Peggy's Passing (Part 3)

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April 19 2005   5:30 am2

Mom died at 10:15 pm April 16th, exactly two hours after I wrote that last entry. I wake up in the night and relive the death, not in horror but with intent, because I don’t want to forget it, ever.3

John had stepped out just before ten o’clock, to go down Foul Bay road to the Starbucks, since nothing closer was open. I’d asked for a chai. I was sitting by her head, doing logic puzzles. I’d been doing them all week, so much that I was queazy with them, but I hadn’t felt much like reading - maybe reading took me away too far,  whereas the puzzles provided me with mental distraction, but kept me in the emotional present. I don’t know. I just know I’ve been addicted to them lately when I’m away from my computer, after much of a year away from them.4

So. John was gone, and I was alone with Mom, pretty much for the first time, really, since he’d come over Wednesday evening, and this was now Saturday. I’d look up now and then, stroke her hand, her forehead, talk to her quietly, tried to get her eyes closed, since they were staring, staring blindly.5

Her breath was loud, a shallow heaving, as I described in the previous entry, the inhale like a clutch of air, the exhale forceful. It was very steady though, unlike the pattern of the night before, of seven long deep breaths followed by twenty-six seconds of stillness. Now, there was no silence. Her pulse was thready though, hard to find, and seemed irregular, as far as I could tell. Her hand was so cold, her fingers blue. Her forehead was cold and wet. Saliva (or some clear, thin liquid) was dripping from her mouth - her head was turned toward me - and she’d soaked the pillow. I put a cloth under her cheek, and wiped her periodically. I thought I caught a whiff of feces at one point, but didn’t lift the covers to check. Some things I just didn’t need to know. I’m thinking now that it would make sense that as the system began to shut down, all glands all sphincters would relax and release their contents. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter.6

I noticed her breath slowed ever so slightly, the pause between breaths just slightly longer. After hours of her steady rhythm, it was obvious to me, slight perhaps, but sudden. I put my book and pencil down, took off my glasses. Watched. The gasping became less strenuous, became quiet and very shallow, her mouth no longer widening with each gasp. It was as if she’d finally quit struggling and was relaxed. Weird, it seemed more natural and healthy this way, even though I knew this was the body giving up. Her eyes were wide open now, staring at me unseeing. For just a few minutes she was like this, the breathing soft and easy, slowing, the seconds between breaths more and more. 7

Then there was a wait of maybe five seconds. Her jaw closed shut for a couple of seconds, as though she were swallowing. Another breath. Another twitch of her jaw. A last breath. No more.8

A change came over her, almost instantly. She seemed to collapse in on herself even more so than before. I guess it’s a lack of perfusion of the cells. It was like she was wrinkled at the cellular level. Also, perhaps, no more energy, electricity no longer moving through her. Her colour changed, but so did her texture. She got softer. Now I could close her eyes, whereas before, they were rigidly, strenuously open.9

I stood by her and cried. I could hear the nurses at their station. After about five minutes I began to feel a bit panicky, wanting to call the nurse but not wanting to walk around to the other side of the bed, for some reason. I finally reached across, pushed the button. She came right away, asked me if things were okay before she realized. She smiled gently, said, “It’s a shock, even when you’re expecting it.” She wanted to make her “more presentable” and she rolled her more straight on her back closed the eyes, the jaw, as best she could. Told me to take my time, asked if John was coming back. Left me alone.10

He arrived moments later, Starbucks tray in hand. He took one look at me and knew. Came around to hold me. Cried quietly with me. He’d wanted to be there, but this seemed like her choice, really, if one can believe in such things. I kept stroking her, feeling her get cooler, closing those eyes that wouldn’t stay closed. John never touched her; he'd touched her plenty when she was still aware and leaning into his hand on her forehead.11

Finally, I signed some papers, gathered up her stuff, and left. The chai kept me up. We sat (I drank) and talked till four a.m. Told stories. It was good.12

Peggy Mullins died at 10:15 pm, Saturday, April 16, 2005. She was 85.13