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Our Final Moments

A powerful story about regret, dreams and carving your own path

By AMPublished 3 years ago 9 min read
1
Our Final Moments
Photo by Jair Lázaro on Unsplash

Beep, beep, beep, the monitor hummed steadily. It emitted a calming sound. It was stable and you knew what to expect, similar to a metronome or a rain drop beating down the same spot on a windowsill. The sound was accompanied by a rising and falling green light indicating the heart rate of my mother. The two would have been quite a beautiful, synchronous pairing had it not been for the fact I could quite literally see my mother’s life before my own eyes.

Oh don’t look at that too much,” mother nudged, poking me with her finger. “Like my robot limbs?” she said cheerily, waving around her finger encased in an oximeter.

Sadly, there was nothing too delightful about all the strange, foreign wires which laced themselves around my mother like twisting thorns. To me, they all signified very physical lifelines. If any one of them failed, it could mean the worst.

Gosh, you’re overthinking too much love. I know that look in your eyes. I’m pretty sure you had that look since the day I delivered you here in this hospital!” she continued merrily.

I couldn’t tell whether she was genuinely this exuberant and happy, or whether she just wanted to make me feel better and distract me from the obvious reality that she was living in her last moments. Again, considering the extensive medical gear attached to my mother who had been in her hospital bed so long it may as well have carried a mould to her body, I’m inclined to think it was the latter.

Mmm... no, no, I was just thinking about work. Janet’s on maternity leave and the new hire is coming in on Monday. Just quite a few things to organise between now and then.”

It’s true, Janet is on maternity leave, but I frankly couldn’t care less about the new hire, or well, Janet right now. My brain felt like it had been extracted without my permission and injected with a strange numbing agent meaning that all I could focus on was the pulsating green light, rising and falling and rising again.

Ah yes, Janet –” mother paused.

Melting into the silence and staring up at the ceiling she whispered quietly, “I remember being your age. I was so eager to start my life... I did start but it never quite stopped it seems.”

Though I didn’t know my mother at the time, it was true. I had always heard she was a go-getter. She didn’t let a single force or human stop her from achieving what she wanted to. Emigrating from China alone at the mere age of twenty with no means of speaking the native language here or earning money would force anyone to think fast and smart. So that's exactly what she did and made a pretty good career out of it too.

Naturally, the obvious consequence is that I didn’t see her very much as I grew up. The distant smell of perfume would waft into my bedroom when I heard my alarm clock for school ring around my sleepy eyes, but that’s most of what I remember. Sighing, I realise that I’ve probably clocked more hours by her side these past six months than I have the past two decades.

Still, I don’t resent her for it. If anything, I grew up with a motivation to carry on her legacy. In classic like-mother-like-daughter fashion, I did just that. I graduated with a top MBA from Wharton, landed an accounts executive role soon after. So, for the past couple of years, I've made my way up in one of those pretentious, crystal-like skyscrapers that have no structural reasoning for being so grandiose and pompous other than it makes people stop, stare and gawp up at the sky.

Becoming acutely aware of how aloof I must’ve appeared, I positioned my seat closer to my mother’s bed and lay my head on my hands, staring up at her.

But hey, you’ve had a pretty good time of it all, right mom?

Drawing her attention away from the ceiling, she considered this question for a moment and looked quite puzzled.

I suppose this is that time I’m meant to reflect on my life and all, eh?” breaking a smile she continued, “I did what I had to do. It was a different time for me back then. I’ve never looked back, but now, I do wish I had spent some more time smelling the roses.”

Carrying a wistful expression, she glanced over at the glass vase housing twelve perfectly formed red roses. I bought these from the best florist in Midtown on my way over. Now thinking about it, I wondered if I should have gotten daisies to make this moment slightly less ironic.

Erm, do you want me to –“ I muttered awkwardly, gesturing over to the vase.

No,” she chortled. “I was speaking in a metaphor my dear, but come to think of it, those rose bushes enveloping our driveway really were something, hey?”

