We Were All Mom's Favorite
We cram ourselves into the closet-sized room within a room, my two sisters and me. There's a soft knock on the door, and the doctor peers in - her head hangs low through the crack, waiting for permission to enter. She hovers between our claustrophobic box of disbelief and another family's distress, and I think for a moment how cruel her burden must be. I watch the mole on her reddened chin move as she delicately spins what we can expect to happen throughout the stages of our mother's death. Mom is dying. We didn't expect that. Our brother, still en route, will get this speech secondhand.
In the hours that follow, more family members begin to arrive and take over the separate, much larger waiting area. Mom is the oldest of ten, and despite the years, miles, and differences that separate them, they remain a close-knit unit. There is much hugging, laughter, and tears as we each fall seamlessly into our familiar roles. It seems comfort resides in familiarity, and in that instant, all feels well. Everyone chooses their spot to camp out; soon, there is not a seat left to be had, and children equipped with books and crayons occupy nearly every inch of floor space. Aunts, uncles, cousins - they respect our time with mom and patiently await their turn to wind through the maze of hallways and doors to spend a few precious moments with her.
Family is everything.
Word arrives that they will be moving mom from the ICU to a room where she will be more comfortable - a hospice suite. "There is privacy and plenty of space for the entire family and any visitors you would like to welcome in," they explain. My heart sinks. Despite what the head of Oncology had told us, part of me was still holding on to a shred of hope that mom would rebound. That the cancer will miraculously disappear. That she will get in its face - purse her lips, point her finger at its chest, and tell it to fuck off.
That is something my mom would do. But cancer is a bully, manageable at best, insatiable at worst. And unfortunately, the latter is why we are here.
They wheel her out of the ICU, and we follow behind - a frantic yet somber parade of adult children dreading the next leg of this nightmarish journey. I notice the thick-bodied nurse that had been tending to our mom as she catches a glimpse of our procession. Sobbing, she buries her curly blonde head into a coworker's shoulder. "It's just horrible; she was so sweet and kind to me despite all she is going through." I know she is talking about mom, and my heart breaks a little more.
The gurney turns left to wait for the elevator. "Sorry, staff and patients only." They make an exception for our dad and wave him in. We are given convoluted directions to her new room, and the four of us nod blankly. The orderly, picking up on our bewilderment, shouts through the closing doors, "Did you get all that?"
Of course, we didn't. We are anxious and uncertain; perhaps the realization that this is the beginning of us finding our own way is taking root.
We explain the situation to our extended family members in the waiting room as best we can. The buzzing hive of chit-chat, children playing, and prayer falls silent. Finally, a few of the aunts exchange a knowing look, and one of them gently shares, "That's the same room our mom was in." They offer to walk with us, but we decline, and they understand.
The walk to mom's new room seems to take forever. The contrast between the close, dimly lit areas - apparent remains of the "old hospital" and the more recently renovated bright, open spaces is slightly disorienting. As an interior designer, mom would appreciate and likely agree with my observation, and I try to block out the thought that this will be the last place she will see on this earth.
It seems I'm not the only one wrestling with this knowledge.
Know when to growl like a tiger and bend like a willow. There is strength in both.
Once we see that mom is safe and sound, my sisters, brother, and I make a quick run to the house. It's December - she needs a Christmas tree in her room. We grab the not-so-small artificial one our aunt brought over and the ornaments framing photos of each of the grandchildren and great-grandchildren; eighteen in all. Hopefully, seeing the tree lit up with soft, white lights and smiling faces will make it feel a little more like home. We collect her purse and the growing stack of cards from well-wishers off the kitchen counter. She's been worried about her hair, so we locate her brush and some other personal items we know she will want. And on our way back to the hospital, we're struck with an irresistible idea.
The hospice nurse had told us she is welcome to eat or drink whatever her heart desires, "but try not to worry if the food goes uneaten. It's just part of the process." The truth is, she hasn't eaten anything apart from a few peppermint Altoids these last couple of days. We push this uncomfortable fact to the back of our minds as we pull up to The House of Wines.
