I plod into the kitchen and find Amy sitting at the table, flipping through a magazine.
When Ma got too sick, I had to hire a home nurse for when I couldn’t be here. Amy was the woman for the job. She’s sweet and kind and very good at what she does, and she makes Ma as comfortable as she can these days. Plus, she makes me food, so basically she’s the only one keeping me alive at this point.
“How is she?” I ask.
“She’s actually awake right now,” Amy answers. “And pretty lucid, if you want to go see her.”
I toss my bags onto the kitchen table and seize the opportunity with gusto. There aren’t very many of these moments anymore, so I take them as they come.
“Thank you, honey.”
“No problem,” she says. “I’m going to head out for the night. Supper’s in the fridge.”
“Okay, drive safe. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Amy slips out the front door and I throw on a sweatshirt before heading into Ma’s room. I don’t want to smell like perfume and liquor when I visit with her. She knows what I do for a living, but it doesn’t mean I have to throw it in her face. I try not to if I can help it.
My mother had high hopes for me. As a child, she affectionately deemed me her ‘little calculator’. I worked hard in school and made the honor roll every year. But when it came to math, it was always my worst subject. I’d failed so many homework assignments that the teacher finally pushed Ma to hire a tutor for me. And when the tutor came to help me, I learned I wasn’t bad at math at all. In fact, I could do any calculation she threw at me, so long as it wasn’t on paper. Before long, I was doing calculus and university level math equations.
It was a shock to everyone, but especially my mother. When they asked me how I did the calculations, I couldn’t explain it. It was just one of those weird things that came naturally to me, and my mother was convinced I would go places with it. So you can imagine her disappointment when I took my talents down to the local strip club instead.
But I can’t be sorry for it, because it means she’s here with me in her final months. And math didn’t do that, but dancing did. It’s the only way I can look my mother in the eyes right now and believe that I’m doing the right thing. Because if I wasn’t dancing, she wouldn’t be here. In her own home. I wouldn’t be able to take care of her the way she deserves. The way that she’s taken care of me my whole life.
My eyes land on her tiny frame in the bed. She occupies barely any space now. It doesn’t matter how many times I see her like this, the sight still hits me like a ton of bricks every time. A painful lump takes shape in my throat and my eyes fill with pressure, but I choke it back as I move towards her.
“Hey, mama.” I lean down and kiss her on the cheek. “How are you feeling today?”
She coughs and stares up at me through cloudy gray eyes. Those eyes that used to crinkle when she laughed no longer hold any light inside of them. Only pain. Her lips are dry and cracked, but she doesn’t even try to budge them. She’s too weak to talk right now. These days have been getting more and more frequent lately, and I know what it means.
She’s near the end. There’s nothing else we can do for her now except to manage her pain. Most of the day, she’s in and out of consciousness. On the days when she can speak, much of it is incoherent.
It’s the most awful way to watch someone you love go. Every night when I come home and see her like this, I feel as though I’m crawling across a bed of nails. But as horrific as it is, I know she’s grateful. Because she’s here in her home, where everything is familiar and peaceful. I wouldn’t let her go to a hospice. It takes most of my income to pay the home nurse and keep up on the rent, but it’s worth every cent. At least in the end, I can say she died where she was most comfortable. Where she was most happy.
It will be the only good thing I’ve ever really done in my life. The only thing I can be proud of. Ma would try to tell me otherwise, but she’s not a very good liar. She still thinks I’m a good girl. That I’m her angel. But she’s wrong.
I used to be good. I went to church. I volunteered. I worked hard in school. I did all of the things that my Ma told me were important, even when I really didn’t feel like it. I’ve been good my whole life, and where has it gotten me? A piece of shit wise guy and a mother with cancer. That’s where.
She’s leaving me soon, and I don’t want her to go. I tell her as much through the tears because I can’t help myself. She squeezes my hand, and it sends me into another one of my outbursts.