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“Fare Thee Well” 
The last 72 hours.

There are people in everyone’s life who will accept us unconditionally, despite all our faults and imperfections. Someone who has faith in us, not only as good member of society or a skillful craftsman at our chosen trade, but as a person with the ability to grow and become a better person. Someone who will share in the excitement of pursuing our hopes and dreams or provide comfort when we are inconsolable. Cherish those people as the true blessings god grants us. They are few and far between and when they are gone they cannot be replaced.

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It seems like a hundred years ago, perhaps even another lifetime. It was the 2nd of November, 2001.

That Friday morning was similar to the past three Friday mornings. Quiet ambivalence filled the household, but in the wake of being downsized from my job a month earlier and the continued repercussions from the September 11th attack, there was no recognized routine of activity. Yet, even though there had been a great upheaval in world, and one also in my personal life, nothing seemed particularly special about this day. So much so, that I barely remember the events beginning the morning. Give me the benefit of the doubt, if some of the preliminary details are gleaned more from the knowledge of my regular habits rather than actual events. They are simply supplied to illustrate the frame of mind that I was in, on this cool autumn day.

By the time I was finished dressing, my wife and son were out of the house. It was a weekday and each had to be at work and school, respectively. I turned on the radio and sat down in my office to check my e-mail after a quick game of solitaire. This had become such a ritual for me, that I barely thought about the mouse clicks and button presses that got me seated comfortably in front of the computer monitor playing a mindless game while listening to the mindless chatter of the morning radio programs. For November, the weather was ordinary -- partly cool, but not cold, partly cloudy but neither overcast nor particularly sunny. A faint breeze rustled the falling leaves but it was not strong enough to be considered wind, nor was it calm by any sense of the imagination. It was ordinary. The coffee, my shower, my clothes, the weather, the morning itself … all of it was unnoticeably ordinary. The only thing that was not ordinary was me. I was adrift on a black sea with a broken compass, being pulled without direction or the ability to change it. Even now the metaphor is darkly amusing. I was feeling unfulfilled creatively and stonewalled by the people who I wanted support from the most. I don’t know if they were deliberately behaving that way, or if they were doing it at all. But, I was so completely convinced that their conduct was preventing my pursuit of – if not my happiness itself – that I began to believe that any compromise was impossible.

After the attacks of September 11th, some people might have taken it as a wake up call to stop wallowing in pipe dreams of personal fulfillment and behave like a good family man and provider, setting aside foolish desires and "do the right thing." I had those thoughts, and it only served to reinforce the idea that I was completely and quixotically out of step with the world. The terrorist attacks, in fact, strengthened my desires to pursue a creative passion. On one hand, it was my desire to be able to contribute something positive to humanity, and to prove that good and beauty and love could continue and thrive. On the other hand, I was being pushed toward immersing myself in the immediate satisfaction of creation by the grim reminder that life is even more temporary in a world of random destruction. There was no time left to put off a growing passion for society’s expectations, or wait for the right time. The time was now and it was creating its own apocalyptic turmoil. Push come to shove, it was all a massive rationalization for me to get to do what I wanted to do without feeling guilty.

Every day, I added another layer of complexity to the rationalization, and this Friday morning was no exception. It was a chore just to have a rational thought, but by 10:00 a.m. I had indulged myself with the exhausting mental debate enough to try and work a little on the next chapter of my first novel. As fate would have it, one page into the process, the phone rang.

"Hello?" I answered with a less than enthusiastic tone in my voice. It was mom.

"Hi, Cha," She replied in wavering voice. "Cha" was her nickname for me … a shorthand for Charles. And, from the days of my childhood, it was short for her other nickname for me – "charcoal". As far back as I can remember, she, and only she, called me that. It was her special name for me. Maybe, in some subliminal way, that’s why I ended up in art school.

The wavering in her voice was becoming more and more common with the onset of Parkinson’s disease. At least that’s what the diagnosis was of her increasing tremors. She was 74, after all, but it wasn’t debilitating, so as long as she followed her doctor’s advice, we weren’t particularly worried about it developing into anything more than a nuisance.

"Hi mom," I replied, with a short pause. "What’s up?"

Nothing had to be "up" for my mother to call me. We were like pals … kindred spirits in a lot of respects. I owe a great deal of my outlook on life – good or bad – to her. She could call me for no other reason than to chat, but lately it’s been to address problems. Maybe I ought to go back to when I think my mother first started asking for my help.

Mom raised us – my brothers and me – pretty much on her own. My father was absent, in one way or another, for almost my entire life. I was the handy one, the tactile one, the one who loved to make things and fix things, the one who like to cook and, especially, fulfill and exceed others expectations of me. She came to understand that, not only could I do a great many things with my hands, I actually enjoyed it. It was no surprise that while I living under her roof, I was the one who was asked when something needed to be done. It felt good to be a contributing part of our family, even if our family was not the most desirable to be a part of.

When I married, mom took me aside and made a pledge to never be the interfering mother-in-law. Perhaps because her own parents had always been controlling and manipulative or because my father’s mother had intruded on their marriage more than once. We never discussed her motives, but it was abundantly clear that she was taking this vow to the extreme. Over the years, she rarely asked us to come for a visit or invited herself to our house, and she never, ever popped in unannounced. She gladly welcomed us when we visited her and after my son was born she was thrilled with the chance to baby-sit, if we asked her to. But, it had to be our idea. She never imposed on our personal relationships.

