Pondering Mortal Coils

 

 The rain and sleet let up enough for me to drive safely. Er, relatively safely. There were still great big puddles and I took several opportunities to veer toward curbs. There is something entirely satisfying about sending great waves onto abandoned sidewalks.

I arrived at the hospital, soggy and still grinning from my mischief, and went through COVID checkpoints and empty halls. Mom was getting situated (bath). They directed me to the ICU waiting room.

Opening that door was...jarring? Painful. Nostalgic. The last time I set eyes on this room. Dad was in his wheelchair doing a puzzle to occupy his time. It was shortly after Mom's open heart surgery. We'd come the day after Christmas (she was incubated Christmas Day).

It isn't so bad this time around. But I can't deny that mortal coils have become sharply defined. I knew my father wasn't immortal. He passed. My mother isn't immortal either, but her eyes and aches draw that coil into view. "See? See how fragile life is?"

My mother's eyes flutter open. "I don't want you to hold onto me."

I'm not holding her.

"If the pain gets worse, I don't want you to hold on to me. Ask God to let me die."

It's not a dramatic moment. She's asking me to give her permission to die. We did the same when my father and Nonna were at the ends of their coils. This doesn't make her request any easier to handle.

I called Aunt Honey to give her an update. They have been so worried about her. Mom exchanged a few, brief words

She drifts in and out of a lucid state of mind. She thanks Dante for waking her up. She talks to Jesus for a while, soft prayers and requests.  I ponder my own coil, and my husband's. 

What is our future? We couldn't have children. Will one of us fade even as the threads in the other's coil begin to unravel?

I don't know. I plan to spend my elder years without a pet to abandon should I end up hospitalized. Or maybe I'll start an organization that elderly people without families nearby can rely upon during their moments of coil crisis?

For now I will enjoy visiting my mother, watching her as she has her breathing treatment, and showing pictures of her dog to remind her that there's always something or someone worth fighting for. I have to. The alternative is to run away. Scream in rage and terror. Accept that coils have a cost and do have an end.

Puddles. They're good for splashing. A wave cast upon the curb. One of the few things I can control. So I'll splash in a few more puddles, just for  good measure, before facing the prospect of a world without both my parents in it.