Rebecca Galicha

The People In The Black Notebook

The ringing in my ears was punctuated by the flat line sound emanating from the machine. My eyes wandered over to the moving yet straight line. With a quick glance at his wristwatch, the doctor pronounced my mother’s time of death. He nodded to the hospital staff who then wheeled my mother’s body away. Although my mother was pronounced as DOA, “Dead on Arrival”, I still needed to settle the bills for all the efforts required in attempting to resuscitate my mother. In the end, the fluids they pumped into her veins, the electric shock they sent to her heart, and the oxygen they supplied to her airways were not enough to repair what the doctor dubbed as a literally broken heart. An equally exhausted looking woman peered at me from behind the billing desk while I scrambled to hand over almost my entire week’s paycheck. I bit the inside of my cheek, wondering “Where the hell could I get the money to give my mother a decent funeral?”.