The hospice nurse was competent and efficient but she was also a hoverer and I desperately wanted her to leave the room so I could be alone with my mom. I finally asked her for some privacy; she pursed her lips disapprovingly but she left Mom’s bedside without saying a word, and stood, arms folded, in the hallway.
Mom had not opened her eyes for hours, but now that we were actually alone I was powerless to do more than sit there, watching in silence as she fought for every breath. I watched for what seemed like a very long time and when I finally took her hands in mine I was shocked by how hot they were. “Fever,” I thought inadequately, remembering how when I was a small boy she always determined if I had a fever by feeling my hands.
I remembered that after she felt my hands she would verify her diagnosis by putting her hand, cool and dry, on my stomach and then on my forehead. Then she would bring me St. Joseph’s Aspirin and warm ginger ale, which she believed had miraculous curative powers. “Being sick is no fun,” she would say, smoothing my hair.
After I drank my ginger ale she’d tuck me in and say, ”See you later, Alligator,” and feverish but strangely content, I’d drowsily respond, ”In a while, Crocodile.” She would bend over to kiss me good night and, standing up, she would wink at me reassuringly and smile brightly. “You’re going to be OK,” her wink and smile said; “I’ll always be here for you. I love you.” Then she would blow me a kiss from the doorway and leave the bedroom door slightly ajar when she left so the light from the hall would protect me from whatever terrors lurked in the shadows.
Now, reluctantly, I knew I had to leave for a bit; the nurse was back in the room, anxious to give Mom her breathing treatment. I stood up, and on a whim I said, ”See you later Alligator,” and I was surprised by how steady my voice was. Mom stirred slightly. Then weakly, but distinctly, I heard her say, “In a while, Crocodile.”
“Mom?” I said, and now my voice did crack.
She opened her eyes and looked at me quizzically, as though I looked familiar but she could not quite place me. A moment later, she recognized me and her face lighted up with a radiant smile. She looked at me, smiling, for a long moment, and I was surprised at how clear her eyes were, and how blue. I noticed that her skin, always so fair, was translucent now, like mother of pearl. I managed to smile back.
The nurse was impatient. “She needs her treatment,” she said. “You can come back in 15 minutes.” I bent over and kissed Mom goodnight. “Being sick is no fun,” I said, brushing the hair out of her eyes. “I love you.”
As I left the room, I turned around and saw Mom was still watching me intently; then, unexpectedly, she winked at me and smiled, and in that moment Mom once again looked young and strong and beautiful. Everything she could no longer put into words was in that smile, condensed into a message that would have to last me, now, for the rest of my life: “You’re going to be OK,” her smile told me. “I’ll always be with you. I love you.”
“See you later, Alligator,” I said softly, but her eyes were closed again.
Mom died the next morning.
