The night my world changed...

It was just past 1:00 am on December 16th, 2002 when the phone rang. I toyed with the idea of not answering it – callers that late at night never have anything good to tell you but curiosity got the better of me and I groggily picked it up. It was horrible news…life changing news. My cousin David was calling to tell me an ambulance had just taken my mother to the hospital, that it was bad and I needed to get there as soon as possible. As I got dressed faster than ever before I relayed the message to my husband and then quickly realized I was going to have to do this by myself – he couldn’t come with me. Our girls were sound asleep and I wasn’t about to wake them. As I left, a snowstorm was just starting and I spent the 20 minute drive giving myself a pep talk. I was going to be calm, I wasn’t going to cry, I needed to be strong, and I needed to be the rock I knew my family would desperately need. I was going to do what needed to be done…no matter what!

Nothing could have prepared me for what I walked into. Doctors were saying things like “cardiac arrest”, “brain dead”, “your father needs to make a decision about life support”. The worst though was when I saw her for the first time. She had a tube down her throat which had engaged her gag reflex, tears were streaming down her face because of the pressure and in that moment I knew. I knew that even though her heart was still beating, my mother was nowhere near it. I knew she was gone. The tears are what convinced me. I’ve seen my mother cry lots of times and there was just something wrong about it this time. It just seemed cold…clinical. I tried talking to her anyway; I even tried yelling just to get some sort of reaction. All I got was nothing…

I don’t remember much after that. I remember doing what I thought I should be doing – telling the doctors they needed to prove she was brain dead before I would encourage my father to do anything, transferring her to a different hospital after one told me there was nothing more they could do. But most of the memories I have are sounds, feelings and flashes of images. I do remember how much I hated that “family” room the hospital staff segregates you in when a situation is particularly bad or that gut wrenching feeling when I heard the “Code Blue” over the loudspeaker and knew immediately it was for my mother. I remember my husband walking into that detestable room just as the doctors were telling my dad that she was gone and the look of absolute helplessness on his face as my father collapsed into his arms. And I remember how peaceful my mom looked after they brought us into her room to say good-bye and how I kept telling myself not to cry over and over again even though I was already sobbing. So much for being the rock…

There is one memory that has haunted me since that night. It occurred later when I was curled up in bed by myself trying to fall asleep (but really just replaying the last few hours over and over again in my head) and I felt it. It was very subtle so much so that for years afterwards I told myself I imagined it, but it felt like my mother was gently squeezing my leg trying to tell me it was alright. I remember sitting up in bed and saying out loud “go be with Dad…he needs you more tonight” and then it was gone…and I fell asleep…and I haven’t felt her since.

But, I still hope. Hope that she’s with us every step of the way. Listening when I’m talking out loud or laughing when one of the kids has done something outrageous. And I desperately hope that I’ll feel her again. Only this time, I think I’ll hold on as long as possible.