Marjolaine

MARJOLAINE

Using my thumb as a temporary bookmark, I closed the paperback of Ender’s Game. Having already finished it twice, this third read-through sought comfort.

I’d been sitting far too long and needed a bit of a stretch. Even though the hospital chair was surprisingly comfortable, my stiff joints required some love, so I pushed myself off the seat and reached for the ceiling. Arms in the air, leaning back a touch, I came close to hitting those cat-like vibrations.

After releasing some tension, I leaned over and pulled up the stiff white bedsheets to cover Mom’s shoulder. Her breathing sounded hoarse; however, it was steady. She had spent most of her time sleeping since being admitted to the palliative care unit eleven days prior.

Six months ago, her oncologist informed her that they had exhausted all options. After multiple failed treatments, no options remained. He told her to prepare, as she had less than a year to live.

She accepted the news with grace; she knew no other way. Me? Well, I needed to admit to myself that my mother, who would turn sixty within her last months, wouldn’t be there when I blew out thirty-three candles. I built walls to cage my grief, promising her I would help her face reality.

So, we did just that by continuing to talk, tell jokes, and play cards while listening to her favourites from Celine Dion and Andrea Bocelli. And most importantly, she read. When I visited, I often found her curled up on the couch with a new book. She wanted to do what she loved in her final moments.

It wasn’t all fun and laughs. We often talked about cancer and her life nearing its end, making me reinforce those walls so I could stand strong beside her. We kept things honest, a promise to each other, and our talks helped her navigate without too many lows.

Our time together here never got dark; I simply focused on her, pushing my own emotions aside. Something to deal with afterwards; although, anger never strayed too far.

When the day came for her admission to the palliative care unit, she wavered on our promise, stating on multiple occasions that her stay would be temporary. The honesty was fading, but I understood why. The end neared. I didn’t deny her those thoughts, but I did not support them either.

“One day at a time, Mom,” is all I offered her.

And now, silence was what we shared within the sterile room, its disinfectant lingering in the air. The only colour inside her white chamber was that of the avocado-green seat beside her bed, to which I returned. It was a strange feeling, sitting with my mother while she slept. Yet, a connection of sorts lingered by simply existing in the same space. It was soothing, and it brought me a little peace.

I began to understand the lady some doors down. I noticed on our first night in the unit. She sat quietly in a small pool of light within a dark room, reading. An old gentleman, whom I imagine was her father, lay on his back on the bed, sleeping. What honestly mattered was to soak in whatever limited time remained. To feel their energy around you.

Returning to the comfort of Ender’s pages would have to wait as someone entered her room. I expected a nurse doing her rounds; instead, Mom’s neighbour, her good friend, walked in. I sighed and offered no greeting. Her presence interrupted my peaceful silence.

“How is she doing?” She asked in an attempted whisper.

“She’s just sleeping,” I replied, trying to soften the scowl I felt on my brow. Her smile kept its shine, which annoyed me.

“I thought I’d come by and see how she was doing.” Her struggle to remove her thick winter jacket might have been funny under other circumstances; however, in that moment, I found no humour in it.

“She’s good. She’s just resting.”

“Oh, that’s great; she needs that.”

Sigh. Where was my bookmark?

“I’ll stay with her,” she offered. “You probably need a break, or go home and get some sleep.”

Ah, there it was on the floor. My fingertips scrabbled at it, unable to find purchase, so using my spread-out thumb and middle finger at each end, I pinched it to release it from the cold vinyl flooring. The bookmark now bore a crease in the middle. No matter; it was one of those freebies they give you at the bookstore with every purchase.

“I had to pick up a few groceries, but I wanted to come see her, so I hurried. I think I forgot a few things.” She chuckled as she set her jacket on the small corner table. Her head twisted around, searching for a seat.

“She’ll be sleeping for a while,” I said. “She was up not long ago.”

“That’s okay, I don’t mind,” she said, moving the entrance chair to the foot of the bed. “I brought some snacks if…”

“No, I’m good.” Placing the bookmark on my lap, I opened the paperback and gazed over its pages. I no longer recognised the comfort of the sci-fi world; instead, all that remained was a blend of black and white. I shut my eyes and took a deep breath, fixating on the stretch in my lungs.

“Okay. Just let me know if you need anything. Or there’s always the cafeteria.”

When I opened my eyes, the bookmark had returned to the floor. I scoffed at it. That’s your new home now, enjoy.

“I had to stay overnight a while back,” she continued, “and I told my husband that the supper they served me was the best meal I’d had in a long time. Ha! He didn’t think that was funny one bit. You see, he’s the cook at home.”

My eyes floated to her, and my mouth opened, but no words formed. I returned my gaze to the floor where my forever lost bookmark lay; I would need to memorise my place from now on. Page 189. Page 189. 189. I can remember that. One. Eight. Nine.

A grunt escaped me as I forced myself up. I sounded like an old man. The start of a grin formed on my lips, but I pushed it away. Dropping the book on the chair, it bounced up from the cushion, threatening to join its old friend, but held on to the edge.

