Three Days

The last three days surrounding a mother's passing.

December 3rd. 1995. North Central Wisconsin. A Sunday.

A father and his two sons are sitting in the living room. They're doing something they've done a thousand times before and a thousand times since. They're watching football. The Green Bay Packers are playing the Cincinnati Bengals. It's the third quarter. Brett Favre takes the snap and drops back. He throws a screen pass to Edgar Bennet which becomes a fourteen-yard touchdown. It's Brett's one hundredth career touchdown pass. The crowd at Lambeau Field erupts. Green Bay would go on to win that game 24 to 10. After that play was over, however, the father asks one of his sons to turn the TV off. Shortly after that there was a knock on the front door.

The youngest son got up and answered the door. It was the pastor from his parent's church.

"Hello." He said with a jovial smile. 

From his chair in the living room the father said, "Come on in pastor."

The pastor sat down in an empty chair. After saying hi to everyone he turned to the father and asked. "How is she doing?"

He hesitated a moment then said, "She's probably close now."

Shaking his head in agreement the pastor said, "If you listen to her breathing it sounds that way because her throat and upper airway is full of fluid. She's lost the ability to swallow and that's why it sounds like gurgling. At most she only has a day or two left."

The youngest son sat in his chair staring into an empty fireplace. He was trying his best to keep his emotions in check. He didn't want to cry in front of his dad and brother. Men don't cry, after all. Do they? Despite his best efforts a few tears leaked out of his eyes and rolled silently down his cheeks. He wanted to escape. He wanted to go back in time to before when his mother got sick. He begged God for this one wish, for this one prayer. But God, being omnipresent, was nowhere to be found.

The pastor sat there a bit longer. Before he left, he prayed for the family. Perhaps, the youngest son thought, God would listen to him. 

The oldest son left not too long after the pastor. He had his own family to get back to.

The father sat in his chair next to the hospital bed holding his wife's hand.

"I'm going downstairs," the youngest son said to his father.

"Okay."

Downstairs, in the basement, there was a second living room. The youngest son laid down on the couch and turned the TV on. Normally on Sunday he'd watch the new episode of the X-Files. That night there wasn't one on. So, he flipped through the stations hoping to find something to take his mind off of things. He knew he wouldn't be able to find anything. There's nothing to take your mind off your mother living the last day or two of her life. He wasn't ready for her to be gone. 

Jesus. Is anyone!?

He finally settled on a station airing an infomercial. Ron Popeil was selling his Ronco Showtime Rotisserie and BBQ Oven. He kept telling the audience, "You just set it and forget it." After the program was over, he turned the TV off and went up to his bedroom.

While laying down in there he could just hear his mother's breathing. All he wanted was for it not to stop. Yet -- at the same time -- he did. He'd feel guilty about feeling that way. He was sure most would. Although inevitable, no one wants a parent to die. So, he laid there listening. He listened to her death rattle. It's a sound that, if you've heard it, never goes away.

December 4th. 1972. Upper Michigan. A Monday. Happy birthday.

It's snowing outside. It's lake effect snow and it's heavy. It snowed the night prior, as well. Nearly twelve inches. The forecast for the 4th...a possible eighteen more. Inside, a wife's contractions were getting closer together. Close enough that the husband better think about getting her to the hospital. He went outside and shoveled around the car 

(A brown 1970 Chevy Malibu station wagon that because of its length was aptly nicknamed the 747.) 

and the front of the driveway. He got his wife in the car and a drive that normally would take twenty minutes took nearly an hour. 

Once there (The Grand View hospital. [The Last View to the locals because of the believed ineptitude of the doctors.]) he got her inside and checked into a room. At 1:08 in the afternoon she gave birth to the couples second son. He came out at five pounds eight ounces and measured eighteen and a half inches. Four days later they were back home. A family of four.

December 4th. 1995. North Central Wisconsin. Another Monday.

