Member-only story
Anniversary
Six months ago today, in the wee hours of the morning, my mother took her last breath.
It was too soon; and she had suffered too long. It was a relief and a tragedy.
It still is.
She was far too young; seventy-three, and vibrant and healthy. Except for the cancer. Just that little detail.
The little details that make all the difference.
I’ve dreamed of Mom a lot, particularly in the first few weeks after she died. She appears sort of tentatively in the dreams: already sick, and far too thin; but also cheerful, even kind of inattentive. I ask her, Do you have to die again?
She doesn’t answer.
I was there for her last two weeks. And for chunks of time before that, as well— chemo sessions, surgery recoveries — but those last weeks, when she was truly dying, when everyone knew she was dying…if you haven’t lived through such a thing, it’s almost impossible to describe it. To convey what it’s really like.
Time becomes unmoored. Everything is about what is happening, day by day, moment by moment. Will she eat? Can she swallow? Will she poop? Does she want more morphine? Does she want visitors? Is she asleep? Is that okay?
A month or so before she died, we sat down with my laptop. I asked her questions about her life, typing as…