Mom’s breathing remained steady as I rounded the bed towards the exit. Her friend’s eyes followed me, and she mumbled something about Mom being in good hands. I didn’t quite understand what she said, nor did I care to get clarification. Leaving the room released a weight around my chest that I had not realised I carried. My jaw hurt, so I consciously tried to relax. When I glanced back into the room, my thoughts returned to feeling robbed of my time alone with Mom. The weight came back as I leaned into my anger. I hated to admit it, but it felt good.

The long and narrow corridor invited me, and I let its gravity pull me away. My first trip down the hall days ago, the quiet held a sense of dread, and now, its quiet was the arm of an old friend around my shoulders. The comfort was welcomed. My footsteps echoed as I walked by open doors, peeking into other people’s sorrows.

A thin tether connected every stranger within these walls, including that lady and her father. I slowed my pace when I saw her reading in her lit sanctuary inside the otherwise muted room. I understood her escape while remaining close to what mattered. Part of me wanted to walk in and say something. Anything. But I dared not interrupt her solitude.

It’s kind of funny under what circumstances I learned how it’s the presence that’s important, and not what’s said or what’s done. It was always about sharing space with those that matter that makes living worthwhile.

My breathing was deep and full. The brief journey to the front hospital entrance had helped balance my thoughts. I patted my back pocket. Good, I remembered my phone. Maybe I’d check in with the wife and then call my sister.

***

“How is she really doing?” I asked the nurse in the corridor, just outside Mom’s room. My sister stared at her, wanting to hear the answer as much as I did. The truth is what I needed.

“Well,” the nurse started, her features gentle. A true angel. They all were, really. If ever I have loved strangers, these selfless women were the ones. “She’s relatively healthy, outside of the cancer. Her heart is still quite strong. She has anywhere between two weeks to even a month. But…” her gaze shifted between the two of us. She hesitated like a kid unsure if she could tell a secret she’d just heard.

“We want to know the truth,” I said, trying my best to sound reassuring.

“Well,” she whispered, throwing a quick glance toward the room. “Last night, your mom said she was tired. Tired of fighting, but she’s doing it for her family.”

My walls shook, but stayed strong as I reminded myself to remain honest. I never wanted Mom to prolong her suffering because of us. Putting others first was how she lived, even in her dying days. It hurt, but it wasn’t surprising either. We exchanged a few more words with the nurse before she left us alone. My sister’s frown said it all. She shared my thoughts, so I suggested we take a walk.

At first, we moved in silence, giving me a chance to notice the lady’s chair was empty while the room’s darkness flowed with dread without its small pool of light providing it some life. The bed remained occupied by the sleeping old man.

“You know,” I said, “there’s a woman at work who lost her mom. She mentioned she had to tell her it was okay for her to go before her mom died.”

“Hmm.”

“Yeah, I’m sceptical about that kind of stuff too.” We weren’t a religious family, though when talking about someone’s spirit or soul, I liked to imagine there was more to life and death.

“So, you want to tell Mom to die?” she asked, arms crossed and a look I’d seen many times from a big sister mocking her little brother’s silly ideas.

“I mean, yeah!” I answered and shrugged.

She chuckled, and I followed. Smiling warmed my chest, and seeing her smile was also nice. We had a small family to begin with, and having her here made things easier. Especially since we’d grown apart as our lives had taken us on different paths, though we knew the other one would show up if needed, and these past few days brought back memories of when we were kids and how we got along and always found ways to have fun and laugh together.

We allowed the “what now?” to linger in the shadows, and instead, chatted of inconsequential matters like work and hobbies. For a moment, my shoulders felt light.

When we returned, Mom was awake, but only slightly. There were no wide-awake moments anymore, so we took what we could. I sat in the corner at the foot of the bed, and my sister followed suit by occupying the opposite corner. We grimaced at each other, then my sister’s eyes shifted, letting me know clearly that the idea belonged to me, so I would be leading things off. Fine.

“Hey Mom.” My upper back felt tight. “You know we’re both in a good place.” No response; audible or otherwise. “You don’t need to keep fighting for us; we’ll be okay. You’ve done everything for us, but now it’s time for you to let go. We love you very much.”

Somehow, this little spiel wasn’t as hard as I’d imagined. My sister’s eyes were a bit red, but I felt okay. No response came from Mom still, so I placed my hand on her ankle. She shifted and grumbled. Had she fallen asleep while I was speaking? My sister frowned, but offered no help in repeating what I’d just said. I sighed. I thought my speech was pretty decent, and I wasn’t sure how I’d do in a repeat performance, but here we were.

“Mom?” I waited for some sort of acknowledgement and got a grunt. Good enough. “You know we’re both fine, and you don’t need to…”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mom blurted, “I heard you the first time.”

My breath stuck in my throat, my sister’s eyes went wide and her lips sucked in, holding back a laugh. The silence hung until we fell on the bed and giggled like little kids. Even Mom, tired as she was, wore a big grin on her face. It wasn’t the moment I expected, but it was the moment I needed. Nothing else to say, the three of us stayed together in a warm silence until my sister had to leave. Later, I welcomed my wife joining me in my space, keeping me company as Mom slept peacefully.

