she took a drug. She perks up.”
“I feel like I’m abandoning her.”
“No way. You’re what is keeping her going.”
* * *
Back at school, I took up reading my Bible and praying. I studied like a maniac intent on achieving the best grades. Sex was out of the question. Like the multitude before me, I bargained with God. If I were really good, if I lived an exemplary life, he would allow my mother to live, wouldn’t he?
Three times a week I chatted with my mother. On my laptop’s monitor, it seemed after she stopped the first course of chemo that she looked better. Fearing I was seeing what I wanted to see, I forced myself not to hope.
At Christmas, when I arrived at the airport, Elizabeth Sue greeted me. Smiling, she gave me a hug and then told me, “You’re mother is so excited.”
Trying to squelch a hopeful feeling, I asked, “How’s she doing?”
“Fabulous, you won’t believe the change.”
Unlike Thanksgiving, my mother greeted me at the front door. Yes, she still looked terribly thin, and yes, she wore a hat that covered the spots on her scalp where the hair had fallen out, but she was standing. “Come let me give you a hug,” she said, and I began tearing up.
I stepped forward, and my mother wrapped her arms around me. It wasn’t a powerful hug, but there was some strength in it. Tears of joy flowed down my face.
“How do you feel?”
When my mother answered, “The chemo seems to be working. I’m feeling much better, thank you,” I laughed as I cried.
Christmas Day, for the first time since her operation, my mother left the house. We all went over to Mrs. W’s place and celebrated. We didn’t stay that long, but all were ecstatic over the progress my mother had made in little more than four weeks.
A few days later, my father told me, “I am so grateful.”
Hoping I might hear the miracle answer, I asked, “Is the cancer going into remission?”
“No, but the oncologist is optimistic. He gave your mother a very good report. We might just be talking about remission.”
“He’s not trying to …?”
“I don’t think so. He genuinely thinks your mother has a chance.”
* * *
The second course of chemo started a week after I got back to school. Expecting a recurrence of the vomiting and other side effects my mother had experienced during her first course of treatment, I prepared myself for a repeat. Surprisingly, this time everything went well.
For the first three weeks.
AMBER’S DEATH
When I called that first Monday afternoon in February, my mother coughed twice during our talk. When I asked if she felt well, she told me she might have caught a cold. After we finished talking, my father came on the line. “I’m taking your mother to the doctor’s tomorrow. I don’t think it’s serious, but I don’t want to take any chances.”
Not unduly alarmed, I told my father not to worry.
Tuesday evening, my father called and told me, “I’m at the hospital. They’re going to be admitting your mother. The doctor thinks she might have caught pneumonia.”
“Is it serious?”
“Yes, I think you’d better come home.”
I did a quick search on the Internet. To my surprise, I was able to book a 5:30 AM flight that arrived just after ten in the morning. With a two-hour layover, I would be home by three in the afternoon.
Logan airport (BOS) was nearly deserted. At the check-in counter, the ticket agent told me, “I don’t think you’ll get beyond Minneapolis.”
“Why?”
“There’s a snowstorm coming in from the west. Denver is already canceling flights.”
In frustration, I shook my fists and just barely kept from screaming out, “Oh, fuck.”
Waiting to board, I pondered my alternatives and then, using my cell, I rented an SUV at the Minneapolis-St. Paul (MSP) airport.
* * *
The plane touches down at Minneapolis-St. Paul in a snow squall. The stewardess, who is something of a wiseacre, announces, “Today’s color: white. If you’re wondering about your connecting flight, let me reassure you, it’s been cancelled.”
As we taxi to the gate, looking out the window I can see there are already three inches of snow on the ground and a whole lot more on the way. With no baggage to claim, I head for the rent-a-car place in a rush.
The clerk at the reservation counter tells me, “It’s been pretty hectic here, what with all the snow. We’ll have your SUV cleaned up in thirty minutes.”
“Don’t bother; I’ll live with a dirty car.”
“You sure?”
“I’m anxious to get going as soon as I can.”
* * *
I leave the rent-a-car parking lot with a half-consumed bag of chips on the passenger seat and a half full bottle of soda lying in the cup holder. Getting to the interstate isn’t all that bad, and for the first part of my trip, I make reasonable time. Then the road narrows to two lanes and the fun starts. At thirty miles an hour and sometimes less, I plod along. The stewardess was right; today’s color is definitely white. After thirty or so miles, I fall in be
hind a line of cars following a plow. Thirty miles later, I exit onto a secondary road and immediately find the going much tougher. The significant snow accumulation makes driving treacherous and several times my vehicle’s rear end begins to come around. I countersteer and catch the SUV before it spins.
