Seeing Mom like that instantly brought me back to a long faded memory. I was eight years old, and I came downstairs early one morning to find Mom curled into a ball on the couch. Her body was twisted in a way that made it seem impossible for her to be comfortable, but when I looked at her face she seemed to be totally at ease. At that instant, I had the distinct feeling that I was seeing Mom as she had looked as a teenager, napping away an afternoon without any thought about what she might do after she awoke. It was so captivating that several minutes passed before I noticed the two wicker baskets on the kitchen table. They were each filled with long green strands of plastic grass and surrounded by a mix of chocolates, peeps and toys that I had at some time or another pleaded for my parents to buy for me. I looked back and forth between my sleeping mother and the baskets on the table, not consciously accepting what I knew in the back of my mind.
At last, I let out a gasp. Mom sat up with a jolt. She suddenly looked exhausted. As I look back on the memory, I came to appreciate what she had done for me. She must have worked the midnight shift at the hospital where she worked as a pharmacist. Then, after a long drive home across a dark highway, instead of heeding the cries of her body and crawling into bed, she had begun to assemble and then hide my Easter baskets so I would not be disappointed when I woke up and began searching the house. At the time though, all I felt was a disorienting feeling of shock tinged with a vague bitterness at having been deceived for so long. The Easter Bunny was actually my mom. She must be Santa Claus too. And the tooth fairy. All of the mystical creatures that never really made much sense - it had all been Mom.
If I had more time to reflect as that memory came back, I would have felt a swelling pride and debt for the efforts Mom's put into making my Easter special despite being so exhausted. But at the moment, there was no time.
"I'm.... stuck."
If you've never been in a situation before where you find your recently deceased mother on the floor of your bathroom in need of help - and I strongly suspect that you haven't - it is difficult to know how to react. I'm not terribly pleased with my reaction.
"Are you real?" I asked in a small voice.
Mom didn't respond, but instead she rolled onto her other side and tried unsuccessfully to push herself into a kneeling position. I wasn't sure, but it seemed like she was ever so slightly shrinking in size too. After a few moments of trying, she collapsed back onto her side and let out a heavy but healthy sounding sigh. I crouched down next to her and hugged my knees against my chest. I felt an urge to be as close as possible to her, but I deliberately avoided touching her. I couldn't shake the thought, screaming through my head, that if I touched her she might vanish. She moaned slightly.
"Steven, I need help." Mom didn't seem to want to look at me, as if she were ashamed that she couldn't find a way to get up on her own. She frowned, and adjusted herself on the floor, acting as if she meant to be lying exactly where she was. Still uncertain of what to do, I rubbed the palms of my hands against my forehead, trying to squeeze an answer out of my brain.
"What if you disappear when I touch you Mom?"
Mom shook her head with mild exasperation. "You're talking like a crazy person. Help me up and we'll talk about that some more. I know a thing or two about crazy people."
I thought about the situation some more, and I concluded that I definitely couldn't leave Mom there without even trying to help her. With no other option, I slowly reached out my hand. I was moving slowly enough for Mom to glance at my hand twice, with the second glance accompanied by a subtle shake of her head. Just before my hand made contact with her, I lunged forward and grabbed hold of her arm, as if trying to grab her before she could dissipate.
"Okay then? Now help me up. My neck is not in a good position." I grabbed hold of Mom by the hip and helped pull her into a kneeling position. Without letting go of her arm, I stepped around behind her and we counted to three together as I helped lift her until she could stand up on her own. Finally back on her feet, Mom swayed in place a bit before she steadied herself.
"What happened Mom?"
"I got some water on the floor while I was brushing my teeth and my feet flipped right out from under me. I thought I was going to die!"
The words hit me like a bucket of ice being dumped over my head. You did die, I thought to myself. There was something horrible about this living version of my mom panicking about her fear of dying. I gripped onto her arm harder.
"You can let go now," Mom said. Maybe I was holding a little too tight. I relaxed a bit, but still didn't release. Just then, I noticed a small trickle of blood snaking its way through Mom's hair. I touched it with my pointer finger, and it came away crimson.
"I think you hit your head when you feel," I said with alarm.
"You think I'm acting funny because I bumped my head don't you?" Mom seemed to be trying to evaluate the situation and process my reaction at the same time. Her tone was mostly bland, but I could detect a note of dismay too.
"I didn't say you were acting funny Mom. But I think we need to take you to the hospital. You might need stitches. And you should get checked for a concussion."
"No, I'm done with hospitals!"
"Done with hospitals?"
"I'm not going back to the hospital unless my life depends on it," Mom said defiantly.
I shook my head. "It might Mom."
"I'm not going and that's final Steven!" Mom swung her arms forward and back, almost shaking me off of her, but I held on, barely.
"Okay fine!" I relented. Mom stopped trying to throw me off. The effort seemed to have tired her and her shoulders slumped down.
"I need to go to bed," Mom said. As usually, she knew what was best.
I shifted my grip on Mom's arm from one hand to the other so that we could link arms as we walked over to her bed. We shuffled over slowly, without paying much mind to the passing of time. I could feel Mom's steady pulse in her arm. Mom sat down on the couch and began the process of changing into her pajamas. I pulled off her socks and then helped her to get her sweatshirt over her head. I looked at the pile of cloths next to the couch and picked out a pajama top that had a puppy pattern on it. It had been one of her favorites.
"You would be a good nurse you know," Mom said as she poked her head through the neck hole of her pajama top.
"I don't have the training for it," I replied.
"The most important part is your personality. You care about people. And you're patient."
"I think the medical part of the job is important too Mom," I said, as I helped her stand up and we walked over to her bed. As Mom climbed in, the bed let out a satisfying creak. It had been a while since anyone had laid on it, and it seemed to welcome the return of its familiar occupant. Mom shifted a bit.
"Are you comfortable?" I asked. "I really want to make sure you find a comfortable position tonight."
Mom looked at me, and said, "You know that having you was the best thing that ever happened to me, don't you Steven?" She had said the same thing to me nearly every night that I helped her to bed. It was such a familiar script, and I had my line too. I certainly wasn't going to miss it if this was our last reading.
"It was the best thing that ever happened to me too," I said. I couldn't muster my usual sense of playfulness, and the words dropped from my mouth like heavy sandbags. Mom seemed disappointed, but she motioned for me to lean in for a good night kiss on the cheek.
"I love you honey," Mom said. "You get some sleep now." I nodded softly and she rolled away to face the wall. I saw that she had left a bit of red blood on the pillow where her head had been resting. After a while, her breathing became slow and heavy. Her face took on a grimace, as if sleep no longer brought her peace. It had been years since I had seen her sleeping as peacefully as the morning I discovered she was the Easter Bunny. I stayed with her, holding onto her arm the entire while. I lost sense of time passing. Was it minutes? Hours? I had no idea. My eyelids felt heavy, but I wouldn't allow them to close. Somehow I had been given the gift of this visit from Mom, and I refused to let it end. There was no way to know if Mom would be there when I woke up. As my head began to bob, I began to chew on my cheeks fighting against fatigue. The last thing I remember was nuzzling my head against Mom's hand. It was warm and familiar.