​​​I had just finished working the graveyard shift at the nursing home. It was 7: am. And I was thirsty. I walked into the frigid December air and drove to the closest bar.

“One more Bloody Mary,” I said, as I slammed a five-dollar bill on the oak table.

 

It was close to noon before I stumbled drunk to my car and mercifully made it three blocks to my home.

I was 21 years old and lived with my Mom. I moved back home after my first serious relationship fell apart. I was heartsick; I truly thought love lasted forever, but it’s like Frost said, “Nothing gold can stay.” Everything seemed jaded, tainted, bought with the cost of a dream.

My room had dark, wood paneling and I covered the windows with wool blankets to block out the sunlight. Sleep came easy as long as I was inebriated. I pulled my Dodge Aspen into the driveway and walked in through the back door to my room. I put a Miles Davis record on the turntable, flopped down on the bed, and drifted off to sleep, still dressed in my scrubs.

Within a couple of hours, I woke up to Mom turning on the bedroom light and searching through my clothes that were on the floor.

 

“What the hell are you doing?” I said.

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​“I’m looking for my sweater, what did you do with it?” She asked.

Tired and still drunk, I said, “Stop acting that way! I don’t have your sweater.”

She turned the light off and left the room. I had almost fallen back to sleep when she came in again.

 

“Can I borrow your car? I have some shopping to do; you know it’s only two weeks until Christmas.” I didn’t open my eyes. I dug the keys out of my pocket and held them in the air. She took them and left.

I drifted off to sleep and dreamed I was standing in the front yard watching a murder of crows litter the naked branches of the elm and oak trees. I was frantically calling for Mom, but the macabre cawing of the birds drowned out my voice.

I woke up to the distant sound of someone knocking on the front door. Not wanting to get up, I rolled over and hoped whoever it was would go away. The knocking persisted and then turned into pounding. So, I got up. I walked to the front door and opened it. Louise, my Mom’s friend, stood there.

 

She paused, and then said, “Your Mom had a heart attack. She’s at Broadlawns.”

Minutes felt like hours as I ran down the street to the nearest payphone. “I’m calling about Mary Jane Case,” I said to the nurse when she answered the phone. “You need to get here immediately. We don’t think she’s going to make it,” she said. I hung up the phone and saw flashes of green, red, and white in front of my eyes. It was like looking through a kaleidoscope; life became surreal. I began to vomit.

It seemed like it took hours for the cab to arrive at the hospital. I ran through the cold, sterile hallway of the Emergency Room to the nurses’ station. “Where’s my Mom?” I asked.

“What’s her name?” The nurse said.

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“Mary Jane Case, where is she?” I yelled.

 

She stood up and asked me to follow her. The nurse led me to a small waiting room and said the doctor would be in shortly. Seated in the waiting room was Elaine, my Mom’s best friend. They had been together throughout the day.

 

“What’s going on, Elaine?” I asked.

 

Before she could answer, the doctor appeared. He shook my hand and introduced himself. I took a seat in the blue paisley chair that was positioned behind me.

 

Dr. Allan knelt; “We did everything we could do. She didn’t make it. I’m very sorry.”

“No!” I said as the tears fell.

“It was a massive heart attack. Would you like to see her?” He asked.

 

I nodded and followed him to a small exam room by the nurse’s station. He opened the door and left me alone.

She was laid out on the hospital bed and appeared to be sleeping; I wanted to wake her up. I touched her hand. It was cold and grey.

 

“Oh Mom,” I said, hoping to God that she would answer me. The room was silent and still; a great chasm had formed between me and Mom. She was wearing her quilted rose-colored coat. It smelled of smoke and tuna casserole, and it seemed strange not to see a cigarette dangling in between her fingers. Her lips were parted a bit, dry and done.

I saw flashes of red, yellow, and white. Life seemed too sharp, vivid, and right there in my face. As a child, I thought my parents would live forever, and as a young adult, any thoughts of their eventual demise were pushed to the shadowy places of my mind.

I walked out of the room and down the hall, past the nurses’ station to the Emergency Room exit. I stepped out into the bleak winter night, twisted by a Van Gogh sky, all violet and ultramarine blue, and I knew death was no longer a stranger. As I retraced my final moments with my Mom, I thought about the last words we had. I winced. It was like the pain from an abscessed tooth, a hard punch to the gut, or a dog bite.

 

“I didn’t mean it,” I yelled, as I looked up at the delirious dark sky, but it was quiet, and still the snow fell, like the ticking of the clock.