My mother has a new zipper. A nice track of 36 silver staples than run from middle of her her back, just above her scapula, and curves around under her left breast. If you pull on the zipper my mom's left chest cavity would flop open exposing the graft that a surgeon stuck in there to replace the ruptured aortic vessel. The zipper wasn't there a month ago. A month ago we were sitting by the kitchen window taking care of intimate mother/daughter details. I was plucking her eyebrows just like the way she asks me to do them on every visit. I am an excellent plucker and I work fast and quietly, plus, it's free. My mom and I are close enough that I notice her shallow breathing. I take quick glances that reveal her foggy eyes, her thinning hair. "Mom?" I ask her and then pause. I don't know if I can ask my question, I've been wanting to ask her something for as long as I began my fear of losing her, however, I had only recently discovered what that question was. "What is it?" she asks with her eyes half closed. "Mom," I start again, "Are you afraid to die?" There is no delay in her response - "NO," said with an inflection that makes me wonder if it was a stupid question. "She follows this up with "is this what you have been worrying about all this time?" "13 years ago, you told Dr.-------- that you did not want to die" I remind her. "Of course, I don't want to die and leave my family, but I am not afraid of dying. I am more afraid of pain, and if I die, I will have no pain." We don't discuss it anymore but I feel a knot inside me loosen a bit.
I was in Denver when I found out her aorta ruptured. As most non-communicative families do, my brother, who had been delegated to call me had no valuable information to tell me regarding her situation and severity. He simply wanted to pass on a message to me from my mother that I was to stay and finish my work and then he added "if it was up to me, I would come home." At some point during my rush to the airport, I was able to reach the ER and locate my mother's room, but only as she was just being wheeled off to surgery. A doctor got on the phone and told me her situation was dire and they were concerned about her safety. I hung up trying to remember what my last conversation had been with my mother, and how sad it would be if I could not recall the last words we had shared.
I guess you could say I started mourning on the plane. Most aortic aneurysm patients die en-route to the hospital, so she had very little chance of surviving the surgery. Being a superstitious woman, my mom claimed she had been visited by all our close relatives when they passed on. I believed this power had been bestowed upon me and half expected that I should see my mother's form appear on the plane's wing tip waving goodbye to me on as she ascended from this life. It seemed like an appropriate backdrop for a vision - the sky was burning off a brilliant glow as we chased the setting sun westward. I teetered between moments of lucidity and shuddering waves of grief the entire ride home.
I was relieved to have Stephanie waiting for me at the airport - relieved from the burden of loneliness and loss. There was no news from the hospital and we headed directly there. By this time mom had been in surgery for nearly 5 hours. We met my family at the hospital where we waited for word another 3. At almost midnight the surgeon came out to speak to us. He said they had repaired the aorta but they had difficulty stopping the bleeding. I remember my dad asking in a meek and hopeful voice, "but she will be okay now?" and the surgeon's response was "I don't know, she could die tonight, she may die tomorrow, she may have had a stroke, she may be paralyzed, we will just have to wait and see."
2 hours later I went into the ICU to see my mother. She was on a ventilator, her tongue hanging off to one side. Her face was beyond recognition due to all the swelling. There were more machines and tubes connected to her than I had thought possible. I suppose somewhere between my brother's phone call and the plane ride home I stopped allowing myself to have hope. I stroked her hair and her face, touched her swollen eyes, I told her how brave I thought she was, and I told her how much I loved her. I hunkered down deep inside myself and waited for her to die.
But she didn't. She lived through the night, she lived through the next day. When they lowered the sedation she wiggled her fingers and toes. In three days she was responding to directions from the doctors and nurses. In 6 days they removed the ventilator and she was breathing on her own. On day 8 they moved her to recovery. After 16 days in the hospital she is lying in her bed across from me, taking a nap. My whole life I have always seen my mother as frail, weak, and sick, but I was wrong. That little woman has some will in her to beat the 95% odds stacked against her and survive.
