The Edge of The Bed

During Mom's Cancer Year, our most meaningful moments ~ our most meaningful conversations ~ were spent at the edge of the bed.

Mom only talked about dying once with me during that whole year ~ within 48 hours of diagnosis. 

We were sitting on the edge of the bed in her bedroom, and she started sobbing.

"I never should have had children," she cried to me, "You all are carrying the cancer gene now."

"Oh, Mom," I reassured her, "We are going to be okay.  It's not your fault!"

I instinctively knew the cigarettes were what was about to kill her ~ even though, ironically, the type of cancer she was diagnosed with was the type that non-smokers get.  But how could the 33 years of chain smoking not have had an impact?  There was no point in dwelling on this now as the cancer had likely been growing for up to fifteen years without any symptoms which is why when the symptoms did show up, it was all too late ~ Stage 4 Lung Cancer had arrived.

Later as she grew weaker but was still at home, we would sit on the edge of the bed, and Dad or I would help lace up or take off her shoes.  Sometimes, she like to nap with her shoes on to make the whole routine simpler, but I did not mind helping her ~ she was my mother ~ she gave birth to me ~ of course, she should have had children.  Her destiny was to be our mother.

Once she was admitted to the hospital, I would sit on the edge of the bed and give her little towelettes to refresh herself ~ clean her hands and face ~ after she had to use the bed pan.  Of course, she still wanted to be able to wash her hands even if the nurses were the ones to take care of her bathroom needs.   I remember telling her little details about our daily life in the hospital ~ giving her an update on this or that ~ and she would always respond in an almost lyrical fashion with a faint little "Okay!" ~ as if everything was to her own agreement ~ always being cheerful and sweet ~ even though her daily life was nearly hell and full of so much pain during those last two months.

During the final days of her life ~ the 3 1/2 days of her coma in which she could still hear our every word ~ I would sit on the edge of the bed and long to crawl in beside her as if I were a little girl waking up from a bad dream.  The bed was tiny, and she had tubes for oxygen and morphine ~ and I kept thinking it would not be allowed for a daughter to crawl into bed with a dying mother.

I was only 29 and not nearly as strong as I am today.  Today, I would have not even asked ~ I would have crawled right in and held her tight ~ I would have found my way around all those tubes and trappings of death ~ 

I know she could feel my presence at the edge of the bed as I held her hand and lay my head on the mattress ~ crawling into her bed in the only way I knew how then ~ and remembering what it was like to be her daughter ~ and all the love and protection she gave me on all those nights when I said,

"Mama, I had a bad dream."



 

~ Her Destiny was to be Our Mother ~