12/24/22

You asked me to do your hair in the hospital. To put it up in a bun so it wouldn’t get too sweaty. You were unable to bathe the entire length of your stay. I know you hated that, wanted desperately to feel clean, you who had always been our spokeswoman for personal hygiene. The last person who bathed you was me, the night before you were admitted, my hands rubbing body wash into your soft skin. Afterwards, you told me I did a good job, and I was so pleased, happy to bring you even a moment of comfort.

I cried in a closet that night because you weren’t eating. Something was so terribly wrong, and I had never felt so helpless. Dad and I put you to bed. I brought you your toothbrush, watched as you diligently swiped the wand across your gums – every day, you brushed your teeth, with the single exception being the night before you died.

You still smelled good, even in the ICU. I never wanted to lose your scent, the feel of you. It’s Christmas Eve, and I’m wearing that same hairband we used to shape your bun all those months ago.

People ask me if your clothes smell like you, and I try to evade the question. The answer is too disappointing. But this hair tie I discovered by your bathroom sink, it smells like you. I can press it to my nose and feel grateful, rather than outraged that this is what I have to resort to.

Your death was, is, outrageous.

You kept apologizing to me that day that I bathed you. Mother’s Day. You hated that I had to see you like that. You spent your whole life trying to shield us from pain, but this you had no control over. You said you were scared. And when I remember that moment, the sound of your voice, the plea in your eyes, I wonder what the point is of any of this.

There was nothing to do in that moment but try to reassure you, and for what? It’s not like we succeeded – you knew and we knew but we didn’t want to know. It doesn’t feel real until it’s actually happening. Until then, you’re just watching a nightmare, unable to stop it until you realize the actual nightmare hasn’t started yet.

It didn’t start until your heart stopped.