when you lose your mother


I can’t tell you exactly why I photographed each of my parents dead in their beds. It seemed important not to let such a moment go undocumented. What if you wanted it back. What if you wanted to see your mother slurp soup one last time, like she did that last day, when she was barely alive?

As soon as I saw her, I knew she was dying. Her hands were swollen to twice their usual size- their long elegance replaced by swollen fruits. Her mouth was open, her eyes closed, and she made a sort of low moaning sound that reminded me of a sound I’d make if I were trying to manage great pain, or a great process, like labor. A doctor came and took her pulse. It was so low that protocol required that she be transported from the nursing home to the hospital. I begged mercy. My mother needed to be done. Done with hospitals, with nursing homes, done with the long process of dying. It had already been years. The doctor said she would let her be, if my siblings all agreed.

I sat on my mother’s bed a long time, holding her hands. I carefully updated her about each of her children and grandchildren in turn, a final accounting of sorts, to assure her that her flock was safe. I said I could keep watch now. I suggested that maybe it was time for her to go, and be with Dad, and my brother Brian, who had drowned as a toddler, on the terrible day when she turned, and answered a ringing telephone.

A health aide bustled into the room and wanted to give my mother some soup. I was annoyed by the interruption and wanted to wail: Soup? You think she is going to eat soup? Have you looked at her fruit hands? Heard her ancient dying sounds?

“I don’t think she is in any condition to eat,” I sniffed.

“She will eat,” smiled the lady, sphinx-like. "She loves to eat. You’ll see.”

Did these ladies own my mother now? Had I given up claim to her by not being here enough? Had they stepped in to rub her feet and feed her soup? I took my shame down the long linoleum hall, past the occasional wafts of human excrement and disinfectant, to the family room, to call my siblings. On the way back another health aside greeted me. “You must be Barbara’s daughter," she said. "You look just like her!”

This was unnerving. Everything here was unnerving: the fluorescent lights; the elementary school decorations adorning the hallways; the fact that patient names were written on white boards on the bedroom doors, so easily erased. Before I arrived, someone had parted my mother’s silver hair straight down the middle, and made two tiny French braids starting at the crown and traveling back towards her ears in a deep V. I admit she looked cool, like an ancient nordic princess, with her high cheekbones and long nose. But I didn’t like it. It was nothing like what my mother would ever have worn. It looked like she was being dressed for a ritual.

When I retuned to her room, Mom was propped up against her pillows, a towel draped across her chest and lap, slurping soup off a spoon held patiently to her lips. She was not passive about it. Her lips actively searched for the spoon she could no longer see, like a baby searching for a nipple, eager for the flavor, eager for the nourishment, the pleasure of the weak broth on the warm spoon. She sucked the soup into her mouth, feeding herself, feeding her body.

I was stunned to see this. My mother was too frail to speak more than a word or two, too frail to keep her eyes open, barely alive, yet she here she was, eating soup. Was this the body’s reflexive drive to live, or was this my mother’s determination to stay? Her desire for comfort? For one last pleasure?

When it was time for me to go that evening, I lay my chest to my mother's chest and kissed her cheek and whispered I love you in her ear. She could no longer form crisp words, but sort of sang it back to me, in three syllables, so I understood.

My mother didn’t see another dawn; by dawn she would be dead, her silver hair brushed out on the pillow. I’d taken out the braids before I Ieft, and dampened her hair, and smoothed out the kinks. Now I wished I hadn’t. Now, in the photo I secretly took when my siblings and family finally left the room, and that I secretly keep on my phone, she just looks like a little old lady, dead in her bed. Now I wish I had sent her off with her silver warrior braids intact. I wish I’d dressed her in deerskins and beads, given her a bow and arrow made of birch and silver, and a white fur blanket, and a thermos full of soup.

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