We're down to the days now. That is not debatable. My mother is leaving the hospital today to return to my aunt's house, where a bed has been purchased and is waiting to receive her. She is not eating, nor is she drinking. She hasn't done so for days. It hurts to move even an inch, so her skeletal figure lays still.

I spoke to her briefly over the phone. Her words were slurred from the narcotics; those are the only substances which are currently entering her body. She told me loved me. She said she was in pain. She knows she is dying, because she told my aunt that she wanted to be cremated and that she didn't want to do this anymore. At the deepest level of my being, I am strangely excited. Finally, it's almost over. It can't come soon enough. Perhaps it's utterly unthinkable to hope for the death of someone else, especially your mother; I feel immense guilt for thinking that way. But the hard, ugly truth is that the life she's living now is not a life at all, but a torture mechanism I wish would relinquish her. I can't wrap my mind around how a body could allow itself to endure this much pain.


I have not decided what I will do just yet. I was advised by a close friend who's been through this before that, upon hearing such news, it's best to let it sink in before acting. Indeed, I don't feel like doing much of anything. I'm not quite sure I even want to see her take her last breath. I don't want such a mental image to exist. The only thing that compels me to be there is that in her final hour I want her to be surrounded by those who love her.

I spoke to my father today, who has been at the center of some controversy as of late. My aunt simply believes that my father does not care about my mother. His unwillingness to be near her is quite evident, and that can easily be misinterpreted as ambivalence. But, he confessed to me today, that he could not bear to see his wife die in such a manner. For ten years, he's been her primary caregiver, and he just can't do it anymore. He doesn't think he could stand to see her weak and suffering, he doesn't want to see her exhale for good. He told me that once over the summer a flood of memories came to his head, memories from when our family was still in tact. It was such an intense recollection that he began to feel his chest tighten and airway close; he was most likely having an anxiety attack. For someone who hardly ever emotes, this revelation was monumental for me. It shows that her demise is just as horrid for him as it is for me and my sister. None of us are getting off lightly.

For several months, my thoughts have been consumed with worry for my mother. I cannot get away from it, even as I sleep, because I constantly dream of her. The other night, I had three separate dreams. In each, she had flown from New Jersey to visit me. In the last one, the one I remember the most, we were walking outside in the sunlight. Our arms were linked and we were both smiling and chatting. She was wearing a black sweater. I was so happy, so carefree. Then I awoke and realized, like I do each time I wake up, that the dream would never again be a reality. I had my time with her, and now it is over. There is nothing more to do or say. There isn't a way to bargain or plead for some sort of extension. It is here, and we are perilously close to the abyss.

It is rather difficult to summarize every emotion I have felt throughout this arduous process, and at what point each one came. Watching her die has unquestionably been the darkest, ugliest chapter of my life thus far. Some of me finds it impossible to go on. I literally can't understand how my lungs and heart will continue to work together to sustain life. I feel as though I will shut down, I will cease to be. When she goes, I'll go too.

But that part of me is countered by a rival who finds it vital to keep living. Perhaps that part is driven by God, or perhaps it's because I know in my soul that my mother, when she was aware, took great joy in my life, and that when she is gone, she will continue to revel in my accomplishments. To surrender to grief would be a dishonor to her memory.

The pain of all of this is too real. My heart is broken. My soul aches. Nothing else seems to matter; not clothes, not my car, not how much money I earn, nothing. It's all inconsequential. I am dreading the holidays. I am dreading the pervasive joy everyone will be infected with. I will loathe the Campbell's soup commercials depicting happy families gathering around a warm meal. I wish there were some way to survive without eating so that I wouldn't have to be bothered with it. I wish I could fall asleep for a really long time and wake up and have everything be over. But I must go on, I must march forward. I'm too young to throw in the towel just yet. I have to get through this, no matter how difficult the task. It is hard to breathe. It is hard to get up each morning. It is hard to keep dabbing your tears away with the same scratchy piece of toilet paper. I cannot handle it, but I must. It almost feels like I will implode, it feels as though my heart will stop. Oh, emotions, won't you leave me alone? I love my mother so much. I love her, and I'm going to miss her more than I even know. I just want to hold her, I want to take away her pain. I want to see her smile. I guess I will only see that in my dreams from now on.