Twenty-three years later. It's the youngest son's birthday. He's balled up on the living room couch sure that his mother is going to die. He's asking to whomever is listening to keep it from happening. He didn't care who answered just as long as it was. The day stretched on, then it stretched on even more. Time, always moving forward, somehow now slowed to just a crawl. Slower, perhaps. Almost as if some force was at work on the corner of Ethel Street and Elmwood Boulevard. 

Morning turned into afternoon. Afternoon into evening. Then the evening gently gave its ground to night. Still his mother lived. Still.

He finally moved. As he was getting up his father said, "You were afraid your mom was going to die today, weren't you?"

The son shook his head yes in response.

"She wouldn't do that." His father replied. 

The son walked to his bedroom and laid down. Until the next day came, he was afraid. Until he fell asleep, he asked still...he begged...don't let it happen. Please! Just don't let it happen. That night his dreams were fitful. Restless. In those dreams...

still,

he begged.

December 5th. 1995. North Central Wisconsin. A Tuesday.

No one knew how much longer the course of her life would take. Does anyone? Believing that it would end on this day her family showed up. Her parents. Her two brothers with their wives. Her sister with her two daughters. And her oldest son and his family. They milled about both the living room and dining room, talking, while inwardly contemplating the inevitable. Not wanting to be amongst them -- not right now, the youngest son sat in the living room in the basement watching TV. 

He almost felt at peace. Relieved. 

She didn't die yesterday, he thought to himself.  

Sometime in the afternoon (1:08, perhaps) his sister-in-law came downstairs crying. Putting her hand on his arm she said, "Your mom just died." Expecting some kind of reaction and not getting one she asked, "Are you ok?" He just sat there not answering. She waited a moment longer. "I'm going to go back upstairs." She spoke. "Come up when you're ready."

He sat for a few more minutes and then went up.

Everyone was emotional. He walked through them to the corner of the living room where there was a big window looking out to the corner of the street. He watched a teenage girl pull up to the corner. Inside the car she was singing to whatever song it was on the radio. He wanted to go out there, open the car door, and shake her. "How?" He'd ask. "How can you be out here so happy when my world was just crushed!?"

That's how it is, though. The indifference of the world.

After watching the girl drive away, he turned around to see that his little niece had climbed up the railing on the side of the hospital bed. She held a piece of paper in her hand. "Look grandma, I made you a picture. Can you see it?"

Her mom came and picked her up. "Don't worry. She can see it."

Some time had passed and the funeral home showed up to take her away. Before taking her out they covered her in a thin white blanket. 

"She's not going to be warm enough." Her youngest son thought. Then he had to remind himself that the dead don't feel. 

Now, I suppose, I can tell you the names of the family of four. 

The father's name...Peter Larry. The mother's...Rosalind Eileen. The oldest son's...Timothy Brian. And the youngest son's...Scott Michael. Me.

That Saturday we had my mother's funeral. After it was over she was taken by hearse to her final resting place. We followed as did everyone else. The pastor gave a short message then ended in prayer. Afterwards everyone dispersed. My father, my brother and his family, and I, went back home. Home was different now. It always would be. 

The following Monday I was back at work trying to act like nothing happened. I was going to have to learn how to move on throughout life without my mom. All this time later, I'm still learning. 

As I write this, in the back of my mind, I can hear the sound of my mother breathing. I hear that death rattle.

They say that time is the thief of memory. Perhaps one day it'll steal my memory of that sound.

Perhaps.

 

Author's Note

Give it to me. All of your honest opinions. Also, do you think this could be published and possibly make money?

Reviews

[gouszvqh]

Hi!
I just read your story, and I’m obsessed! Your writing is incredible, and I kept imagining how cool it would be as a comic.
I’m a professional commissioned artist, and I’d love to work with you to turn it into one, if you’re into the idea, of course! I think it would look absolutely stunning.
Feel free to message me on Discord (laurendoesitall) or on Instagram (lizziedoesitall) if you’re interested. Can’t wait to hear from you!
Best,
Lauren