Humor me, mother

A memory I thought I’d share.

It’s a standard hospital recovery room. It's quiet, and with the shades pulled over the one large window, it's pretty dark, even in the brightness of the mid-day sun. There's this weird elevator music of the hopefully variety playing from a nearby TV.

We thought that by now, she would be gone, but somehow she has another day with us. She's been in and out of consciousness, occasionally opening her eyes, and even making small, faint noises.

I wondered if this was one of those flashes of life I've read about, those quick moments that appear, right before the end.

Her breathing became erratic. There were these long pauses. We thought over and over again that maybe she had taken her last breath, only for her to take yet another.

We gathered at her bedside—quiet, listening to her, placing a hand on her arm, her hand, her shoulder, a non-verbal way to let her know that we were there.

For some reason, the mantle of speaking went to me. I knew it. I felt it.

“Everybody’s here,” I said to my mom, wanting her to know that—whether this was it or not—we were all there. We were just there. We were glad to have her here, and glad to be here, to send her off.

And then I just kept talking.

I went around the room and listed everyone who was there.

Lily is here, I said. Nancy is here. Roger is here. Grace is here. Even Dad is here.

And then, for some reason, I realized that I had left myself last. I don’t know why I did it. Maybe it was to reverse the story my mom loved telling me about how when I was in preschool and brought cookies for my birthday, but before I gave anyone else a cookie like I was supposed to, I gave one to myself.

I don't know why I did it.

I said: “But I’m not here.”

I chuckled as I said it. We all laughed. Because that’s how my mom made jokes. She said she didn’t love me. She said she took care of me because she had to. She said I was smart because she was smart. That’s just her.

But I’m not here.

It was the most mom-like thing to say. It weirdly made sense. It’s her humor.

She must have thought so too.

Because we all saw her lips move. They creased. A small air of a laugh. A smile.

It was her last emotional reaction with me.

A smile.

I truly am her son, after all.