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ewshannon · 4 years

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I Love My Mother's Killer

I Love My Mother's Killer

E.W. Shannon

At three a.m. on a Sunday morning, through a glass door, I saw mother take her last breath. The ICU doctor warned it wouldn't be a long drawn out process, but I think even the nurse and the respiratory therapist were a bit surprised at how quickly she stopped. Stopped being alive. Stopped being Mabel Harper. Stopped being Mom and Grandma. I was a little shocked at how fast she went from being my mother to being 'the body,' almost as if I could see the tether between her and the ethereal part of the universe sever in front of me.

I stood outside, in my hospital booties, gown, gloves, hair cover, mask, and face shield while they removed her breathing tube. Her nurse, Vanessa, looked up at me when she realized how quick death had come. She came out of the room, took a deep breath, and gave me the news. "I'm sorry Mr. Harper, she's already gone." She paused to let me process and perhaps breakdown. When it became obvious, I wasn't going to go into hysterics, she continued. "Just let the respiratory therapist come out and then you can go in."

"No, that's okay." I started taking off the protective gear and felt guilty at having wasted it just to stand in a hallway. Talking to strangers has never been a strength of mine and the circumstance of my mother's death, or I guess any death, made it even worse. All the autistic tics and traits I had worked so hard on to lessen or get rid of came back like somebody poured them over me from a bucket. The stutter, the inability to look someone in the face, the sweating, all descended upon me at once. "I-I-I-Is there a-a-a-anything else y-y-y-you need from me?"

Vanessa placed a hand on my arm. Even through my shirt and the gown and her glove, I could still feel her warmth. "You want to sit down?"

"N-n-n-n-no, I-I-I-I'll b-b-be okay. I just need to go d-d-d-d-do a b-b-breathing exerc-c-c-c-ise." On top of all the sweating and stuttering I had unconsciously begun crying and hadn't even realized it.

"Okay. Um, no, there's nothing else we need right now from you. We'll call the mortuary and they'll be in contact with you." She half looked at me with pity and half with awe. For months now her world had been a constant dialogue about COVID; for over a week she had seen me as a competent sane man, and now a certified medical freak stood in front of her coming apart at the seams. Having an evolving medical curiosity in front of her must have been a nice change of pace from the pandemic.

"Thank you for e-e-everything."

"No problem. Sorry for your loss." She patted my arm again and I felt her shift internally. Her voice changed into a hospital administrator to catch my attention. "Make sure you leave the face mask on until you leave the building and use hand sanitizer as you exit this unit, as well as when you exit the building downstairs.

"Thank you."

She went back into my mother's room and pulled a curtain across the glass door.

I don't remember leaving the unit, how I got downstairs and exited, how I found my car in the parking garage, or if I ever used any hand sanitizer. I just remember sobbing with my head leaned against the steering wheel, my tears snaking their way through the Chevy emblem before falling into my lap. Eventually I started the car and headed home. At first, I tried to craft what I would say to my daughters, Lily and Layla, but found I could either drive or work on a speech for my girls, but not both. So, I just drove and let my subconscious wander and it wasn't long before it took me back to that innocent day less than a month ago.

It's so stupid really. As a family we had been so careful to self-isolate as a group; it felt like Swiss Family Robinson, but with Wi-Fi. A drive-by birthday party for a seven-year-old is what started the death knell for mother. A boy named Asher, a friend of Lily's, stood in the driveway as, one by one, friends (and their obliging parents) stopped and sang Happy Birthday, hooked a gift bag onto a six foot metal pole usually used for skimming a pool, and then waited for the little boy to yell out "Thank you!" showing off all the open spaces in his mouth where teeth had fallen out as he grinned like an idiot.

The thought of giving Lily a list of rules never occurred to anyone. Her ten-year-old sister held only a tentative grasp on the word 'pandemic.' To Layla it meant the bully she'd acquired at the beginning of the year was now null and void, she could go to class in questionable states of dress at the dining room table, she was no longer the weird kid who ate hummus and sprouts sandwiches alone in the cafeteria, and, most importantly to her, she got to sleep in for an extra hour.

Lily, however, was quite different. Every teacher's report we'd gotten on her included the phrase "social butterfly" or some variation of "very verbal." In every group picture from school, Lily grabbed the focus by placing herself dead center, usually with half the students looking at her rather than the camera. Since birth she had always been everybody’s friend and greeted everyone with a hug. I always imagine her studying Layla and seeing how heavy and dour she was and deciding to be the complete opposite.