***

The following morning when I walked into the unit, the nurse pulled me aside to advise me that the night hadn’t been great. Mom had taken a turn. Apparently, the doctors thought her heart was still strong, but they figured she had only seven to ten days left.

As the end neared, I did my best to stay the course; every step had been mapped out. I needed to remain honest with myself.

Like I had done many times, I sat in the green chair and brought out my book while Mom slept. Though I more or less glossed over the words rather than read them. I had reached a point where I welcomed the occasional visit. Some stayed a little too long, but part of me didn’t mind.

In the afternoon, when two nurses made their rounds, their faces told me something had changed. I could only imagine the number of patients they had gone through this with. They knew the exact point of Mom’s journey, and I needed to know, so I pulled the older nurse aside and asked for the truth.

“It’s starting,” she said, her words soft and her eyes steady. “I’d say she has less than a week.” She touched my arm and gave me a warm and comforting smile. An angel.

I debated not going home that night. But I did. The next morning, I received an update I had prepared for with a heavy heart.

“Twenty-four to forty-eight hours,” a nurse confirmed.

It should have been hard to make sense of everything; however, I knew Mom trusted us now and she’d stop fighting once we told her it was okay for her to let go. It felt surreal. I was living a moment I understood would become a story I’d recount to others, just like others had shared their stories.

After lunch, the prognosis was updated to “some time tonight,” which then changed to “any time now” in the early evening. Soon, Mom was surrounded by her loved ones. The room became crowded as we waited. Somehow, Mom knew that my sister’s husband was not there yet. She held on for just a little while longer, and minutes after he arrived, her breaths became laboured. I stood by the head of the bed while my sister sat on its edge, both of us wanting to be close. The stillness in the room, broken only by Mom’s raspy inhales. And then the convulsions started. They weren’t big, but enough to know that she was struggling to breathe.

“Just let it happen,” a nurse said with a calm energy we all needed. When she eventually stopped, I stared at her, my mind racing, unable to latch onto any thought. Then, to my horror, Mom gasped for air again. Her eyes opened, and the way she gasped, I could not stop imagining a fish out of water. I watched in shock. When she stopped, for the second time, the room held its collective breath, but it was over. She was gone now, and the tears started flowing. Except mine. As I saw my sister bawl, my eyes remained dry.

I’d lost the most important person in my life, and didn’t shed a single tear in that moment. My world simply went dark.

It wasn’t long before they took her away. We gathered Mom’s things and walked down the cold corridor one final time. When I passed the room, the lady sat quietly, reading while the old gentleman slept. Although these moments were important, I was grateful they were over for me. Part of me wished her the closure she probably hoped for. If these moments lasted too long, they could be how you’d remember them. I made myself a promise to smile when I would think of her, because I didn’t want her memory to be so painful that I’d avoid it.

***

For the first time, I lined up with the receiving group during a funeral. The handshakes and the thank-yous chanced to be exhausting, but enjoyed listening to people I’d never met tell me how they felt about my mother. It opened my eyes.

Before being diagnosed with cancer, she was planning her retirement from a large organisation she’d worked for since I was in elementary school. During her time there, she met and dealt with many people. People who wanted to say their goodbyes, and also let her kids know how she’d affected them positively. These were co-workers she hadn’t seen for over two years.

Every time someone mentioned how kind she was, how they were always happy to see her, and all those niceties one says at a funeral, I sensed they were honest. The tone wasn’t sombre, as everyone enjoyed talking about her. It made me proud to be her son.

Tears still flowed within the room, though none were mine. I had yet to cry. Things needed getting done, and I spent a lot of time with my sister, as we navigated well through this dark path. We laughed as we told stories about Mom while we went through her things when we cleared her apartment. We thought she would have liked seeing us spend time and have fun together. Losing my mother somehow brought be closer to my sister.

When the funeral ended, the silence returned, even though I wasn’t alone, as my wife was there for me. The hard silence was talking to Mom and hearing nothing in return. My new reality; one I would have to grow accustomed to.

***

Roughly six months had passed since Mom’s passing. I thought about her a lot, including when I’d see things that’d make me say, “I have to tell Mom”. In the end, it made me think of her, so I smiled.

I was in the basement, sorting the laundry, and the image of Mom popped into my head as we had done this activity together when I was younger, many times. My lips curled up slightly and stopped. I dropped the clothes I was holding and felt a single warm tear sliding down my cheek. As it fell from my face, I watched it land within the pile of coloured shirts.

My whole body buckled, and I dropped to my knees, bringing my hands to my face, screaming and wailing. The walls I had built had finally eroded, and I crumbled. I lay in the piles of dirty clothes, sobbing, completely broken. Part of me was glad nobody was home, though I understood this was only the beginning of my healing journey, which I would not do alone.

***

It has now been eighteen years since that fateful day inside the palliative care unit. One thing has never changed: Mom, I still miss you very much!