Mom

Today is a day I traditionally wax a bit serious. It was 43 years ago on this date that my world changed forever. I had just turned 15 two weeks earlier and was at that magical age that I could be equally excited about Hot Wheels, GI Joes, and girls. In other words, before January 27, 1975, I was still a kid. After that day, my childhood vanished.


It was a Monday. My mother had been suffering from the flu for days. And she was too sick to drive me to school, so I walked the 1+ miles in the snow. Just like the cliche but shorter. When I got to my grandparents house after school (my normal routine, another almost mile), I found out mom was in the hospital. So off we went. One more mile. Worried but not scared.


At the hospital it took a bit to wake her but she finally did, just enough to greet me with a kiss, and she dropped off again. To while away the time, I sketched her picture on a mini note pad. The family stepped out of the room for a little break. After a few minutes I looked into the room and noticed that her lips were blue. I ran to get a nurse, who verified my findings, and then ran to get help. We waited for 3 hours and at long last the doctor told us she was stabilized but in a coma. By this time other family and the pastor had arrived. The next 5 days (and beyond) are a bit of a blur. I have always referred to it as hell week. Bits and pieces stand out. They had to switch her ventilator from a mask to a tracheotomy. They didn't have a brain scan machine [electroencephalogram] at the hospital and since she could not be moved, they had to wait to borrow one from a bigger hospital, which couldn't be arranged until Friday. We got that news on Wednesday. We spent our daytime hours at the hospital and our nights at home crying and bargaining with God. The pastor and the elders performed a rarely used anointing ritual for healing. Friday finally came.


I remember the exact moment when childhood left me behind. It left me, not the other way around. You were at some point supposed to leave your childhood behind. At least that's how I figured it was supposed to happen. The family and the pastor were all in the conference room waiting for the doctor. He came in and said there was no brain activity. My mother would never wake up. So the question was what did we want to do.



This was a time before all the publicity about end of life decisions. Laws now have much to say about our situation. But back then our choice was simple. My mother could be kept alive in her present state indefinitely. Or we could--knowing there was no hope of her regaining consciousness--take her off life support. What should we do? My grandparents, who had survived World War II and being refugees in a work camp afterward with my mother, were grief-stricken in way I never thought possible. Their realized dream of coming to America to start over, was now for nothing. Their only daughter had been taken from them, whether she lived or died. And while I had no legal standing being a minor at the time, I remember all eyes turning to me. What should we do? Looking back on it now, that might not be the reason why everyone looked at me, but that is the way it felt at the time. And really, what if I said, don't kill her, she's my mom, might it not have been enough to convince everyone to keep her alive, at least for a little bit longer? (The Karen Ann Quinlan case would make the national news three months later, initiating all kinds of controversy and debate about end of life decisions; she ended up living in her comatose state for another 10 years. I followed the story closely at the time and remember being sad when I heard she finally passed away. But we didn't have her case in front of us to glean any wisdom from it, and I don't know if it would have influenced our decision anyway.) I remember getting up from the table and looking out the window through the venetian blinds (because that's what they do in movies), tears welling up in my eyes. I turned back around and announced my opinion. What else could we do? She was gone to us already. I stabbed my grandmother in the heart. But she also knew I was right. Papers were signed and my great uncle asked to be present. (He later wrote about the experience which I always cherished.)


That done, my first act as a man was to go tell my great aunt the news in the lobby. She couldn't bear to come up with the rest of us. (Truth be told--or maybe reimagined--I needed to get out of the room; I was the fastest one there and it made a good excuse,)  I remember the elevator doors opening and making eye contact with her. I realized at that moment how powerful a look could be; no words were necessary and that's probably a mercy. I walked up to her and she clung to my arm and wept. (In writing this tale, this is where, 43 years later, my eyes got moist.)


My mother didn’t actually die from the flu. At least not directly. She just had the flu at the time she died. Her cause of death was “a massive brain hemorrhage”; apparently she had an aneurysm. In the days leading up to her hospitalization, she slept a lot, and when she did wake she would vomit. She was unable to eat real food, but would drink a little tea. In my head I think the constant vomiting probably raised the blood pressure in her head once too often. Just a hunch, but it makes sense to me.


I have lived a lot of years since. Who I became in life was shaped in a large part by this day. But it was also shaped during the 15 years leading up to that day by the woman who made sacrifices to give me the best childhood she could. She let me be a little kid and loved on me every day. And she gave me enough stuff to take of the business at hand when the time came. I've had plenty of hard decisions to make, and I've made many bad ones along the way. But I hope she's proud of how I turned out. I had a lot of help from a lot of people and that can't be stressed enough. But it all started with her. She was a dream mom. And I am a very lucky man to have had her as mine.



I miss you, Mom.