The First Bite

I haven’t celebrated my birthday in three years.

Is June 2nd my birthday, or is it the day you went to the hospital and never went home?

You were on my mind that morning. Every year, you called.

“Happy Birthday! I was in the hospital waiting for you!”

“Happy Birthday! You were three hours old back then!”

I tried my best to visit you, to take care of you, but I was a single mother and couldn’t be there as much as I wanted. When I tried to have a say in your care, you usually dismissed my concerns.

I called the nursing home when I couldn’t get you on your cell phone. No answer, even after several tries. My mind went places I didn’t want it to go, but I figured you just didn’t hear your phone.

When I went out, I passed Dunkin and decided I needed to bring you two of your favorite donuts. I was hopeful. I wanted it to be a nice surprise.

Walking in, I could tell immediately that something was wrong.

You were curled onto your left side. You looked impossibly small.

I had been watching you deteriorate for a while, becoming weaker and more frail.

Dark circles framing your eyes. Sunken cheeks.

So different from the woman I had always known.

When you saw me, your eyes filled with tears.

“You’re here.”

Then, almost in disbelief,

“You came.”

Something about those words broke my heart. You sounded as though I had come to rescue you.

I put the donuts down.

They were never eaten.

Your roommate insisted that you needed to go to the hospital. You didn’t want to go. The charge nurse insisted they could treat you there.

But they hadn’t been.

I pushed anyway.

Eventually, they agreed to send you. Once transportation was arranged, you stopped protesting.

I was scared for you, but I was tired of fighting—to get someone to care for you, to get you to accept help, to figure out what I was supposed to do next. It had been a perpetual cycle.

By the time I reached the hospital, you were lying in a dark room beneath several blankets, drifting in and out of sleep.

There was pneumonia, fluid in your lungs, and a terrible bowel impaction.

There would be more.

You asked me to hold your hand. I did, listening to the sounds you made from the pain and trying not to cry.

I left to get the kids.

As I walked them toward your room, a thought came from somewhere I didn’t want it to come from.

This might be the last time.

They hadn’t seen their grandmother in a while. They were frightened by how different you looked, afraid of approaching you.

I made them take turns holding your hand.

Then they hugged you goodbye, as children do, expecting to see you again.

When I came back from taking them home, you were starving.

You hadn’t been able to eat for days because you were so sick. Even there at the hospital, they wouldn’t let you eat while they ran their tests.

Finally, they said you could eat.

I went down to the cafeteria. They were getting ready to close.

A whiteboard listed the special:

Chicken salad

During my childhood, chicken salad was your go-to lunch. You ordered it at restaurants and made it at home.

Later, I made it too.

This one seemed different—grapes, apples, and celery. A few of your favorite things.

The woman behind the counter gave me a scoop. It didn’t come with bread.

Somewhere else in the cafeteria, I happened upon individually wrapped slices of bread. I hadn’t eaten much all day, so I grabbed some, figuring I could make a sandwich and split it with you.

Back in the ER, they were working on admitting you.

When I told you what I’d found, it caught your attention.

You had been progressively losing feeling in your hands before that day. Now you could barely lift your arms.

I worried over spreading the chicken salad just right.

Too much or not enough?

I cut the sandwich in half.

You asked me to cut your half into smaller pieces.

You couldn’t feed yourself.

I picked up one of the small pieces and walked to your bed.

I didn’t tell you what I was going to do. We just looked at each other for a moment.

Then I held the sandwich to your mouth.

Even doing that, I was afraid I might hurt you somehow.

You took the bite.

You chewed slowly. Then you closed your eyes. You tilted your head back and savored it.

For a moment, I saw joy on your face. Something I hadn’t seen in ages.

You told me how good it was.

You wanted another bite.

So I gave you one.

And another.

Soon, half of the sandwich was gone.

I looked at what was left. I’d bought it for us to share, but I wasn’t thinking about my hunger anymore.

I worried that I was giving you too much.

But you wanted more.

It made you happy for a moment, and I wanted you to have that, desperately.

So I kept feeding you.

I never ate my half.

We finished all of the chicken salad and all of the bread.

The idea of you being full made me happy.

You sat for a while afterward, telling me how good it had been.

You kept thanking me.

For a moment, I forgot about the hospital.

I forgot about the nursing home.

I hadn't seen you look so peaceful in nearly two years.

For five minutes, there was no pain written across your face.

There you are.

Then you became nauseated.

The happiness I’d felt disappeared almost immediately.

I apologized.

Our relationship wasn't an easy one. You had hurt me in ways that don't disappear just because someone becomes sick.

But I stayed by your side anyway.

My whole life, you had a way of making me feel guilty, even when I'd done nothing wrong. Accidents became mistakes, and mistakes became something I should have known better than to make.

Was I wrong to force the hospital?

Wrong to bring my children?

Had I put too much chicken salad on the bread?

Should I have stopped feeding you?

Had I hurt you?

I helped you sip a Coke, something you swore by for an upset stomach.

Eventually, the doctor told us it would be another three or four hours before they had a room for you. It was late. You were exhausted. I was exhausted.

You told me to go home.

I hugged you carefully. Even my hugs had changed. I was afraid of squeezing you too tightly, as though you, who had once seemed so formidable, could now break in my arms.

Before I left, you wished me a happy birthday.

And then you did what you always did.

“You were twelve hours old by now.”

The doctors had given me the impression that you’d only be there for a few days.

You were sick, but you’d be coming out.

Right?

The next morning, I went back to the hospital. Someone had given you a sponge bath. They had washed your hair and braided it.

You looked refreshed and rested, better than you had in weeks.

I let myself believe that meant something.

I had hope.

Over the days that followed, I fed you several more times.

Then, in the middle of the night on June 15th, my phone rang.

“Your mother’s blood pressure is severely low. Her kidneys have shut down. She can’t breathe on her own.”

No quality of life.

You died that day in my arms.

The visit I’d insisted my children make had been their last, after all.

Every June 2nd since has brought me back to that hospital room.

I’ve never found that chicken salad again.

I’ve seen chicken salad with grapes. I’ve seen it with celery. I’ve seen versions with apples.

But never that one.

Red grapes. Green apples. Celery. Mayonnaise.

At the grocery store, at a sandwich shop, or whenever someone mentions chicken salad, I think of that night.

It wasn’t your last meal.

But it’s the meal I remember.

I remember holding that first small piece in front of your mouth, afraid I would somehow do it wrong.

I remember you closing your eyes. I remember the joy in your face.

And I remember, for just a moment, getting to watch my mother be happy.