TWENTY-NINE

Five weeks before my mother died, she wrote her last note.

The card read: “6 + 3 =.” The sum was left blank. Then I figured that “6 + 3” was the date. She meant June 3. She must’ve forgotten how to write down dates.

I wondered what would be the sum of the month and the date. The life you’d lived from the beginning of the month up to this date added to the life you’d lived from the beginning of the year up to this month? Life lived up to that point?

The next day I couldn’t wake her up for her chemotherapy appointment. She would open her eyes and then close them right away and shake her head. At one point she started to cry. I let her be. She fell asleep.

I called her doctor. The receptionist said that she’d call me back right away. When she finally called, in four hours, my mother was still asleep.

I told the doctor about it. She said that we didn’t have to come to the appointment. I asked if we should reschedule. She said no. I was too scared to ask her why.

Ten minutes later her nurse faxed me a referral for a hospice service.