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The Loss of a Mother
| Article
# : |
20500 |
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Section : |
LIFE
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| Issue
Date : |
5 / 1992 |
1,361 Words |
| Author
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Robert J. Carraro
Robert J. Carraro is a writer and producer based in the
Washington, D.C., metropolitan area. |
It is Saturday evening, two days after Valentine's Day. Though they are not allowed, several bouquets of flowers decorate the room. Green oxygen tubes protrude from the wall, finding their way into my mother's nose. Along the way, these tubes pass through a water filter. Were it not for the sorrow of the situation, I would find soothing this sound that simulates a running brook.
Three days ago, my mother was brought by ambulance to the hospital, with severe pain and difficulty breathing. The cancer, originating in her lungs, had spread to her brain and liver. There was no response to the last dose of chemotherapy. The morphine drip she is getting registers fourteen milligrams an hour. She is very drowsy. She falls asleep midsentence. When she awakens, she often picks up where she left off. Her face is hollowed and her stomach is bloated. The cancer is eating away at her insides. She is only forty-nine.
My sister called me from the hospital in Connecticut the day Mom was brought in. I was at my office in Washington, D.C., when she called. "Mom has a lot of pain and has trouble breathing." After taking care of affairs at home, I made the trip to Connecticut the next day.
By My Mother's Side
As I sit by my mother's side, I notice two Happy Valentine's Day balloons hovering over her bed. At this moment I am struck by the imagery of these two balloons, which seem like guardian angels descended from the gods to protect her. I am stricken with fear when I see that one of the balloons has begun to lose its helium and is struggling to maintain its lofty position high above the bed.
Staying alone at her house while she is in the hospital is eerie. Frankly, depressing. It reminds me of all the times I'd to say goodbye to her when I lived overseas. On the last day of my infrequent visits, my heart always weighed heavily. More than anyone else in my family, Mom was always the hardest to say goodbye. She would usually cry. It always cut deep.
I sit on my mother's bed at home. On the wall behind her bureau is a painting of a red barn in an open field. Mountains rise up in the background to meet the pale blue sky. The barn is surrounded by a wooden fence, and there is a narrow stream flowing past the front of the barn. The artist was in the eighth grade when he painted the picture. Only his mother would find it valuable enough to still hang
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