My Mother Has Decided To Die

It was hard for me to record this. But, at the time, it gave me an objective way to look at the interaction of my family and how each handled my mother's illness. My mother has since passed, and I hope that each one in my family can move on with their lives, while keeping her memory alive.

December 27, 2000

As I sit here in this hospital room looking at my mother lying against the stark white of the sheets, I notice how pale her skin is. I remember her as always so rosy and healthy looking. She tanned easily, but she was not a sun worshiper.

Many years at a job that kept her on her feet and constantly moving, maintained her in pretty good shape. But now her body is limp, saggy and bloated from lack of exercise and bad eating habits.

Her smoking, which she has never given up, has turned her lungs into a cesspool of continual infection. An oxygen tube, that was meant for temporary use, has been her constant companion since the day she received it. She has deprived her body of healing naturally with Mother Nature's sun and fresh air.

The hospital counselor was here asking about further care after my mom leaves the hospital. Maybe temporary placement until her strength is regained, then nursing help for a while after she goes home - if she goes home.

Who has power of attorney? Maybe my brother, I don't know. We almost lost her last night. We have to get things in order. Some kind of order.

I close my eyes and last night plays back like an episode from a soap opera. Most of us were very subdued, gathered in the small room. A lot of faces were wet with silent tears. And by her bed is one of my younger sisters showing signs of alcohol induced hysteria. Sobbing, slapping the bed, clutching my mother's hand, verbally assailing her with words.

"You can't die. You can't do that to us, to me. You have to fight. You can't die."

And my mother feebly looked at her and murmured, "I'm tired."

It was barely above a whisper but I felt the impact of those words sitting in my chair across the room from her bed. It's still hard for me to understand why she won't fight the battle, but I've come to understand that it is her battle, not ours.

She is asleep now. Breathing easier, not labored. The crisis passed, or has it?

I love you, Mom.

- Dee Pacheco 
Geneva, Ohio, U.S.A.