Actually

One night, when we were sleeping over at hotel hospital with mom, we noticed that mom's C-pap machine, which she used to regulate her sleep apnea, was mysteriously quiet. Confused and concerned, we assessed the situation and found her C-pap happily plugged in and her mask fitted to her face. What to do? On a whim, we decided to unplug the C-pap from its white socket into a red socket. Little did we know that the hospital suffered a power outage that night; the white sockets go bust under such conditions whereas the red sockets power on like the Energizer Bunny. Would have been good to know before hooking our very sick mom to the "other" power outlet. No harm, no foul though. We giggled about it and corrected the issue. (Add "label maker" to my Christmas list for the hospital).

I've been thinking of Mom a lot lately. Each time I wake up and tell Craig that "I'm jumping in the shower", I'm reminded of taking showers at the hospital when Mom was resident. With my bed head hair and jammies, I'd tell Mom, "I'm jumping in the shower and will be right back". Each time, I'd wave to her before closing the door and she'd always wave back. One time, her arm was buried under the covers. I could see it start to move, then creep up, and peak out with a wiggle of the fingers. It pulled on my heartstrings to see the will power to make her limp limbs move just to wave to me. I could see and feel her love so intensely that it crushed me to have to close the door. But, hospital code probably wouldn't let me bare all for the sake of keeping eye contact. It would have spiced up life, at the very least.

She wouldn't just return my wave on the way to the shower, but for all of my random waving opportunities. I'll never forget the time the nurses rolled her from lying on her back to face my direction during their sponge-bath process. In an instant -- without flinching, without losing awareness of where I was -- she stared back at me. With our eyes locked, I smiled and waved. With arms sandwiched between her body and the bars of her bed, she wiggled her fingers in return.

Craig reminds me of Mom; Mom reminds me of Craig.

Craig sat at the edge of his bed, catching his breath as he often does. We've grown accustomed to sitting against the wall on his floor -- watching him, waiting, wondering if he needs his oxygen turned up, his medications, or simply a pivot back to a neutral position. I sat in a chair and waited. He looked up, caught my eye, raised his eyebrows and said, "Well, hello" with a familiar smirk and gleam in his eyes true to Christopher Walken's "Ladies Man". Every time I'd pick him up from the airport or greet him in any way, he had this look --this impish yet affectionate look that showed me he was as happy to see me (and the sisters) as I was of him.

Craig reminds me of Mom, once again. It's in the moments that seem so confusing and unclear with Craig's process that I wish I had Mom to talk to, to hug. She was the natural order to things, the person my sisters and Dad would turn to in heavy, heavy situations such as these. And, it's in those moments that I'm reminded she's gone.

Such is the pace of life -- an unforgiving actuality that can do an about face in milliseconds without much consideration. It's still hard to believe Mom actually died of cancer. That reality does not yet feel real and I fear the day it actually does. It's equally unfathomable that Craig is actually dying of cancer. And, it's heartbreaking to consider these actualities as part of the landscape. ~E