The last time I saw Mom alive was Monday, May 5, 2008. I spent the night on a large plastic chair, meant for sitting not sleeping, at Baptist South Hospital in Montgomery, Alabama. Sterile smells hung in the air as I listened to her laboring to keep up with the C-PAP machine. I wondered how long before congestive heart failure would win the battle.
Mom woke up around 2 AM, annoyance in her voice. She insisted that I remove the contraption from her face. She said, “That doctor said for you to take this thing off my face.” I jumped to attention, sleep-deprived, and confused. I felt a sharp scream through the crook in my neck when I turned my head to see why Mom was so upset. I clicked on the light and saw my mother, the kind, gentle woman with the sweet voice, staring at me with a look of pure pissed-off-anger.
I dragged myself out of the chair, drunk on exhaustion and gently took Mom’s hand in mine. I whispered, “Mom, I know the machine is uncomfortable, but I can’t remove it. You know the doctor did not tell me to take it off; only the medical staff can do that.”
She peered at me through the large mask that covered her face and nose, rolled her eyes, closed them, and breathed gently, pretending to sleep. The noisy pump, a suffocating pillow slammed against her frail body, shoved air down her throat faster than she could absorb it. Neither of us slept the remainder of the night; me out of concern for my mom, and she out of sheer weariness as congestive heart failure wore her down.
At noon, I watched Mom toss and turn, restless, as I packed my Hartman suitcase and contemplated leaving her in this condition at 2 PM to catch my flight home to Houston, Texas. I rubbed her soft hair, still mostly black, although she was 82-years-old, and I kissed her warm cheek. We stared into each other’s eyes as if one could read the mind of the other. I thought to myself, “I will never see her alive again. I need a lasting memory.”
I sat on the side of her bed, held her hands, the fingernails painted red and hardened with age. I said, “Mom, what would you like for me to sing for you?” Without hesitation, and quicker than I imagined she could speak, Mama whispered in a firm voice, “Sing ‘Precious Lord’ for me.” I released her hand, stood up, and rubbed her back as I had done when I walked the floor with my babies when they cut their teeth. I sang, “Precious Lord. Take my hand lead me on…” and in a weak, sweet voice, she sang along softly for the first two lines, and drifted off to sleep, her chest moving slow and rhythmically. The C-PAP was replaced by a thin oxygen supply into her nostrils. I finished the song, continued rubbing her back to ensure she remained asleep, and hoped she’d regain her strength.
I sat on the lounge chair in her room and watched her, ecstatic that she was finally resting. At 2 PM sharp, I tiptoed across the room, pulling my roller bag behind me. I watched her chest rise and fall as she lay in the fetal position. I got as far as the door when this gentle voice said, “It’s time to go?”
With a grin as wide as the sun, I dropped my luggage, stretched my arms out, and squeezed her as tight as I could without breaking her ribs. I said, “I should have known you wouldn’t let me go without saying good-bye. I thought you were asleep.”
She smiled and said, I was, but I sensed you leaving.”
My heart leaped with joy as I touched her face. I kissed her cheek, warm and soft, one last time. Daddy called me the morning of May 8, 2008 and said, “Well, Mama’s gone. When can you come?” I was alone in my office. I hung up the phone and screamed louder than I ever recalled before; tears flowed as pain seared my heart. I had lost my best friend, the woman who gave me life, the one who gave me her name, Mildred.
We buried her May 14, 2008, but not before I leaned over her casket. I gave her one last kiss on her cheek, a cold, hard slab of concrete, lifeless. I sang a unique rendition of “Precious Lord, Take my Hand,” improvised with a story of her last days sprinkled throughout the song.
