Brian Builta
September 16
Saturday
|
Ron is moving to Houston but spends the day helping me move furniture that won't fit in the death closet. We lunch on the Arroyo patio with top-shelf margaritas. Afterward, Ron naps on the couch, talks about building a swimming pool beneath the statue of St. Francis. Later, we visit mama in the death closet, then dine on fish and drink wine. All day, a vague recollection that today is somebody’s birthday.
Music drifts down the hall
without ears to hear it – dead batteries |
September 17
Sunday
|
Even with death in her pancreas and now in her liver, mama is worried about the clutter on the counter. What is that white bottle there? she asks. Can it be moved into the bathroom? Is that an empty plastic bag? Her filter has blown off. My nurse this morning was a big fat guy, she says. He manhandled me. Please and thank you no longer populate her vocabulary. Mama and I are used to sudden unexpected deaths – a car accident, suicide, botched surgery – but having time to contemplate impending death is new. Some handle this with grace, some do not.
Four seasons of clothes
hang in the closet – mama wears the same three night gowns |
September 18
Monday
|
Mama continues to breathe through pain, more peaceful than she was. She’s made of her pain, a friend. Her gown is comfortable, more fresh gowns in the closet. More deep breaths. The lights are low, no television. All is calm, quiet. Three cards from friends come in. We pray that you do not suffer. So sorry to hear the news. Let us know if we can do anything. I suggest mama write a letter to everyone she knows. I have cancer, very aggressive and advanced. You tell me what you can do to help. Otherwise, love.
The bouquet keeps guard
on the table by the door, petals on the floor |
September 19
Tuesday
|
Are my teeth yellow? mama asks before the minister arrives. Her lips are tight over her teeth as she sucks in the pain. Can’t see your teeth, mama, I say. Good, she says. The lights are low although it’s the middle of the day and the Tramadol is burrowing into her system. You’ll have to talk for me, she says, fading away, far, farther. I nod. The minister comes in, shakes my hand, then walks to the side of the bed, bends down and kisses mama’s tight forehead.
Pain meds pulse through veins
as birds continue to sing on shining branches |