In mid-afternoon, I call home. My father asks, “Where are you?”
“Tell me about Mother.”
“She’s in the ICU on a respirator. They’re pumping her full of antibiotics. All we can do is pray for a miracle.”
Stunned, I do not respond.
My father asks, “Where are you?”
“I rented a car; I’m at a truck stop.”
“How bad is it?”
“The snow is really coming down. I figure six to eight hours before I arrive.”
“Maybe you should find a place and stay the night.”
The way I answer, “I’m not stopping; I’m coming home,” leaves no doubt of my intention.
“Be careful. Call me every hour, please.”
“Tell Mother I’m on my way.”
* * *
The plows are having a hard time keeping up with the rapidly accumulating snow. Just after dark, at the state line, the road becomes a limited-access four-lane highway. Normally, I could average seventy, but now, because of the snow build-up, there are only two partial ruts. I crawl along averaging twenty-five. At eight, with a hundred miles to go, I pull off to buy gas and call my father.
This time, Elizabeth Sue answers. “How is she doing?” I ask.
“Not good. The doctor just told us that she’s lapsed into a coma.” Exhausted, crushed by this news, I do not respond. Elizabeth Sue asks, “Are you there?”
“I’m here. I’ll get to the hospital as soon as I can.”
“The driving must be awful?”
“It is. I figure another three or four hours.”
“I’m going to take your father home … if he’ll go. He’s really beat.”
“Thanks for all you’ve done for us.”
“It’s nothing compared to what your mom has done for me.”
“Tell Father I’m coming as fast as I can.”
* * *
I press on. To stay awake I turn on the car’s radio. There are two stories that repeat endlessly. The first, aimed at the truly unperceptive, informs all that the heavy snow is making life difficult. The second features an interview with a woman from some public health agency. In generalities and platitudes, she describes what the government is doing about this week’s worldwide pandemic scare. The interviewer, an eager young man, seems disappointed that the official will not announce the end of the world is at hand.
Through the snow, I see numerous stalled or stuck vehicles. Unable to proceed, drivers have abandoned their cars, so there is now the added danger of running into a stationary vehicle. At twenty-five miles an hour, I stare out into the night and the swirling white, which reflects the light of my low beams. I want to think of my mother, to pray for her deliverance, but I must concentrate.
Suddenly, up ahead, there is light. Car reflector! Emergency left turn. The rear end breaks loose to the right. Instinctively, I countersteer into the skid. Will I broadside? The SUV’s rear end grabs and then kicks out to the left. I ‘ease around’ the front end of an abandoned van and then catch the car to keep it from spinning in the other direction. As I drive on into the night, I rebuke myself, “Pay attention, dummy.”
I press on and, somehow, I avoid having an accident. Just before midnight, I arrive at the hospital.
* * *
In the ICU, I greet my father, who looks both exhausted and frazzled by all that has happened. After a brief conversation, he admits he needs to get some rest. We agree that I will stay with my mother, while Elizabeth Sue will take my father home.
Surrounded by a myriad of tubes and wires, my mother lies in her bed breathing through a mask, which has a hose that connects to a ventilator. I try to speak to her, but she is, to use the nurse’s expression, unresponsive. Tired, I pull up a chair and sit holding my mother’s right hand.
It is hard for me to say a prayer for my mother. The drive and my mother’s condition have left me in a state of terrible agitation. I want to scream; I want to cry; I don’t know what I want to do.
Eventually, I begin to calm down. Now somewhat more rational, I say prayers for my mother. I hope God is listening, but I’m not even sure that I’m getting the heavenly equivalent of dial tone.
Initially, I beg the Lord to save my mother, to let her live. Then, as the night proceeds, a realization comes upon me, and I begin changing what I ask for. My mother’s body, destroyed by her illness, is no longer compatible with life. Now I ask the Lord to accept her into his kingdom.
As the night drags on, every once in awhile, a nurse comes by to check on my mother. At first, they have little to do with me, but then around 4:30 AM, a male nurse asks if I’m hungry. Although I am famished, I say, “No, thanks. I don’t want to be a bother.”
