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"Come on, Mom," I whisper to no one. Praying feels like grasping at smoke, but I do it anyway.
Please, let her pull through. Just one more day . . . one more day,I pray, but the God I pray to is probably helping someone more deserving than me. How can I expect anything from Him when the only time I ever remember to pray is when I am in trouble?
Pressed hard against the cold glass that separates me from the only anchor I have to true contentment, my hands leave desperate smudges as I peer into the ICU room.
Machines beep and whir— a cacophony of artificial life and unreliable hope, but it's the numbers that scream the loudest at me. Her blood pressure oscillates erratically, the monitor flashing systolic readings that plummet close to nothing before spiking back up — 70, then 180 . . . numbers on steroids, like a rollercoaster for a body that can't take the ride anymore.
I don’t know how I got back in the room, but I am back, helplessness gnawing at me.
"Tony, you really need to step back and give us room to work," a voice urges, gentle yet firm. It's Nurse Williams, her hand on my shoulder, turning my body to guide me back out.
"Her heart rate's too low, look. 40 . . . no, 38 . . . " My own voice trails off, each beat dropping like stones into the abyss. “We’re losing her.” I cry.
“GET HER OUT OF HERE, NOW,” someone screams from far, far, far away, like distant thunder.
"Come on, Tony. We’re wasting precious time." She tries to guide me back out, but I resist, fixated on the pulse oximeter's red glow flickering—a harbinger of pain.
I'm finally ushered out, a sob clawing its way up my throat, but I swallow it down. Through the glass, I watch the color-coded nightmare, each movement by the team a choreographed dance of survival—a dance I know too well, one whose steps lead to an ending I can't bear.
"God, please," I mutter under my breath, a hopeless prayer more reflexive than belief. "Not like this." Reluctantly, I step outside, then turn to look.
The room beyond the glass is a frenzy. A nurse now pumps the bag valve mask with a grim rhythm, forcing breath into lungs that must flutter weakly. The doctor's hands move with precision, a choreography of desperation: inject, adjust, assess.
Ten precious minutes go by, and then my world stops. I don’t need anybody to tell me. I know when it is over.
A long, piercing tone slices through the chaos—the flatline of the EKG. No more peaks and valleys, just an unending, unwavering line—a flatline song of finality. My knees buckle, and I slide down against the door, the reality crushing me with its merciless weight.
"Stop compressions," Dr. Hernandez commands, his voice steady but tinged with defeat.
"Time of death, 3:17 AM," another nurse announces— clinical— detached—the dreaded ritual words of closure.
I close my eyes, letting the finality wash over me as the prayers dry up, brittle words in a barren landscape: words that proved to be useless after all. Why do people pray? What’s the use?
“Tony, I am very sorry for your loss. I know how hard you fought for her. No one could have done more. It must have been comforting for her to have you there. Be strong.” Dr. Hernandez says gently.
"Let me go to her," I whisper, opening my eyes to meet Hernandez's. "Please."
"Of course," he nods, understanding the plea, the need to be close, to see for oneself that the struggle has ended.
"Thank you," I say, the words hollow, echoing the emptiness beginning to spread within me.
With leaden steps, I enter the room where my mother lies still, surrounded by the humming machines that have now fallen silent, their purpose and need extinguished. The sterile smell of antiseptic lingers, futile against the inevitable decay that’s coming soon.
Closing the door and the blinds to shut out the world, I walk to my Mom with feet made of lead.
"Mom," I breathe out, touching her hand. I'm not sure if she can hear me now, wherever she is, but I speak anyway. "It’s over now, Mommy . . . no more pain. That is what I will use to guide me through mine. You were the best Mom a person could ever have. I am lucky you were mine. I will miss you . . . with every breath I take, with every moonlight, with every whisper of happiness. I don’t know how I survive this, Mama, but I will try . . . I intend to make you proud in everything I do.”
I slide into bed next to her and hold her tight.
“I did some things you might not approve of when you find out . . . if you find out, but I did them out of love for you. I liaisedwith the devil to bring you relief. Do not hate me, mother. I did not do it to betray Dad; I did it to buy me more time with you."
I sense an avalanche of sorrow swell inside my heart and close my eyes tight to anchor myself; then, I open them, realizing that Dick, Jenny, and Lola are in the building and should be here too.
Tears blur the edges of the room as I get up to go get them, the lines between life and the absence of it disappearing into my sixth dimension. It is time to face the dawn without our mother. Life has lost all meaning to me. I wish I were dead, too.
I descend the nine floors, each level bringing me closer and closer to being the bearer of bad news to my siblings. Dick, Jenny, Lola—they all look up as I enter the family room, their faces etched with exhaustion and worry.
"Mom's gone,” I say, without much preamble, my voice a ghost of itself.