So, there we were on a warm day in May, I drove, my wife, Joy, sat up front with me, and my mother sat between Layla and Lily in the back seat. I don't know why I put the car in park that day as we sang and put our bag on the pole. Remembering the 'clunk' of the doors unlocking sometimes wakes me up at night. I can vividly remember the bright green bow falling off the bag and how fast Lily had been at getting out of her booster seat and out of the car. Before my wife or I could comprehend what was happening, she had picked up the bow off the asphalt, playfully stuck it to Asher's forehead, and hugged him. No mask, no gloves, no ridiculous two-foot wide piece of plexiglass like at the grocery store, just two children doing what you want children to do, being caring, thoughtful, kind, unreserved, and picking up their litter.

I wouldn't say our family has any real germaphobes, but we did exercise a bit of caution as the tallies of deaths and infections continued their upward trajectory on the news. Joy and I had surrendered to the idea of life with COVID rather than life after COVID. My wife still went to the grocery store with the girls in tow. My mother made them each twenty masks with different patterns, each girl getting their name embroidered in one of the corners, so instead of telling them they 'had' to wear a mask we just had to say, "Go pick out a special mask to go with your outfit." Of course, they weren't wearing masks that day, as we weren't supposed to be near anyone.

When Lily got back into the car and buckled herself into her booster seat, a noticeable silence that accompanied her. Joy broke the hush. "Here Lily, put some hand sanitizer on." She then covered Lily's little hands with ten pumps of hand gel from a Costco-sized container.

I looked back at Lily's glistening dripping hands and whispered in my wife's ear, "Unless you're going to pump it down her nose and throat, the damage is done."

She turned back around in her seat, put a single pump of hand gel on her own hands and took a deep breath as she nervously rubbed it in. "Yeah, you're right. I mean, what are the odds?" She shrugged her shoulders and gave me an unconvincing smile.

The next day Joy sent an email to Asher's mother to ask, with the utmost of political correctness, if their family might be harboring a deadly contagion. The reply came back quick assuring us that we had nothing to worry about and asking if we might be harboring a deadly contagion. "Remember when these emails were about kids biting and organizing bake sales," I asked her after reading the reply.

The day after that I caught my wife typing in 'how many days for covid symptoms after possible infection.' Before she could press 'enter' I answered her, "Two to fourteen days." She pressed 'enter' anyway and then let out a sigh with her head resting in her hands. "Told ya so."

"It might have updated since you looked." Her tense reply made me get up and massage her shoulders.

"It'll be okay. None of us are sick. Mom's been fine since she moved in after her hip surgery. Worst case, we get sick and we get over it." I tried my best to fill the statement with confidence, but the tiny bit of doubt I let slip by was all she heard. I looked across the foyer and saw Lily in my mother's room, sitting in her lap having a story read to her, and hoped I was right.

Two more days went by and then Joy woke up with flu-like symptoms, achy, fever, a slight cough, but nothing too alarming. The next day Layla woke with similar symptoms, but not as extreme. We tried to go through a drive-up testing site, but once my wife saw the line, she gave the order to turn back. "It's like Schrödinger’s cat, let’s just hope we only have to open two boxes," she said. They each had symptoms for three days and then they cleared. My wife attributed their miraculous recovery to the vegan diet she had put the family on the previous year. I gave more credit to luck.

Day twelve I woke to the sound of a duck on fire quacking from downstairs, at least that's what it sounded like to me. I found my mother in her chair coughing and felt her hot clammy head. "Get dressed Mom, we're going to the hospital." She didn't answer, just shook her head, and shuffled over to her closet. A few hours later she became a patient in the special COVID ward of our local hospital.

A few days later I got a call from Vanessa, just starting the night shift, telling me they had transferred my mother to the ICU and asking if she had a living will. While having a living will makes you feel prepared for death, when somebody outside your family asks to see it, it's the most ominous feeling ever.

Two lights away from the entrance to our neighborhood, in the small hours of the morning with a few of my mother's effects in a hospital bag on the floorboard, I pulled the car over into a 7-Eleven parking lot and vomited all over a Japanese Boxwood. It wasn't a virus causing me to hurl, but a thought, a window into the future. Someday Lily will look back on this, maybe she'll come across one of those masks with my mother's embroidery on it, maybe she'll just remember waking up to the horrible news, but at some point she might make the connection to the bow on Asher's head and her grandmother dying.

#ewshannon #covid stories #covid-19 #writing #original writing #writers on tumblr #artists on tumblr #original photography on tumblr #photographers on tumblr #lgbtq writers

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