Death

Many times a day, weariness would catch Mom and she would lie on the couch. Often she would talk. The words were usually unintelligible, but the tone was always earnest, as if she were explaining something.

Usually after sleeping soundly for a few minutes she would wake halfway and push into the usual sitting position, propped on the good left arm, leaning partly forward, trembling and teetering. Then she would drift in and out. She spent much of the time that way. If she had some liquid food nearby she would often hold it resolutely. Sooner or later it would spill on her slacks or sweater. It looked like she might topple onto the floor at any moment, but never did.

It looked like she was stubbornly holding onto wakefulness, purpose or life, as if her life-long energy fought against the downward pull of the body.

The last day of my visit, she said that it was easier to breathe in that position. I suppose the leftward, forward slouch also kept pressure off the swollen right side of her body. Even so, the image of her sitting that way will always remind me of her tenacity and optimism.

One day she said, "I'm ready to die, but I'm not enthusiastic about it."

Just as I was writing those words, just this moment, Dad phoned to tell me that Mom had passed on within the past hour. I guess I must have been with her in some way.