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power of attorney, was both childlike and mature as he gracefully made the courageous decision to withdraw the technologic care keeping her alive. We called the family – our other two siblings, favorite cousins, and a treasured uncle – to ask if they could come. When everyone declined, we moved forward in step with the unremitting pace of death.
After the nurses pulled the breathing tube and the doctors wrote the orders for comfort medications, we gathered by her bedside. We made sure she had her blanket wrapped around her neck and close to her face, just the way she liked it. Ever since she was a little girl, she needed her one special blanket to keep her feeling comforted and safe. This sacred talisman of hers was a sign of her true frailty. Like all families in this desperate, inevitable position we started telling our favorite stories about her. We laughed and cried. As she gasped agonal breaths, her son created an impromptu playlist on his iPhone to help her drift away. As I listened to the familiar words of “You Are My Sunshine,” I floated in and out of family memories recalling the sweet and the bitter moments. There were so many and they rushed through my brain at an uninterpretable pace and thankfully a touch from my bravest sister rescued me from my inner thoughts.
From time to time her son’s face would contort into silent tortured sobs. He would then steady himself and wipe away the tears. My heart broke for him. He, more than anyone, had witnessed it all. In high school, he had taken her to the ER, pulled her out of bars, and reminded her that he was her son when she was in a stupor. He was the collateral damage of her mental illness and inevitable subsequent alcohol and drug abuse. Maybe, I hoped, her tragedy would release him from the prison of endless worry that comes with loving an alcoholic.
Then my oldest sister called. She and the gorilla had never gotten along. Even as children they never understood each other. Insults,