Ever since my mom died, a thought dances repeatedly around my head like a buzzing fly, lightly landing, briefly flitting away, only to come right back: the day my mother was taken to the hospital, she got out of bed that morning believing she would be getting back into that same bed that night. She had no idea she was beginning her last day in her home.
As far as she knew, it was just another day. Talking later to people who saw her that day, I found out she went to a little Italian place not far from her house for lunch, quietly reading a book while she ate, not knowing what would happen in just a few hours. I liked that restaurant too, and we went there together whenever I was home. She was a creature of habit, like me, and I can picture her at the table where we always sat.
When one of my brothers and I got to her house after she was taken to the hospital, it was eerily like walking onto a movie set where the actor has stepped away for a moment, items frozen in place, awaiting her return. A few dishes in the sink that she had planned to wash that evening. Clothes in the dryer, tossed in there with all intentions of folding them later. Books with their pages marked, now unfinished. Mail separated into piles on the table. Moments and chores permanently interrupted.
My brother seemed to have the same uneasiness with these reminders scattered around her house that she expected to be right there that night, but wasn’t. Even though it was pushing midnight when we got home from the hospital, we went to work, washing those few dishes, folding and hanging up her laundry, even sweeping and mopping, as if staying busy would keep worry and what-ifs at bay.
I thought about what I might stress over if I woke up in a hospital room, barely able to communicate, unsure what was going on or how long I had been there. When we visited her the next day, I stood beside her bed and assured her everything was being taken care of, from her dog to bills to laundry, and I told her not to worry about anything, that we would stay on top of all of it. I watched the furrow in her forehead and the concern in her eyes gradually soften as I checked everything off the list.
That night, I took pictures of her dog, her furry baby, and printed them to bring to her in the hospital the following day. I held them so she could see them, and she smiled and looked so happy. My brother and I hung the pictures on the wall where she could easily see them from her bed.
We anticipated her still coming home. We planned for it. My brother and I cleaned the house each night we were there, joking about not wanting to get in trouble if she found a mess when she finally returned.
But then she had a stroke in the hospital, and our jokes stopped. Hope evaporated. Being at her house now felt like a rude intrusion to me, like crashing at her place while she slowly died at the hospital miles away. I wanted to hear her voice down the hall, wanted to see her sitting at her favorite chair in the dining room, wanted to watch her walk through the front door, already talking a mile a minute as she sometimes liked to do. I sat in the dark living room at night, unable to sleep in my old room because it just felt so damn wrong, and felt the immensity of her absence long before she passed away.
I can’t get the image of her waking up and getting out of bed that morning out of my head. Neatly pulling up the covers, expecting to fold them back later that night, not knowing what that day had in store for her.
What would she have done differently if she had known? I won’t ever know that. But I now pay a bit more attention to each day, each seemingly small moment. I make myself stop and look and hear what is around me while I can. I am pushing “someday” away. Don’t wait for someday. Do it now. Start now. Make that phone call. Write that letter. Tell people how I feel. Say it. Do it. Feel it. Embrace it all…today.
Sweat & Sparkle 