Butch Cohen
I wrote this while sitting in the hospice room with mom. I felt like sharing it with everyone here.I’m sitting next to my mothers bed, listening to her breathe. Her breath is raspy, almost a snore, but then again not. At times there is an extended pause and I stop what I’m doing to turn and look, waiting for the next inhale, looking for the quiver of her lip or the movement of her hand that tells me she is still here with me. And then the next breath comes again and I know she hasn’t left me yet. My mother is frail and fragile. My mother is at peace with the world. My mother is dying.I’ve been here four days now. When I first arrived I was in shock. This wasn’t the woman I remembered. This wasn’t the little woman that would smile and nod at me as we talked as her deafness prevented her from understanding what I was saying. Yet she somehow figured it out (or did a great job pretending) and did such a wonderful job of making a short story long. Oh, I would gladly listen to one of those stories now, so rambling that even she would forget what the story started with. We all had a good laugh about that. No, this woman had a bandage over her eye. A bruise running down the side of her face and extending to her neck where the tile kitchen floor had been so unforgiving against her fragile skin. This woman had a glassy look in her eyes and although she looked straight at me, there was no sign of recognition on her face. Her only communication was an occasional word or phrase that was mostly unintelligible. My sister tried to tell her who I was and while she spoke, mom looked directly at me. I raised my hand and waved, then broke out in laughter when she raised her hand straight up, waved back at me, and in a voice as clear as a bell said “Goodbye”. I didn’t know at the time that it was the last word she would say to me. We did finally get her to understand when I wrote on my iPad “Butch is here”. When she read it, she looked at me and smiled and I knew she was at peace knowing all her children had come to see her leave. I kissed her gently and that was the last conscious moment I had with her.I sit here now, by myself, listening to her breathing, waiting on that moment. I tell myself I’m prepared but know that I am not. Is anybody that strong or do we just pretend for the sake of what others may think? I know that it will happen soon and I’ll shed more tears, as I’m doing as I write this. I’ll say my goodbyes to the dear woman that did a pretty good job raising me (in my humble opinion) and I’ll go home, hug my wife and kids and grand kids and prepare to bring mom home one last time.My mother left this world at ten past two on the afternoon of November Fourth, Twenty-Thirteen. I’m proud to say I was with her when she took her final breath.Love you!