Rite of Passage

Thirty years ago, a daughter stood by her mother's hospital bed and listened intently to the ramblings of a woman whose heart was giving out. In a seeming lucid moment, the mother looked into her daughter's eyes and told her - "You don't have this much oil in your lamp", and she pinched her fingers together, less than an inch, to show her daughter how low her fuel was. The daughter almost smiled at her mother's words, attributed them to her delirium, but they remained with her all these years past, as they have with me, since the telling.

Now it is my turn to sit by my mother's bed in this damnable rite of passage I do not want.

The only sounds are the intermittent beep of the IV pole, the periodic hissing of the blood pressure cuff, and occasionally the muted padding sound of the nurses' shoes as they walk past the door of the room.

She is pale, even against white sheets, and hair streaked silver falls against her brow. She is finally sleeping, now that I have shooed away the "munchkins" whose chattering kept her awake. She could see them, hear them, even though I could not. At last she is resting; hopefully, a healing sleep will make her mind clearer tomorrow, and she will know me.

I won't sleep tonight. I will watch her, hold her hand, listen to her breathe. I will stand guard against The Thief, prepare to fight him with all my might if he should come. And I will think. I'm still trying to trace down the moment when she became so frail and how I missed it happening. One day, she was my vibrant mother; the next, she was a silver haired little old lady whose health was failing. It is a strange thing that we miss the most obvious changes because they come so gradually. And when we do notice, we are surprised by their suddenness. It's an abrupt awakening that shocks us into today.

For the fourth time in my life, I wish I were the one to be taken, because I know the pain that will follow in the wake of her passing, and I'm not sure I'm strong enough to bear it. I'm so scared, but she needs me, and I must be strong for her now.

I brush the  hair from her forehead and smooth it back. She smiles in her sleep, as though welcoming the comfort of a simple human touch; the touch of a mother soothing a child. I smile back, even though she can't see. Is it a sign that, on some level, she is aware?

Mommy, Mother, mentor, friend are the evolving faces you wore throughout my life, andnow I add tired child to the faces of you. You are the one constant in my life. Don't go; it's too soon, too soon. Can you feel me with you? Can you hear my thoughts? Can you feel me willing you to come back for a while longer? Oh, just a little while longer.

Your lamp is filling even as I watch you, and it will brim to spilling and mix with the tears and oil in my own. I damn this bitter fulfillment.

Damn this final rite of passage I do not want.