My parents were the kind of blue collar workers immortalized in song, literature, and the speeches of political candidates.
The kind that work hard, take extra shifts, and even though they're tired at the end of the day, they find a way to spend time with their children, help them with their homework, tuck them into bed, read a story, give each a good night kiss, and then spend the rest of the night worrying about an uncertain future and how they're going to make ends meet, instead of resting so they can be ready to work and do it all over again the next day.
I think you can understand, then, why I consider my parents to be saints. I also believe you can understand why I would come unhinged when I first saw the blistering and burnt skin of my mother sustained while running from the wildfires that swept over the mountain peak and devastated my parents' home and all those around it.
Now she is covered in bandages from head to toe, fighting for her life, needing to be constantly sedated because there's no medicine powerful enough to reduce the pain she's in. I can't help but think how truly cruel and evil life is. I don't know if she is the lucky one or not—my Dad didn't make it. His charred remains are somewhere mixed with the ashes of the house. But at least, he's not in a drug induced coma as a humane alternative to writhing in constant, incessant agony. At least he went quickly. My mother might endure months this way.
"Tom." The word is barely a rasping whisper, but I hear it somehow, escaping through her breathing tube.
"Mom?" My hand clinches hers just a little, hopefully so she can sense I'm there. The doctors say most of the sensory ability on her body are gone, so she probably doesn't even feel it. I do it anyway.
"Tom. I love you," she says.
"I love you, too," I say, my voice cracking. Tears well up in my eyes.
"I'm saying goodbye, okay?"
"Goodbye?"
"Yes. I don't think this is much of a way to live, do you? I know you're suffering inside."
"You don't have to go because of me. Please don't..."
I can't believe any of this. How is she awake with all the meds being pumped through her system to keep her under? How is she able to even communicate? She shouldn't even have enough air capacity to form sounds.
"You're part of the reason. I want you to get on with your life quicker than you could if I can hang on. It's your father..."
"Dad?" He's dead. What does she mean?
"Yes. He's so helpless without me. Always has been. Always will be. He needs me."
"But Dad didn't..."
"I know. I thought he was behind me, or I would have let the fire take me, too."
"I don't understand. You know Dad didn't make it? How?"
I'd been by her bedside for the last 36 hours, except for some fitful sleeping in between visits by nurses and doctors. None of them mentioned her being awake let alone asking about my father.
"Don't worry about that. He loves you, and so do I, and we want you to be happy. It's always been about that. Don't let this consume you, okay? Fight through it. Make a life for yourself. Hate isn't worth it."
Now it was as if she were reading my thoughts. One impossibility after the next was rapidly unfolding before me.
"Promise me, okay? Promise me you will let go of this horror, and find Good again."
"I..." It's too soon. She's wanting to move on so I can move on. I'm not ready. I'm not...
"I'm so sorry about all of this. I'm going now. I love you. So does Dad. We always will. Find the Good again, Tom. Please?"
I can feel her expire even before the monitoring equipment sounds the alarm. Her flatlining brings a nurse, followed by the doctor on call. They look at me, wondering if they should attempt to resuscitate her.
I think of her last words, real or imagined, and against my own will I shake my head.
"She's at peace," I say. "Let's leave her be."
***
I wake with a start. I'm wrapped by the arm of my wife. I can hear her steady breathing barely over the ambient noise coming from the baby monitor on the nightstand. It takes a moment for me to realize where I'm at. It's Christmas Eve, and we're at my wife's parents' home, spending Christmas week.
It's been a while since I've had that nightmare. Even longer since I've lived it. However, this is the farthest I've gone. The last few times, it's broken off before I could give the doctor an answer. I've always taken that as a sign that even though I did give the order to leave my mother be, I had yet to accept it completely.
Now, lying there in the dim of the room, a calming warmth comes over me. My mother was at peace that night she passed away (or was called away), after several years of trying to make sense of any of this, finally finding someone who could help me do it, getting married and having two children—I am at peace, too.
I have discovered the Good in the world again. And I will let it be.
Image source—Pixabay
This post is published in conjunction with the daily five minute freewrite hosted by @mariannewest. Six single word or phrase prompts were used to make this story and can be found italicized throughout. And just for the record, this took more than five minutes to write.