Kalopsia
Where r u
I can't be bothered with this. I don't have time for this. I have an intensive day of dance planned, I'm on the other side of town, I can't be bothered picking up her children, my siblings, or buying milk, or whatever it is right now. I'm late. I'm running late.
Heading into town right now.
I send back, tossing my phone down to lace up my boots. The sun is streaming in through the window.
Mum is going now, if you want to come and say good buy
I notice the mistake, but this isn't really the time to give my mother a spelling lesson.
Okay, I'm coming right now.
I throw a shirt on, my hands shaking slightly. This is it, I think to myself as my eyes dart around the room, trying to figure out what I've forgotten. I always do this. What do I need? Do I have everything?
It finally occurs to me that is doesn't really matter- I can come back here later. I'm sure my plans for the day have just been altered entirely.
***
Red Hot Chili Peppers are playing as I drive. I play them loud, and I sing along louder. Traffic is bad. Why did this have to happen at lunch time? I remind myself that nothing ever happens at a good time. I was just glad I'd showered before I got the text.
I find myself driving faster the closer I get. I never speed, and today is no different.
Well, not enough to get a ticket, I hope.
I want to say goodbye. I repeat over and over.
I want to say goodbye.
I get to the final intersection before the Homestead and the lights seem to stay red forever. I stare at the fence across the road that I know Nan is behind. How awful would it be to be so close and have just missed her?
I briefly envision walking into her room and finding her bed empty, but the lights finally go green and I attempt to return my focus to driving.
Please let me say goodbye.
I slam the car door as I run to the front door to punch in the door code- not too fast, I'm careful of that. There's death all around this place, and very often I see the same man sitting in the big chair by the front door when I enter. I don't want to frighten him.
Once I'm through the door, I half-run, half-walk - similar to that strange straight edged run people seem to do when crossing the road in front of traffic. Hands beside your sides, like you don't want to seem like you're hurrying, but you are anyway.
Whatever.
When I think of this later, I won't remember if I was prepared for the way she was.
I race through the rabbit warren that is her homestead, and when I finally see her door at the end of the long corridor, I notice it's closed.
Can I go in? Is anyone there? Is she gone already?
I walk past a nurse who turns to look and me, and looks as if she is going to say something. I half turn my body towards her and go to speak- maybe to ask permission, maybe to ask if I'm in the right place. We both end up turning away from each other and continuing in opposite directions.
I open the door and what strikes me first is the quiet.
Seven different people in chairs around her bed, seven pairs of eyes turn to look at me, seven faces all with matching expressions.
I didn't expect so many people to be here.
I make brief eye contact with one relative but my eyes glide straight over to Nan, and in two steps I'm kneeling next to her bed, taking her hand in mine, and kissing her on the forehead.
My mother is in bed with her, rubbing her back and looking at me through puffy eyes.
"I'm here, Nan," I tell her, kissing her again, "I've come to say goodbye and I'll see you when I get there."
I rest on my heels and continue holding her hand.
Why does everyone always sit and stare?
"She can still hear," offers an unhelpful relative. They're not unhelpful, really. They just make me angry.
"I thought as much," I reply, watching Nan breathe.
She can't see. Eyes rolled back, that breathing state that everyone talks about has taken over her. Later I'll refer to it as shallow breathing. Another relative will call it deep breathing. I won't know what it was until I hear it again years later and identify it as stridor.
Two days prior I'd been in and had been watching her breathing. It was similar, but I didn't know what to look for.
***
I've been here three hours now. It doesn't feel that long. I spent the first two hours holding her hand, only moving when someone new came along that wanted to say goodbye, or a relative who felt uncomfortable sitting still came over to stroke her shoulder for thirty seconds.
"Remember that weekend at her house?" One cousin begins, stroking Nan's hand next to me, "When..."
"Yes, I remember," I force a laugh and my cousin responds with wild laughter.
She returns to sit with her boyfriend.
I thought I'd enter and say goodbye, just in time, and she'd be gone. Romantic, in a sense. But she's still here. Death isn't quite what I expected, I suppose. Or at least, not how the movies would lead me to believe.
I can't be bothered with this. I don't have time for this. I have an intensive day of dance planned, I'm on the other side of town, I can't be bothered picking up her children, my siblings, or buying milk, or whatever it is right now. I'm late. I'm running late.
