A slow smile creeps onto my face, and I raise my eyes to Matt’s. I know what he’s doing, and it’s brilliant. He wants to make me focus on the type of person my mom is… I mean really focus, so that I could determine what her inherent wishes may be.
“She’s energetic… always on the go. She works full time, but in her spare time, I don’t think she sleeps. She’s always been so active with her church, and she does volunteer work. Oh, and she loves to garden. She always said she was happiest when her hands were about three inches deep in soil.”
“Tell me about her church,” Matt says. “What sorts of things does she do there?”
And it goes on and on. Matt sits there, using all of his skills he’s acquired as an attorney, and he questions me like I’m a witness with a juicy piece of information that he’s trying to discover. He’s trying to help me discover what my mom would want. Except he’s amazingly gentle with his questions, like he’s leading a small child on the witness stand.
Matt gets me to talk for almost an hour straight, and things start to get clearer. My mother loved life too much to ever want to live life in a bed, stuck to a respirator.
“What about you, Matt? What would you want if this happened to you?”
“If I was just like your mom? I’d want to be let go.”
I nod, because that’s exactly what I would want, too.
Matt and I head back to the room and wait for the doctor. I marvel at how Matt seems to be at ease in this situation, and I can only guess that has come from years of dealing with people, such as lawyers, judges, and doctors. I think it’s probably very hard to get Matt Connover flustered about anything. He’s a rock, and it’s something I sorely needed today.
While we wait for the doctor, Matt and I work a crossword puzzle together. Every once in a while, I’ll take a break and walk over to my mom. I’ll stroke her cheek or hold her hand for a bit.
I start my goodbyes.
The doctor finally comes, and I introduce Matt as a “friend”. Dr. Fritz is a neurosurgeon and was called in last night to evaluate my mom. He’s a warm and outgoing guy, maybe in his mid-fifties, and I don’t think I’ve ever met a doctor more personable. But he’s very grave when talking to me about my mom’s condition. He uses a lot of large words that I don’t understand, but at the end of the conversation, he pats my knee gently and says, “Bottom line… there is almost absolutely no hope of your mother regaining brain function.”
Matt reaches out to take my hand, and I’m grateful for the contact. He turns to the doctor and says, “Put it in a percentage for us to understand, Dr. Fritz.”
The kind doctor looks at Matt seriously. “Less than a one-percent chance. I mean… far less than one percent. It would be a medical miracle.”
Less than one percent. A medical miracle. The thing that sucks about that phraseology is that it still implies there is some hope, no matter how infinitesimal it is.
“If it was your mother… what would you do?” I ask.
Dr. Fritz gives me a knowing smile, and I can tell this is not the first time he’s been asked that question. “Miss Dawson, if my mother was in the same exact circumstances as your mother… there’s no question. I’d discontinue extraordinary measures and let her go.”
Taking a deep breath, I nod. I know what has to be done.