It was one of those bright, crisp October mornings that make you believe there is a God. Funny how by the end of the day, I would be on my knees praying to said entity to please, please stop the nightmare.

My mother was more of an experience than a person; next-level crazy in an unapologetic, frantically funny, hard to believe kind of way. She was beautiful and she knew it, and often reminded those around her that she knew it! She had a body that looked years younger than it was, though that was through no effort on her part. Living on a diet steeped in chocolate bars, potato chips and deli cheese, one might think it would be her toddler-like eating habits to get her in the end; but if you knew her, you knew it would be the cigarettes. Her Marlboro Red sidekicks would one day come to claim their patron. We just did not think it would be as soon, and certainly not as swift.

I got a call that October morning from my hysterical aunt informing me that something was very wrong with my mother, and to come right away. And just like that, my blissfully simple day went from pumpkin picking with my sons, to carrying my mother from a house to which she would never return. There is a title of an essay by an author whose name escapes me called “The Gift of an Ordinary Day”. I always appreciated and reflected upon the sentiment, but never truly understood the gravity of it until that fateful day; 11 years later and it still resonates… deeply.

My father, sister and I arrived at my aunt’s house to find my mother on the couch, chin to chest, arms limp at her sides, and legs so swollen they looked fit to burst. It was a sight I will never forget. She of course refused an ambulance, so we carried her to our car; her cries of agony stunning us into silence. My unquiet mind though, was attempting to process how just a few days ago, this same person accompanied me to the movie theater! An hour later an ER doctor would translate what his trained eye saw on an X-ray: a cavernous tumor on the lung. My mind’s eye goes into overdrive, envisioning a parasitic alien, invading and conquering my mother’s body, cell by cell. As my sister and I follow an ambulance to a superior hospital, a stony reality begins to sink in; the monster was no longer hiding under the bed.

We spend the next few days in a haze of doctors, tests and relatives who go from fighting to crying, then back to fighting again. This is how my family deals with a crisis. On day 4, my sister and I are making the dreaded trek back to the hospital when we get the call. The doctor is on speakerphone telling us the cancer has spread pretty much everywhere. In some spots, it has eaten through her bones. We spew out panicky protests and questions like “how can she go from walking around just days ago to producing a pet scan that is lit up like a Christmas tree?” The doctor cuts us off and informs us sternly that our mother is dying.

On day 5, the doctor tells my mother - this was a fight I lost to the half of us who thought this was a good idea; it was not. Before you start thinking she was an adult, she had a right to know etc., let me inform you that she was not - not really. My mother was a perpetual child emotionally, captained by her basic needs and delusions of a self-centered life. Telling her was like telling an innocent. It was awful. She went wide-eyed and clutched at my sister and me while the few family members allowed in the room cried in their corners. In her desperation, she repeatedly wailed, “I’m sorry” to me and my sister, her wild eyes bouncing back and forth from one of us to the other.

On day 7, they moved her into palliative care, leaving the argument of home or hospital in the dust, because home was no longer an option. On day 8, I took the night shift.They let me stay after visiting hours because they knew the hours she had left were rapidly receding. I am forever grateful for that, because it was the only time I had been alone with her since bringing her to the hospital. She was talking a bit, and although her head was tilted towards the nurse, I knew she was talking to me, squeezing my hand gently and leaking tears as she spoke of her three beautiful grandsons and the future she would never have with them.

On day 9, my sister and I were running a bit behind and arrived at the hospital later than we had in the previous days. I believe this was the universe doing us a favor. The look on my stepfather’s face betrayed the awful truth - she was gone. He said it was only a half hour ago. She looked like she was sleeping peacefully. It takes the mind a moment to realize that that sleep was eternal.

Nine years could not have prepared me for what happened next, nevermind nine days. My stricken sister crawled into bed with our mother, wrapped herself around her and wailed repeatedly, “my mommy, my mommy!” - a child in a 36 year old body. A seasoned nurse left the room in tears. My father got there shortly after and gently peeled my sister off of my mom. It was over. Who knew it could take only nine days to implode your life; to crush your soul and shatter your heart? Nine days to prepare for a lifetime of grief? Who knew? I certainly did not, but I do now. I learned a cruel, unyielding life lesson… and I learned it in nine days.

*****

Lisa Christian works with autistic young adults in their communities and volunteers at a dog shelter. She has two grown sons and holds two master degrees in Psychology from Columbia University. She has started writing again in her second act.

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