Breath, no Breath
By Mary Lee Blackwell
PROMPT — What is Love?
In the quiet of the night I dozed on the floor of Mom’s sun room. I had taken the cushions off of her window seats and aligned them into a makeshift bed there. As always, the room was overly warm.
My niece, Elisabeth, had taken over the bedside vigil as Mom’s breath rattled, stopped and started again. We had discontinued the morphine, her heartbeat was steady, unlabored. The grayness around her nose and mouth had ever so slightly darkened and spread. I mulled the bizarre-to-me scenario of watching my mother die. It was time, not unexpected. But helping someone cross from one realm to another peacefully and without the capacity to turn back is not a daily occurrence. We were all ready, not ready, Mom, my siblings, me. Comprehending the surrealness was surreal in itself. Incomprehensible.
When a cool breeze fluttered my sheet and woke me from a shallow sleep, I was perplexed by the chill. Earlier, I had been sitting beside Mom in her hospital bed, talking to her, telling her the things I wasn’t sure I had said or maybe they were things I was repeating. It didn’t matter. It was the final opportunity, the check list to make sure I didn’t forget something. I gave forgiveness. I gave permission to go. I gave love, and memories and thanks as I sat beneath the throw to keep the chilly, nervous shivers at bay. When I woke, I went to Mom’s bedside to retrieve it. She was still. I waited for another gasp for air like I had been hearing for the past few hours. None came. I touched her. Her skin was cool, rubbery.
Elisabeth woke then. “Is she still breathing?” She asked.
“I don’t think she is.”
Mary Lee Blackwell has been writing for years in different capacities; journalist, blogger, travel columnist, interior design, and real estate. She is currently writing her memoir while sailing about the Caribbean like a gypsy with her husband and two dogs. She writes from Henrico, Virginia.
