I follow the gesture, a sick intuition twisting inside of me. “Thank you.”
My stride is comparable to a snail as I edge down the long walkway. I watch the numbers increase with nausea churning faster in my stomach. It takes several minutes to reach the correct room. Those three bold digits mock me. What waits for me beyond this barrier? Only one way to see.
I push the door open with a cautious hand. The space is cloaked in darkness, shades drawn and lights off. Antiseptic and bleach suffocate me. I suppose this sterile stench beats the smell of death. My feet shove forward on their own. The rest of me is trying to process what I’m seeing. I pause halfway to the bed.
My mother looks so peaceful, frozen in sleep. Only the soft rise and fall of her chest alerts me that she’s still alive. That slow rhythm is cathartic. Relief floods out of me in a cascade and my knees threaten to buckle. I stumble to the nearby chair, dragging it to her side. An array of machines beep and buzz. Tubes are taped along her right arm. There are colorful wires sprouting out from the top of her gown. So much is happening, yet nothing at all.
I grab her left hand and suck in a sharp breath. Her skin is ice cold. I press her freezing palm between both of mine. We’ve been in this situation before. The similarities aren’t lost on me. But the differences are blaring louder than a foghorn. She’s hardly moving. The ashen hue of her complexion is more pronounced. Her cheekbones jut out to a crude degree. Purple bruising is forming along her jaw. An eerie chill slithers across my scalp. I leave my eyes trained on her still form, waiting for more signs of life.
Someone knocks on the door behind me. I turn and find a man wearing blue scrubs poking his head inside. He’s older than me by at least ten years. The way he steps into the room speaks of his authority.
“Mr. Bowen?”
I squint at him. Being called Mr. Bowen is beginning to skeeve me out. That doesn’t mean I’ll correct him. I’ll take an upper hand if he’s passing them out. “That’s me.”
He moves closer with an outstretched hand. “I’m Doctor Potter, one of the physicians supervising this floor. You can call me Miles. I’m responsible for your mother’s care while she’s with us.”
“You’re the one who ran all her tests?”
Miles shifts to the end of her bed. “I did.”
I wait for him to elaborate. He doesn’t. “And?”
“May I be blunt?”
“Please,” I mutter.
He glances at her before sliding his gaze to me. “Your mother’s health is very poor.”
“No shit, doc. I’m well aware of her addictions. Tell me something new.”
“I’m talking about more than her bad habits.”
A cramp attacks my muscles. “Such as?”
Miles leans against the mattress, facing me dead on. “She’s suffered from a massive stroke. From what I can tell, there’s irreversible damage to her heart and lungs. Her scans and X-rays are a mess. There’s almost no brain activity. To break it down in the simplest terms, your mother’s body gave up fighting.”
I hear his explanation, but not really. My ears are packed with cotton. There’s a low thrum pounding into my temples. Rancid bile crawls up my throat. I squeeze my eyes shut and force the vomit down. “But she’s gonna wake up, right? I can take her home tomorrow?”
His sigh is a sinking ship. “I’m afraid not, Mr. Bowen. We’re doing our best to keep her stable, but she’s unresponsive to treatments. She hasn’t regained consciousness since being admitted. Her system is in shutdown mode. The machines are keeping her alive.”
“So, she’s dying?” The crack in my voice tears straight through me. I don’t bother hiding my wince.
“Yes, Mr. Bowen. I’m very sorry.”
I don’t look up to find the matching sympathy in his eyes. The death sentence is a sledgehammer to my ribs. The reflex to wrap an arm around my torso rattles the shattering bones. “What happens next?”
Miles straightens off the bed, swiping at his tablet. “That’s entirely up to you. She’s not in pain. We’ll continue measuring her vitals as needed. Usually we recommend spending time with her, say goodbye and make your peace. We have a chapel on site if you’d like to pray or talk with a minister. There are a few local grief groups that meet regularly.”
His suggestions bounce off the bulletproof wall I’ve slammed down. “That won’t be necessary.”
The silence stretches a mile long. I’m about ready to leap from my seat when the doctor takes a step toward me. “When you’re ready, we can take her off life support.”
Is anyone ever ready for that? What a fucked up control system. I pinch the bridge of my stinging nose. “Just like that?”
“Again, I’m sorry there isn’t more we can do. Your mother was very sick, Mr. Bowen.”
Was.
