I drove to the hospital that night,
no rush.
We’ve been through this before.
I knew I would see,
what I had always seen.
She would be on oxygen.
She would be sick with a virus.

I walked in,
instantly shaken.
She did not look like my mom.
I did not recognize her.
She was lying flat in the bed.
Her eyes were closed.
Tube coming out of her mouth.
Large pieces of tape around her mouth,
holding a respirator in place.
Her cheeks puffed up,
around the tape.
Her whole face melted into itself…
beyond recognition.
Her arms lay at her sides,
swollen to double their size.

Her legs…
her legs kept moving.
Back and forth,
back and forth,
back…
and forth…
sometimes jerking.
Was she having a seizure?
It didn’t stop.
They kept moving,
as if on a motor.
She was sedated…
her legs never stopped.

I looked at her.
I didn’t know,
who I was looking at.
Who is she?
Is that my mom?
Do I know this person?

I do know,
that’s my mom.
I’m supposed to love her.
I don’t know what to do.
I don’t know how to love her.
Whenever I see her,
I feel pain.
My legs want to move…
as if on a motor,
run away.

I stay.
I talk.
I tell what I know.
I don’t know everything.
There’s so much I don’t know.
They keep asking me questions.
“Was she addicted to drugs?”
“Would she want to take her life?”
“Do you think she overdosed?”
“What medications is she on?”
“What is her medical history?”
“Does she smoke?”

They don’t know what happen.
They just know she was found…
unresponsive.
An empty pill bottle next to her.
They gave her medication in the ER,
to make her wake up.
They asked her,
if she overdosed on pills.
She spoke to them.
She told them no.
She became combative.
They restrained her,
sedated her.
Her oxygen was too low.
They put her on a respirator.
Tomorrow we will turn down the sedation,
get her off the respirator.

I look at her again.
She’s still moving her legs.
I know I’m supposed to love her.
I am a robot.
I walk to her bedside,
mechanically touch her head,
say the words,
“I love you mom.”

I go home in a daze.
Am I having a dream?
She will wake up tomorrow,
she will be okay.

Next morning.
She looks the same.
Her legs are still moving.
I think to myself,
“Has she been having a seizure this whole time?”
“Why are her legs moving like that?”
“Is she moving them because they hurt?”
“Her neuropathy is probably hurting her.”
“Can she feel pain right now?”
“Is it just an automatic response,
but she’s not really feeling it?”
“If she’s feeling it,
I know she’s in excruciating pain.”
“She’s been living with this pain for years.”
“Her legs are hurting.”

She had a heart attack at some point.
They don’t know when.
There’s a blockage in her heart.
They will take her,
and fix it.

Relief.
She had a heart attack,
they are fixing it.
She will come out of this.
She is going to wake up,
heal.

The doctor says,
the blockage is fixed.
“She has broken heart syndrome.”
I think to myself how fitting that is.
After losing her mother weeks before,
and the life that she has lived…
Yeah, broken heart is an understatement.
I’m one of the people,
that broke her heart,
along the way.

I’m back in her room.
I see her differently.
I don’t see my mom.
I see one of God’s children.
I see a person who has been hurt.
I see a person who has suffered.
I see loneliness.
I see pain.
I see someone who needs to be loved.
She is one of His beautiful daughters.
I will love her.
I will touch her softly.
I will let her feel love.
I will.
He has put His love in me.
I will take care of her.
She will not be alone.
I will protect her.
I will guard her.
I will heal her with my tender touch.
I will stay.

Every time they turn the sedation down,
she becomes agitated.
She moves her arms,
in all the space around her,
along with her legs.
She can’t stay in the bed.
I stay by her side,
continue to cover her.
Blanket keeps falling off.
She is relentless in her movement.
Sedation turned back up.
She settles down.
Her legs never quit moving for long.
I worry,
she is in pain.

I am there,
at her side.
Doctors examine her.
Nurses tend to her.
I help them to clean her.
I help them change her sheets.
I help them move her back up the bed.

I see air,
moving in and out,
of her nostrils.
Sometimes there is mucus,
I wipe it with a tissue.

It’s another day.
The same routine.
Doctors still telling us,
“There’s no reason she won’t come out of it.”
Sedation is turned down,
she doesn’t see me.
She is agitated.
Her eyes don’t focus on anything.
She does not say words.
She is just restless.
Sedation is turned back up,
we will try again tomorrow.
I am losing hope.

Mucus flutters,
at the edge of her nostril.
I will clean her nose.
I am taking care of her.
I want her to be comfortable.
I will help keep her dignity.

I wet a rag.
I wipe at her nose,
pull back the rag.
I look at it.
What is that?
Disbelief.

Something,
moves on the rag.
I am horrified.
This just came out of my mom’s nose.
In an instant my mind tells me,
“She is brain dead! Maggots are eating her brain!”
They are in her nose.
Is this real?
Is she dead?
For the last 24 hours…
I’ve been wiping at her nose.
I thought I saw mucus moving,
from the air going in and out.
IT HAS BEEN OVER 24 HOURS SINCE I FIRST SAW THE MUCUS!
I am horrified.
She has endured this for more than 24 hours!
I cannot comprehend how this happen.
How did the nurses not know?
They have been cleaning her mouth.
They have been giving respiratory treatments.
How did I let this happen?
I should have known.
I should have taken better care of her.
I am horrified.
I made her endure this.
I am sad.
This should not be happening to her.
She is suffering.

I stay.
I help the nurse remove every maggot.
I do not falter.
I am strong.
My stomach does not turn.
She is God’s daughter,
I take care of her.
She deserves respect,
tender care.
I make sure she is clean.
I am horrified.
I don’t know how this happen.
My mom…
My mom has been through too much.
My heart is broken.
I will be strong.
I will be here for her.
I will protect her…

I’m helping to change the sheets,
again.
We turn mom on her side,
I hold her there.
I see it.
There,
on the back of her shoulder,
a red rash.
I ask the nurse,
“Is this shingles?”
She doesn’t know.
She doesn’t think so.
I feel a stab inside.
Shingles are painful.
I know I’m looking at shingles…