Heading into town right now.
I send back, tossing my phone down to lace up my boots. The sun is streaming in through the window.
Mum is going now, if you want to come and say good buy
I notice the mistake, but this isn't really the time to give my mother a spelling lesson.
Okay, I'm coming right now.
I throw a shirt on, my hands shaking slightly. This is it, I think to myself as my eyes dart around the room, trying to figure out what I've forgotten. I always do this. What do I need? Do I have everything?
It finally occurs to me that is doesn't really matter- I can come back here later. I'm sure my plans for the day have just been altered entirely.
***
Red Hot Chili Peppers are playing as I drive. I play them loud, and I sing along louder. Traffic is bad. Why did this have to happen at lunch time? I remind myself that nothing ever happens at a good time. I was just glad I'd showered before I got the text.
I find myself driving faster the closer I get. I never speed, and today is no different.
Well, not enough to get a ticket, I hope.
I want to say goodbye. I repeat over and over.
I want to say goodbye.
I get to the final intersection before the Homestead and the lights seem to stay red forever. I stare at the fence across the road that I know Nan is behind. How awful would it be to be so close and have just missed her?
I briefly envision walking into her room and finding her bed empty, but the lights finally go green and I attempt to return my focus to driving.
Please let me say goodbye.
I slam the car door as I run to the front door to punch in the door code- not too fast, I'm careful of that. There's death all around this place, and very often I see the same man sitting in the big chair by the front door when I enter. I don't want to frighten him.
Once I'm through the door, I half-run, half-walk - similar to that strange straight edged run people seem to do when crossing the road in front of traffic. Hands beside your sides, like you don't want to seem like you're hurrying, but you are anyway.
Whatever.
When I think of this later, I won't remember if I was prepared for the way she was.
I race through the rabbit warren that is her homestead, and when I finally see her door at the end of the long corridor, I notice it's closed.
Can I go in? Is anyone there? Is she gone already?
I walk past a nurse who turns to look and me, and looks as if she is going to say something. I half turn my body towards her and go to speak- maybe to ask permission, maybe to ask if I'm in the right place. We both end up turning away from each other and continuing in opposite directions.
I open the door and what strikes me first is the quiet.
Seven different people in chairs around her bed, seven pairs of eyes turn to look at me, seven faces all with matching expressions.
I didn't expect so many people to be here.
I make brief eye contact with one relative but my eyes glide straight over to Nan, and in two steps I'm kneeling next to her bed, taking her hand in mine, and kissing her on the forehead.
My mother is in bed with her, rubbing her back and looking at me through puffy eyes.
"I'm here, Nan," I tell her, kissing her again, "I've come to say goodbye and I'll see you when I get there."
I rest on my heels and continue holding her hand.
Why does everyone always sit and stare?
"She can still hear," offers an unhelpful relative. They're not unhelpful, really. They just make me angry.
"I thought as much," I reply, watching Nan breathe.
She can't see. Eyes rolled back, that breathing state that everyone talks about has taken over her. Later I'll refer to it as shallow breathing. Another relative will call it deep breathing. I won't know what it was until I hear it again years later and identify it as stridor.
Two days prior I'd been in and had been watching her breathing. It was similar, but I didn't know what to look for.
***
I've been here three hours now. It doesn't feel that long. I spent the first two hours holding her hand, only moving when someone new came along that wanted to say goodbye, or a relative who felt uncomfortable sitting still came over to stroke her shoulder for thirty seconds.
"Remember that weekend at her house?" One cousin begins, stroking Nan's hand next to me, "When..."
"Yes, I remember," I force a laugh and my cousin responds with wild laughter.
She returns to sit with her boyfriend.
I thought I'd enter and say goodbye, just in time, and she'd be gone. Romantic, in a sense. But she's still here. Death isn't quite what I expected, I suppose. Or at least, not how the movies would lead me to believe.
After another couple of hours, most of the relatives have filtered out. Her children are left.
But I'm her child.
I know it's not fair. I'm not, really. But I feel that way. She raised me, too.
Eventually I realise it's time to slip out and leav ethe real children there. There, with their mother, for her final few hours.
Later my mother will tell me that she spoke out loud, "I wonder where she is now?" And moments later, a last shuddering breath was taken.
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