I spent the last two weeks trying to figure out just how to go about explaining the process that is letting go of the most important person in my life. The truth is that this whole chain of events was put into place almost four years ago, and that no one ever expected us to make it as far as we did. She was supposed to have had six months.
We left the airport that Wednesday afternoon and headed directly to the hospital, assuming that every phone call any of us received en route was the big one, saying that we had come close, but that she was already gone. We'd been warned, and re-warned, and primed for her appearance...the bruise from her fall out of bed, the swollen fingers and leaking skin from her kidney failure, the shallow breaths and glassy eyes. The room was hot and uninviting and required constant foaming and gloving and ungloving and refoaming and later that night, when everything was over, I stood in the bathroom deciding if I could ever wash my hands again. Did I like the smell? Could I live with it? It ended up being a no.
And so you stand around for hours, taking turns in a clockwise rotation cracking jokes and making ticking noises and pressing on her cheeks, trying one last time to get her to open her eyes. You cheer when she does, even if they remind you that no one is there. Even if they try to convince you that her eyes have disconnected from any and all thought process. Even if their minky-brown color has already started to cloud, you cheer, and immediately try to do it again.
We stood around a tiny room all afternoon, as doctors and nurses stopped by to remind us that she was dying, and each time more family would crowd into her room, until it was as long as anyone could handle standing there to watch tears and drool roll out of her face. We invented an unofficial pecking order for private last goodbyes, and all left the room to wait for our turn.
My brothers and I were recently accused of being too close, and too dependent on not just each other, but on our mother as well. I immediately argued that her dependence on us trumps any and all dependence we have on her, but we do, as a threesome of wayward siblings, certainly share a bond and so the three of us stood there, encircling our grandmother, taking turns keeping our mother upright and facing the bed. And it was thanks-giving. It was laughing to the point of tears, it was poking and prodding and not allowing interruptions until we were okay with it all being over. It took 25 minutes.
It was dark outside by the time I was called back to stand watch over my mother, while they disconnected my grandmother. It was 7:35 pm. I stood, watching the heart monitor dance around 117 beats per minute. I watched the saturation monitor blink a silent red rectangle. I watched my mother and three aunts hold their breath. I watched Devin fall in the corner at the conclusion of his mom-watching shift. I watched the entire room progressively sigh as tubes came out, and IV pumps were turned off. And then I watched her.
I watched her calm down. I watched her head stop thrashing. I watched her chest stop shuddering. I watched her lips part over and over while she took her last breaths. I watched the bpm drop to zero, and buried myself into my brothers. I listened to the ups and downs of the monitors until they came in to turn them off. I watched the clock roll over to 8:02. I watched the blood drain from her face, and down her neck while the minister prayed her away. I tore the calendar page off of the wall, and my aunt called the nurse to come and remove the rest of the tubes and lines and catheters. "I want it all gone", she said, waving her arms in the air, "Everything".
And then we set about cleaning her up. It was this strange form of auto-pilot, probably more primal than anything else, and it struck everyone, to just clean, and wipe, and prepare her for something none of us really knew much about. It seemed perfectly normal, required even, to send her down the hall with blush on her cheeks and Vaseline on her lips and a fresh sheet draped across her arms to hide the bruising. Like maybe if they knew she was loved, they could undo it. Like maybe if we showed her one last time that she was loved, we would all be okay. Like maybe it was our thank-you to her, albeit thirty minutes too late.
You leave the room with your arms full of stuff...clothing and cards and blankets and get-well-soon balloons...and your arms are so full that for a second, you can almost forget that you are being forced to leave behind the only thing in the room that you actually want. And then you remember, and you have to go back and make sure she is still there. You have to go back and make sure she isn't suddenly waiting for you, bright eyed and dressed in polyester pants. On Wednesday, April 2, 2008, at 9:45 pm Pacific Time, Melba was not.
