Category: writing

Early morning on September 9 in Rochester, New York. The leaves on the trees had surrendered their jovial green to autumn’s overbearing orange. The sliding glass overlooking the patio and lush lawn remained closed due to the cold, bustling wind.

The living room, with white walls and a matching tile floor, had always resembled a hospital room, and within the last thirty days it couldn’t be more apparent. The silence interrupted by a clicking ventilator, signaling the oxygen canister had depleted; it hummed to refill its breath. An oscillating fan buzzed, swirling the pungent urine, vinyl, and latex throughout the home.

Mom, Lidia to most, frail and motionless in a morphine trance atop the grey, vinyl mattress fitted for the portable bedframe on loan from the hospital. The bulky contraption like an adult crib with tall rails preventing her escape, just as the smaller version did when she was a baby.

Only a month ago, Lidia was walking, talking, and feeding herself. She’d carry on with Raquel, the visiting nurse dressed in a yellow dress and bright blue name tag, who came twice a week to assist us and check her vitals. She always announced the numbers aloud with hesitation and drab, then scribbled the results onto a notepad.

“120 over 80. Temperature: 98. Pulse: 65. Glucose: 80. All looks good today,” she’d say with an apprehensive smile.

“Good to know. Thank you, Raquel. How long before things change or do you think she’ll get better?” I said with a raised brow.

“No. Medical miracles aren’t plausible. That being said, everyone’s different. She could be good today, but tomorrow can be a completely different scenario. Typically, health inches downward rather than all at once. To be honest with you, I don’t think she’ll ever be fine. You have to be ready for the change. One thing that’s certain is you can never predict the exact day or hour.”

“Thanks for the advice and information. I’ll monitor her as best I can. I really wish I was a doctor or a nurse. I could take care of her better.”

“There’s nothing you nor anyone else can do. She’s on her own now. I’ve seen all types of sick people and they’re all different. I can assure you that when things start to change with Lidia you’ll know.”

Raquel paused for a moment, fixating on the chirping birds fluttering about the patio. I hoped her next statement would be positive, but it was not.

“I have some bad news for you. I’ll no longer be coming to check Lidia’s vitals. Home hospice has been cancelled and will no longer pay for services. All future care is to be rendered in the home by her guardian. That individual is you.”

“Why? I don’t understand. I need you here to help me,” I pleaded.

“Unfortunately, Lidia’s vitals no longer need to be documented. She’s reached the point of no return. You’ll be fine. Just make her comfortable and keep her hospital bed facing the window for sunlight. Stay strong and don’t be afraid to give her more morphine. You can adjust the amount higher as the need arises.”

I shook my head and shouted, “Is that your last piece of advice for me? Morphine and stay strong?” She didn’t appreciate my sarcasm or outburst.

Raquel leered, grabbed her medical bag, and headed towards the door. She turned before exiting. “Yes,” she said, then departed.

The door shut. I sighed and sat next to Mom with my hands cupping my face. I shouldn’t have been upset with Raquel. She’s a nurse doing her job, which she had done for hundreds of deaths before Lidia. I had bestowed upon myself a false friendship with Raquel because I envied her strength and hoped she could cure my mom and resolve my internal turmoil. Raquel had been my only outlet to the outside world because friendships are fleeting.

I held my tears and firmed my voice. “I’ll do my best, Mom. We don’t need Raquel or anyone.”

“Don’t you worry. When we die, we die alone. Thank you for all you’ve done, especially since we’ve been estranged for most of our lives.” That was her last coherent statement of which I had no response.

Today, I gazed at Mom’s mottled face and bawled. “Why did you do this to me? Why did you do this now?” I hoped for a mumble or a word, but neither arrived. I hung my head and closed my eyes.

Each hour that passed more difficult than the prior. The downward slope had transitioned into a slalom race. I grabbed the morphine bottle the hospital had provided and attempted to relieve her and myself of our pain, dabbing copious amounts into her mouth. The overdose never arrived.

Out of regret for my attempt, I sprinted between the bathroom and the living room delivering towel compresses to cool her forehead. I had created a myth that cold water would bring her back and absolve my sins, but in reality she could no longer feel and my penance unattainable. Just another pathetic action to comfort her. I held her hand. Horrified by the gelidity, I let go.

Within hours, Lidia’s breathing changed for the worse as well; each cycle of a single breath included a minute interval. I lifted her torso, hoping to help her breathe, but in the process multiple ribs snapped against her skin and thumped my palm. I lowered her onto the bed with care and covered her body with a blanket. Weary, I sat and within minutes dozed. She awoke me with the death growl, a guttural suffocation reverberating throughout the home, shaking her sternum as well as my eardrums. I didn’t know what to do. More morphine, more compresses, less breathing, louder grumbling. The thought had crossed my mind to suffocate her with a pillow to stop our misery, but I refrained. A murder charge, although euthanasic, would be unforgivable legally and possibly morally. Anxious, I headed to the kitchen and retrieved a bottle of vodka from the cupboard and poured a triple shot sans ice into a tumbler. My first drink in thirty days. Then, I watched and listened, hoping for the rumbling to cease. Mom’s last breath escaped at 2:30 P.M. I called the mortuary to pick up the body. They buried Lidia a week later in front of a small congregation.