Ignoring my protestation, he leaves and then returns, handing me a plastic knife and a piece of chocolate cake on a plastic plate.
* * *
Around six o’clock my father calls. He says he has gotten some sleep and feels better. I’m not so sure. He asks about Mother and I tell him, “There’s no change.”
He replies, “We’re going to try to come down to the hospital.”
I reply, “Mother seems stable, so you don’t have to rush.”
“You must be tired.”
“Yes, it was a long trip, but I’m okay. I got a little sleep last night.”
At seven thirty-one in the morning, while I’m saying another prayer, I think I hear a buzz. A second buzz and drowsy me looks up trying to locate the source of the noise. A third buzz and I look at the monitor. Flat lines have replaced the squiggly lines. By the fourth buzz, my brain engages, and I realize my mother’s heart has stopped. I stand and turn to summon help. As I do, two nurses arrive. I step out of the way, and more medical personnel crowd about my mother’s bed.
There are terse comments, the medical staff connects equipment and they start their life-saving procedures. The period of intense activity lasts for two minutes, and then someone simply says, “She’s gone.”
* * *
After disconnecting my mother’s body from the life support apparatus, the male nurse takes me aside and tells me, “There’s been a bad accident and we’ve got two people in the ER who’ll be coming to the ICU in about an hour.” Tired, I don’t understand the importance of what the nurse is trying to communicate. He sighs and then makes his point. “We’re going to have to move your mother’s body to the mortuary.”
Now I get it. How convenient that my mother has died, now they have the bed they need.
Maybe the hardening of my expression clues the male nurse that I am receiving his statement poorly. Hastily, he adds, “Take your time; there’s no rush. I’m overdue for my break and I’m just dying for a cigarette.”
Exhausted, I say some prayers, but mostly, I just sit next to the mortal remains of my mother.
I make my call. Elizabeth Sue answers and I tell her of my mother’s death. She replies, “Let me get him sitting down in a chair.” A minute goes by before Elizabeth Sue says, “You can tell him now.”
“Father, this is Barbara. Mother has passed away.”
The only response I hear is the phone hitting the floor.
* * *
Mrs. W picked me up at the hospital and took me home. All of us, my father, Elizabeth Sue, and I were worn out both physically and emotionally. That Thursday we hung about the house talking, sleeping and trying to recover.
Friday, Mrs. W and my father arranged the funeral, while Elizabeth Sue went to work. While no one asked me to clean up the house, it just seemed natural that I should perform that duty. As I methodically, bu
t numbly, went about my tasks I worked hard and rapidly. I skipped lunch, and by the time I was done in the late afternoon, the house was beginning to look like I remembered it before my mother’s illness. I finished, exhausted, fifteen minutes before my father and Mrs. W returned at five o’clock.
In the garage were three neat piles: the first destined for disposal at the dump; the next headed for return to the medical supply company; and the third going to a local charity. Saturday morning, I drove around town and disposed of the remnants of my mother’s illness.
The weekend dragged by and I had lots of time to think about my mother. My numbness went away. I walked amongst the Gisele trees and debated whether I should expand the grove to include Amber trees. Now that the initial shock of her passing had dissipated, I thought of my now deceased mother. We had been close. Undoubtedly, much closer than many daughters and mothers, who seemed, to me, to actively dislike one another. We seldom argued and I had an immense respect for her. Yet, my relationship with my mother was nowhere near as close as the relationship that I had with my father. I pondered that, and though I had ideas, I could not say exactly why there was a difference.
The limitations in our relationship certainly weren’t all my mother’s doing. For example, she and Elizabeth Sue had a very close relationship, practically parent and child. Moreover, my mother and father had a great marriage, so I realized the shortcomings in our relationship probably reflected more on me than her.
We certainly had moved much closer during the last three months of her life and that was very important to me. In fact, in an odd sort of way, her getting cancer had a positive aspect. If she had died suddenly, say from a heart attack, her leaving me would have been much more difficult for me to bear.
Although I have thought about it a great deal, I never totally understood why we weren’t as close as we might have been. Try as I might, I never could come up with a satisfactory explanation.
* * *
By Sunday afternoon, Elizabeth Sue and I had cleaned the house from top to bottom. Once again, it sparkled just as it did when my mother was well. Elizabeth Sue left to see her friends and I stayed to look after my father, who was taking a nap, which was unusual for him. This left me with nothing to do, so I sat in the living room, silently contemplating.