I nodded and smiled sympathetically, trying with every fibre of my being not to collapse under the weight of imminent grief I had been carrying with me. Looking at my mother’s face, I could see that she too was masking the pain she was no doubt harbouring. The fine lines on her face were lines of her lifetime, which she was now, no doubt, carefully mulling over in her mind during her final moments.

What must it feel like? To know that this is what it comes down to? A steady beeping green light, a clinical white hospital room, an awkwardly grieving adult daughter, and no time left to do anything but think and reminisce.

We existed in the space of silence for what could have been minutes or hours. There were occasional sounds of carts being pushed in the hallway outside and various bleeping noises from the hundreds of devices the hospital carried. Yet, for the most part, it was as though mother and I were floating in our own private world.

Suddenly, the monitor erupted into more maniacal orchestra breaking out of its harmonious beat. The green lights were nonsensical, following no pattern and jumping around erratically. The once calming hum of the monitor descended into chaos, shrieking and let out helpless wails.

Horror and shock flew around my body like someone opened the windows during a tornado and I was being swept under. It’s happening I thought. It’s happening.

"HELP! DOCTOR! HELP!" I cried, flailing around the room, utter panic possessing my body.

Knowing it was time, my mother’s eyes met mine. Breaking the perfect image of peace and tranquillity she had been trying so hard to emanate, her voice broke through, drowning through the sound of her tears.

Listen to me now.

Maybe this is among those crazy things that people say on their deathbed before they greet the big man upstairs as some form of last-minute penance...

I see so much of myself in you, and it is my deepest regret I didn’t watch every step of your life.

Her breath becoming more laboured by the second, she urged her body to continue for just one more moment. Clasping my trembling palms, her eyes began to flutter and she could only let out small whispers now.

"I should have cherished those moments. Held them close so I could peacefully close my eyes and let them whisk me away.

But I didn’t, and that is my cross to bear. But I just want you to remember that your life is yours and yours alone.

J-just, please don’t forget the trophy –“.

Flatline.

The once lively green light all but disappeared. It was floating, and in an unmistakably straight line. The deafening, cruel sound of the monitor pierced my ears relentlessly, mercilessly snarling at me that it was all over.

--------

That was one of the most painful days of my life. Sadly, I’m not one of those people whose brain cares about them enough to block these things out. No, my mind stored this memory in high definition right at the centre, apt to be replayed without control for a long time to come.

Once the haze of arranging the funeral and combing through the remnants of what my mother left behind, it occurred to me that I had no idea what she meant by the trophy.

Absentmindedly packing up some of her belongings to give to Good Will, I stumbled across a box with my name written on it which was dated and blanketed in a fine layer of dust. Curiously, I opened it with surgical precision using a nearby Stanley knife. Atop, there lay a small, neat journal, a picture of me in the fifth grade smiling with my newly arrived adult teeth clutching, and the brass trophy.

It read, “Angelina Menske – 2008 – Winner of Smallgrove Elementary School’s Creative Writing Contest.”

Staring so hard at this small box of my history, I barely noticed my streaming tears dampening the already aged cardboard. Wiping them away, I slid to the floor, my knees pressed to my chest, spurting out broken cries.

This was the first time I had really cried after mother’s passing.

I didn’t even remember that I had won a prize for writing, or a prize for anything at all. Mostly, I didn’t even know that my mom had been there when I collected it.

I still don’t know exactly what she meant by the trophy and perhaps I never will. However, taking all the wisdom imbued into this small relic, I honoured her wishes to live my life as mine, and mine alone.

Shortly after, I was swept with a wave of mad bravery and I handed in my two-week notice. My colleagues were a mixture of confused, sad, and delighted that my position was now up for grabs.

So, now, I sit here writing this in the hopes that it invokes some long-lost green light within me.

With no clue as to what is coming next, I go on.

Short Story
1

About the Creator

AM

Psychology graduate who speaks on wellness, mental health, The Great Resignation and relationships.

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