There is only one other car in the parking lot, and we let out a collective sigh of disappointment. The place is closed. And when we ask the person unloading items from the other car, he tells us they can't sell us wine today anyway on account of it being Sunday.
"But we need a bottle of wine. It's for our mom." I beg.
"You can always try the Giant Eagle. They can sell on Sundays." He replies.
"That will take too long. She's in the hospital…dying. We don't know how much longer she has." The painful words fall out of my sister's mouth.
"I'm so sorry." The man looks at us with kind eyes.
"Mom loves this place; she decorated it when they remodeled." I point at the window treatments she proudly showed off every time we visited.
"Barb is your mom?" He shifts the box he's holding and opens the front door. "Well, like I said, I can't sell you a bottle of wine, but there's no law that says I can't give you one. Please, come in."
There is kindness everywhere, be open to receiving it.
Mom has always prided herself on the fact that she drinks more water than a fish, yet the oversized plastic mug sitting on the bedside table remains full. But when she spies the bottle of Chardonnay in my sister's hand, a sweet smile spreads across her face. Under normal circumstances, she would be sitting at the kitchen counter sipping on a glass of Fetzer as she called each of us kids to check-in. She would give us doctor appointment updates and tell us about her day at the shop and design studio. She would ask how our day was and how her grandbabies were doing. And sometimes, a story about her childhood - or ours - would find its way into the conversation. Whether we talked for five minutes or an hour, each call ended with mom saying, "I love you, sweetie; I'll talk to you tomorrow."
No words can describe how much I will miss those phone calls.
We watch as dad tenderly raises the glass of wine to her lips, and she takes a sip. "Oh, that's good. Thank you." Her voice is barely more than a whisper, and she manages another smile. She doesn't ask for more, and when dad offers, she softly replies, "No, thank you."
Throughout the next few days, a steady stream of family, childhood friends, and design clients-turned-friends pour in. The adjoining room is so full at times that some are forced to wait in the hallway for their chance to visit with mom. Stacey, her nurse, tells me that she has never witnessed such an outpouring of love and support in all the years she has worked in hospice care. Without trying to hide the swell of pride in my voice, I tell her, "Mom has a gift for making people feel special. They are simply giving that back to her now."
On Tuesday evening, Stacey takes us aside and suggests it is time we say our final goodbyes. Mom is still somewhat responsive, but the nurse doesn't expect that to be the case for much longer. And one by one, we each share a private moment at her bedside. The selfish part of me hopes for an epiphany - that mom will share a pearl of wisdom that fits perfectly on the pinhead of life. Something that makes sense of this pain and suffering, the 'this is why we are here' moment, and what I am supposed to do without her. But this is real life, not a Hallmark movie. So instead, I hold her hand, and she listens to me talk. Reluctant to leave her side, she gives my hand a gentle squeeze and mouths, "I love you too, sweetie."
My sisters, brother, dad, and I gather in the narrow alcove separating mom's room and the waiting area in a quiet, tear-filled embrace. And just as mom would have it - we break the silence with loving humor. "Mom told me I’m her best friend." I blurt out between sobs. My brother perks up, "that's funny; she told me the same thing." And then my sisters, "Us too!"
Maybe we had our moment after all.
You are all my favorite.
The sun was shining when mom passed away on Thursday morning. And in stark contrast to the colorless gloom of the previous few days, the vibrant blue sky seemed to be the invitation she was waiting for. My heart is broken, but her pain has ended. And though her spirit has moved on, her legacy and lessons remain engraved on my soul.
You are my favorite too, mom.
Andrea Hunter is a writer currently situated on her wanna-be homestead in the suburbs of Chicago. As she makes her glacier-paced migration west, Andrea dreams of writing from her future goat farm nestled in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. Her short fiction and poetry have appeared in WOW! Women on Writing Magazine, Ink and Voices, Shady Grove Literary, Sad Girls Club Lit, and various print publications. Connect with Andrea on Instagram: @andrea.hunter3