A star is fading tonight....

...and a piece of my heart is dying.

My frail, silver-haired angel is winding down her life with faint laboured breaths.  We sit around her aching for one last smile, wishing things could be different, hoping for a quick end to her suffering all the while reliving every moment of our time with her and concluding that it was not enough.  But inside, 80 years of struggle is condenscing into a few brief hours of battle when the will succumbs to the body's need to rest... and rest forever.

Four women are all that is left of the stream of visitors. Some came because they should,  some came because they do. We came because we had to, because there is no other place in the world we could possible be at this horrible time.  We came because we did not want to leave her alone, because it was the only way to let her know we are grateful.  We sit here as the receptacles of all her goodness, her patience, her laughter and her joy.  We sit and we count the breaths.  We sit and we wipe away the tears that sting our cheeks.  We sit and we sit.  Sometimes one of us will remember an anecdote and whisper it to the others.  She does not stir while we talk softly and chuckle.  Funny how you can laugh at a time when your heart if breaking.


My heart is breaking.


This little woman in the bed should never have had such a major role in my life.  I am nothing to her but a friend's child.  I should have been nothing to her all my life.  Except, she made me something to her.  She loved me and she mothered me at times when I was motherless.  She made me laugh, she made me cakes, she made me do chores for her whenever I visited.  


The silence shatters and I rise sluggishly from my reverie.  Three women have stood up and are bending over the bed.  Three women, stroking a papery cheek, talking softly , giving reassurances, expressing their love.  I sit and watch.  I can't bear it but I sit and watch.  One pair of hands wets her lips with a swab.  Another pair of hands strokes her hair. A third pair of hands adjusts the blankets and pillows.  I watch.  I am worn out with premature grief.  I am worn out.  Every time she moves they spring into action to comfort and make comfortable.  That is the role of women.  We are part of the beginning of life and too often we are the only ones left as it ebbs away.  All the men came and left quickly and I silently rail at their weakness.


Suddenly her eyes open and she looks at me.  Her arms rise up to embrace me.  I am fearful of hurting her in any way but I can see the request in her grey-blue eyes.  I lean forward and she whispers to me...'my mary'.  I am rigid with suppressed grief and helplessness.  I kiss her gingerly on the cheek and withdraw.  I see a smile on her face and she slips back into her uneasy repose.


She has done that a number of times today.  Each of us has had at least 3 final hugs.  How many more will there be?  I am not sure I can take it.  I am not ready to lose her.  I have not done enough for her to repay her love and her support.  I have not done enough.

There is no clock in the room.  A deliberate omission.  Time is measured by the betrayals of our bodies.  We take turns leaving the room to refresh and replenish ourselves - never staying away too long.  We may be in this room a few days still.  It does not matter.  No one leaves.


The silence shatters again with the entry of efficient staff looking after her comfort and ours.  Strange to have them care about us when there is only one important person in the room.  It is late.  We are asked who will be staying the night so beds can be brought in.   But only 2 can fit.  Who will stay?  There is no discussion.  There is no need for it. Her true daughter and her only granddaughter, who was raised by her, will stay.  Her grandson's wife and her adopted daughter, me, will go.


Two women prepare to lie on cots either side of her.
Two women walk silently away.


Outside it is dark and a light rain falls.  The security lighting in the car park casts dull yellow reflections into the puddles.  It is quiet.  There is a tight, long embrace and two women get into separate cars and drive slowly away.


I wish my eyes would wipe away the tears like the wipers clearing my windshield.  I wish I did not care so much.  I wish so many things.


I am tired and the road seems so long.  I just want to lie down but I need to stay alert.  The last turn to home is taken wearily and the car seems to park itself.  Arms are waiting to welcome me home knowing I will be depleted.  I don't even have the strength to drink.  I don't know how I will get up the stairs to bed.  I cry.


I fear the phone may ring. I fear the phone may not ring.  I want to go back.


Instead I sit down to my laptop to capture these feelings, these moments, because I fear forgetting them.  I fear that the pain in my chest will wane and I will forget how much I love her.  I fear that she will fade from me even though I know she never can.


Who will make us apple cake?  Who will make us 'white bananas', as my infant son called the crescent shaped greek shortbreads she brought to us, who will call us when we are in need, who will love us as she does?


I cannot breathe.  I cannot speak.  My throat is closed to contain the sobs that clamour below the surface.  So I type....and I type and I type.


"Time for bed" someone says.  I look up and my husband is trying to disentagle me from the laptop.  I say no, but he is insisting.  So I will stop now because I have to.


Please let her still be there tomorrow but please let her be at peace tomorrow.

My heart is breaking.