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My mother died on a Wednesday morning. And it didn’t happen in the way any of us expected. She didn’t die from the cancer at all.
“Why wouldn’t Mark come for Thanksgiving?” she had asked that morning as we stood in the kitchen.
I stirred my oatmeal. “Because we’re divorced.”
“He’s still Ethan’s father.”
“I know, but he’s going to his pregnant fiancée’s for Thanksgiving, and I’m completely fine with that.”
“Where does her family live?”
“Connecticut.”
“And Ethan likes her?”
“Yes.” Does she like him? I don’t know. She wanted him around less, so that wasn’t a good sign, but I was not about to reveal that Alana was the reason for the change in our custody arrangement. I didn’t need my mother disparaging Alana to Ethan. That would add a whole other complication none of us needed.
“And she has red hair?”
Is she kidding me?
I glared at her. “Yes,” I hissed. “She has red hair. Is that okay?”
She grabbed her left arm. “My arm. Oh, what is this? It feels—something doesn’t feel right.”
“What does it feel like?”
“Something’s wrong,” she said as she knelt to the floor.
“Ma, what is it?” I shot to the floor. “Here, sit. I’ll get a chair.”
She squeezed her arm and laid her head on the floor. “No.” Then she closed her eyes.
“Ma! Ma!” I screamed over and over. She did not respond. I grabbed the house phone on the wall and dialed 911.
I’d never felt so alone in the world. And oddly, I’d never felt so young either. When I spoke to the 911 operator, I may have sounded like an adult. “Please send someone to 864 Berner Street immediately. My mother is having an emergency. She is fifty-nine years old. Uterine cancer survivor. But she just complained of an ache in her left arm and went to the floor. She didn’t fall or hit her head, but she’s not responding.”
But inside, I was screaming, “It’s my mommy! Please! Send someone!”
When the paramedics arrived, I briefed them again.
Help her! Do something! Please!
They did all they could.