September 30th, 2015 - Rebecca Suzan Watts
- donaldewquist
- Sep 30
- 2 min read
Waiting
I.
It’s not enough
for the hospice nurse to smile and stand back,
mollifying with, “See? It’s not an emergency.
She’s still here.”
Because it’s all an emergency.
And there my mother lies,
smiling like she’s just enjoyed a pleasant joke
at no one’s expense.
And then, staring the stare of the newly dead,
she takes another breath, shrugs,
and closes her eyes.
Again.
I sit and wonder whether or not she’s been doped up
all afternoon. Or is this just
one of those things
we’re meant to half expect,
outlined in that skinny book on dying they’ve supplied?
Why am I agitated that she’s resting comfortably?
II.
This is the day of the oxygen
tubing “fail.” The day she choked
on cranberry juice. The day
the meager things I did seemed
to bother as much as soothe or help.
She’s barely had her eyes open
throughout the day but I feed her
a few bites of lunch
and then eat the rest myself.
Later, I feed her a little dinner, too,
but she only wants to sleep.
And nestled in this veneer of hospice
I think she looks exactly like
she’s been plucked out of a nursing home,
hospital bed and all, and plunked
down in this pretty room full of fancy
furniture and goods for the aged.
Still the transitional two of everything,
as though we were waiting for her and a mate
to board the Ark, rather than waiting
for a final slip into The Light.
O, she so wanted to be saved.
