I’d never seen this photo of my brother and I until yesterday! A friend that I had lost touch with for 35 years sent it to me out of the blue. It is an instant absolute treasure to me. And sometimes a picture is the perfect start of a story.
My mother died about two years ago. And my brother and I were both there for the final days.
So my brother is a Dunkin Donuts guy. Me, Starbucks. It tells you a lot about us. Me, I’m stupid enough to believe you can’t get a good coffee at Dunkin Donuts. My brother doesn’t want a “latte with soy milk” or to pay an absurd $5 for it. I’ve never wandered into a Dunkin Donuts. He wouldn’t waste his money at a Starbucks. Never has. Never would.
So there came this moment near to my mom’s death, when I had to say goodbye to her. For the last time.
I had been at her side, sleeping in her hospital room for about two weeks. But now she was unconcious, heavily medicated and would not be coming back. I was leaving her, having been told by the head nurse, I needed to go home now so that my mother would let go.
So came the time for my final moments with my mother.
My brother said that he would give me all time I needed alone with her, “Call me or text me when you want to be picked up. Take all the time you need.”
It was evening. And silent when I walked in her room. My mother was still there, sleeping. under blankets. Hooked up to IV’s or some shit.
She was asleep like the dead.
At night this wing of the hospital is a ghost town.
It is dark in her room.
I walk to my mother’s side. This is the woman who birthed me. Her hair is gray. The skin on her arms hangs loose from age. I know her face so well. Even though it is the face of a tired old woman, here and now it is easy to love.
This is the blood of my blood.
I take her hand. And hold it inside of mine. It is warm. How odd that it is smaller than my hand. When I was a child it felt so big.
This is the woman who took me to the park to feed the ducks.
This is the woman who gave me a home, even when she couldn’t afford it.
This is the woman who played with me and made me laugh.
This is the woman who got me a graduation present by trading away her washer and dryer.
This is the woman who fed me. Who cooked for me. Who taught me. Who worked nights for me. Who praised me. Who always answered every single call from me with unimaginable enthusiasm.
This is the woman who gave every thing she had for me. Everything.
I want to crumble.
I don’t know how to do this.
“Mom, I want to thank you for so much.
For feeding me for raising me for always being there for me
for loving me always
for keeping a roof over our heads for
alll the times you tucked me in as a child for coming to all my track meets
for getting me to go to college for
Mom, I love you.
And I realize I can’t actually thank you
enough.
There’s too much. But thank you for being such a good mother. thank you my sweet mother.
I will miss you so so so much. And I don’t know how to do this.
How to say goodbye to you
But I love you. And I will see you again my mother.
Good by my sweet mother.”
And then I kiss her on the forehead. I take a deep breath of her in.
And next, I must find a way to stand up and walk out on my mother. For the last time ever. I don’t know if I can do it. i didn’t know you had to do things this hard in life.
This is real. It is permanent. It cannot be undone. It is an end. It is a disappearance.
I squeeze my beautiful mom’s hand. Pull up her blanket.
And walk out.
I make it down the empty hall. Down the elevator. Before I collapse onto the chair in the empty lobby, sobbing.
it is done.
I have seen my mother for the last time. And said my goodbye. I have suffered the realization that you can’t thank a parent for all they do. Even with their mistakes and weaknesses, they do too much for you to put to words. Day by day. Year by year. Moment by moment.
I wipe my face and text.
PATRICK COMBS: “Come get me.”
MIKE COMBS: “I’m outside in the parking lot”
I walk out to my older brother.
He has a look of deep compassion in his eyes.
And a Starbucks in his hand.
“Here little brother, let’s go for a drive.”
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