Three Years

Though it's always rattling around in my brain to some degree, I just realized this morning that tomorrow will mark three years since my mom's brain aneurysm.  I called my sister to see if she had anything planned for the day, but Mom answered instead.

"Do you know what tomorrow is?" I asked.

"Yep.  Three years," she sighed.

"How are you feeling about it?"

"I feel like... that's life," she said and I recognized the sound of her searching for the words of her true feelings, but settling for what she could reach, knowing I would understand all she couldn't say.  "Do you regret anything?" she asked me.  And I knew what she was really asking.

When I got the call from the LSU emergency room that morning three years ago, the news was so grim.  The nurse impressed upon me the importance of getting to Shreveport from Houston as fast as possible.  The unspoken reason being to say goodbye to my mother.  As the miles ticked down on the odometer and the calls kept coming from the hospital, the reality that I would have to live without my mother kicked in.  I fought it and hid my fear from my sister.  I wasn't ready to lose my mom.  Wouldn't entertain the notion.  When I finally saw her frail sedated form in the hospital bed, I strained not to see the critically ill form before me but instead the vibrant and lively woman who birthed me, raised me, loved me, comforted me, held my hand in my deepest sorrow, laughed along with me in the heights of joy. 

The doctors asked if I would give permission for them to operate, outlining the slim chances for her survival.  For a fraction of a second I recalled a conversation in which she told me she would never want to live as a vegetable.  She made me promise that if something ever happened and her brain was gone, then she was too and I would have to let her go.  For an even smaller fraction of a second, I considered that time might be now.  But I knew if there was an even smaller still fraction of a chance that she could survive, then we had to try.  I signed the consent forms and then went to her bedside.  Careful to not disrupt the IV lines, oxygen monitors, and cranial shunt, I held her hand, kissed her forehead and whispered in her ear "I'm here, Mom.  You're going to be fine."

As hours passed in the hospital waiting area, I weighed the two possible outcomes:  life and death.  I knew what death would entail, having experienced the shattering loss of a parent twice before with my father and grandfather.  I knew there would be a funeral, a grieving process, a hollow spot in my heart.  I drank horrible coffee and planned her eulogy and wished I had a distraction.  I didn't know exactly what life would hold if she survived, but I was sure it would just be a few weeks of recovery and then a return to normal.  Two options.  Black and white. 

We ended up in a gray area.  She survived, but still struggles.  She has problems with her speech and short-term memory.  She is weak and often fatigued.  She doesn't remember any of what happened and it took awhile for her to believe us when we told her she would get better.  She has gotten much better, but she will never be the same.  There have been times in the deepest of depression when she has admitted that she wishes she had died.  That death would be better than this limited existence she has now where she has lost her voice, her independence, her life as it was before.  I felt guilty (because that's what I do) that it was my selfishness that kept her alive; that I didn't follow through on my promise to let her go when it was her time.

She told me once that she was grateful for her aneurysm.  After I accused her of having another one, she laughed and admitted she was serious.  Because of her aneurysm, she listens more.  It's one of the side effects of not being able to talk.  Because of her aneurysm, she never gets angry.  Her temper was legendary before, but now she just takes everything in stride, never getting ruffled.  Because of her aneurysm, she can spend more time with her grandkids.  No longer able to work 80 hours a week, she has the opportunity to go to the park whenever she wants and have lunch with my girls at their school.  Because of her aneurysm, she has a renewed appreciation for what is really important in life: family, faith, health.  When working as much as she did, it was easy to get caught up in the vicious cycle of earning more and wanting more and working more. 

I have a new mom.  The mom I had before died three years ago.  My new mom is a lot like my old one.  She still loves me, laughs with me, comforts me and guides me.  She's still the smartest person I know, would give her last cent to help someone out, and has a better sense of direction than a compass.  She's still maniacally devoted to her gradnkids and fiercely protective of her daughters.  I can still look in her eyes and see all that she wants to say, even if she can't.  I still want her cool hand on my forehead when I'm sick, and her bony shoulder to cry on when I'm sad.  So though I lost my old mom in 2006, I got her back and then some, as she healed into the person she is today.

"Do you regret anything?" she asked me.  And I knew what she was really asking.

And I spoke immediately what was in my heart.  "Not if you don't.  Not for a fraction of a second."

I love you, Mom.  I'm prouder of you than you'll ever know.  Sometimes my words get stuck too, but you've given me my voice - as well as yours - and I love you bigger than the sky.