The RDP prompt for today is twelve. I searched my draft folder and found this incomplete post that had last been edited in February 2016. My mother died in November 2015. I wrote so many posts following her death. I think it was my way of untangling the knot—and it helped.
This post was never completed. When I read it this morning, a flood of memories engulfed me.
Here’s the post which I called “Terrible.” At the end, I’ll try to complete it — though the 10 intervening years surely have changed where I was going with the original.
THE ORIGINAL
The one nurse said, “Well, I guess you’ve never seen a dying person before.”
She was matter-of-fact. Tart. A little smug. Definitely too cheerful.
The other nurse was different. Compassionate. Caring. Gentle.
“Can I do anything for you?” she asked every time she checked on my mother. “Can I get you anything?”
With twelve hour shifts for the nurses, we mostly saw only these two.
When I would ask the first nurse
THE 2026 COMPLETION
When I would ask the first nurse for anything, she did her job, but with so little compassion that I ended up avoiding her. Truth be told, today I can’t even picture her.
Forgettable — that’s what she was. I’m glad I didn’t spend time dwelling on her.
What I remember about my mother’s final hospital stay are definitely the kindnesses:
The other nurse bringing food in for us.
The doctor who called a family meeting. She began with these words, “Mom is very sick, and she isn’t going to get better.” She went on to talk about the fact that modern medicine could keep her alive, but we should think about what was best for her. One of my brothers still refers to her as “the doctor that told us to kill Mom.” It’s that dark famiy sense of humor that we have. I have no doubt in my mind that it was the right decision.
A group of women from the church came to the hospital room and sang to my mother. They had all been in the choir with her, and now they sang for her. It still brings tears to my eyes just thinking about it. Out-of-tune warbly voices of older women joined in some of the most beautiful music I’ve heard.
My siblings and I gathered around the bed, each telling my mother that we loved her. My youngest brother told my mother that it was okay for her to go. I had heard that it can be important to say that, and he said it, all the while rubbing her foot as he stood at that end of the bed.
I feel pity for that nurse whom I had labeled “Terrible.” Her words, I guess you’ve never seen a dying person before, are so hollow.
I don’t know what prompted them, but today, I would take her hands in mine, and say, “I hope that some day, you can gather with your family around the bed of someone you love very much, and you can be with them when they pass. It’s a beautiful thing.”
Terrible vs. beautiful. I’ll remember the beautiful.
Hot Dogs and Marmalade 