There was one exception. If something went wrong, she would call me for advice. At times it was bothersome because she was a smart, resourceful and capable woman who had survived an alcoholic and abusive husband to hold down a job, pay for her own house and raise three children. She was certainly able to figure out that if a pipe was leaking, you call a plumber, but time after time, when those situations arose she would call me. Recently I noticed that the calls were becoming more frequent and about more trivial matters. Perhaps she sensed my own personal torment, or she just needed the companionship, but the annoying little emergencies she was telling me about were obviously not the reason for the contact. I just assumed this morning was another one of them.

" … What’s up?" in any event, was my way of letting her know it was OK to tell me her current dilemma.

"I’m feeling kind of punk," she replied in a tone that pretended to be apologetic for bothering me with that information. "Punk" was another one of her colloquialisms. It referred to a nondescript feeling of illness and general listlessness. Still, she was 74 and had been suffering with the onset of Parkinson’s disease while trying to manage her diabetes. Any health problems left unattended, could become serious.

"Call the doctor," I replied, after listening to her list of symptoms which included dizziness. That one concerned me more than the other aches and pains.

"I know I should," was her response, but I knew that meant she would "get around to it" which also meant she wasn’t going to call.

"No, I mean hang up the phone and call Dr. Denby now. See if he can see you today. Then call me back and let me know how you make out."

She knew it was the prudent thing to do, but she didn’t want to do it. Unless I told her specifically what to do and say, I knew what would have happened – nothing. In many ways she was making me the parent in our relationship. Nonetheless, mom did follow my instructions and hang up and call the doctor. A few minutes later, the phone rang again.

"Hello?"

"It’s me," she said, "I have an appointment for 2:20 this afternoon."

"Good," I replied, thankful for both the promptness of the appointment and the fact that mom did not turn this into a battle of wills. Especially since we are both cut from the same bolt of stubborn cloth.

"I hate to be a bother," she prefaced her next request, "but do you think you can drive me there? I don’t think I can drive with this dizziness"

"Sure," I said. "Just take it easy and I’ll see you around 2 o’clock."

I wrote very little, if at all, that ordinary morning. I called my wife around lunchtime to let her know that I was taking my mom to the doctor, that it was nothing to worry about, and that I should be home before supper. It was just an ordinary conversation.

The trip to the doctor gave me something to do. A way to feel like I was taking care of some responsibility, so it was a welcome diversion. Still there was a nagging concern in the back of my head. It was more toward the future than any present danger from whatever mom might be suffering from. She was becoming less and less willing to attend to her own daily needs. Her house was a mess. I don’t mean it was untidy, I mean it was full of junk. The accumulation of unnecessary things had rapidly gotten out of hand in the past 5 years. Her entire house, since the death of my grandmother the previous year, had become little corridors in between piles of magazines and boxes and stacks of cloth. There were two sofas and four chairs in the living room, and yet there was only one place to sit down. That’s how bad it was. She knew it was a less than ideal situation, but whenever myself or one of my brothers insisted she do something about it, she always promised to "get to it." She never did. If we offered, or threatened, to clean out her house for her – with or without her permission – she became combative. I was convinced that the way she was living must have something to do with the way she was feeling.

Today I was softening my position on her house and lifestyle. Mom had never imposed her values on any of her sons or their families. Who were we to impose ours on her? She was neither a danger to herself or a threat to others. She was, at least for now, able to care for herself and get around without much trouble to church and the symphony. She was just old and eccentric. More to her credit, she had sacrificed a good part of her retirement to the care of her own parents, who’s declining health, both mental and physical, must have drained much of her energy. She cared for them as they became needier and more belligerent and watched each slowly decline until, at the end, both were hospitalized and bedridden. First my grandfather – her father – succumbed to the ravages of Alzheimer’s disease at 94. A year and a half later, congestive heart failure took her mother. All the while, she still found time to appreciate the good in people and in life itself.

Mom always saw the good, wherever it was, and she taught us how to see it. I hadn’t looked in a long time, but today I was opening my eyes a little. So, If she wanted to live out her life on the road less traveled, then I was going to let her. After all, both her parents and her grandfather lived well into their 90’s. She had 20 more good years left in her.

When I turned into the driveway, mom was waiting on the back porch. Her long silvery hair was braided in two pigtails and wrapped up into buns on the sides of her head just like the way she had worn it for the last 25 years. It was constant. Her thickly lined corduroy jacket was zipped up to her neck to keep her protected from the chilly November breezes and she had her hands covered with homemade mittens. Mom stepped down off the porch and walked over to my car.

"Hello," I said as cheerily as possible. She grabbed the handle over the passenger door and pulled herself up to the elevated seat of my 4 wheel drive vehicle.

"Thanks, Cha." She looked at me with tired and grateful eyes and settled back into the contour of the bucket seat.

"We’ll be early," I said, noting that it was still a minute before two o’clock and the doctor’s office was only five blocks away.

"I know," she replied, "we can be a little early."

We were both silent as I backed out of her driveway onto the treacherous section road that wrapped around the front of her house. For thirty years she had watched many cars fail to navigate the sharp corner and end up in the adjacent field, or worse, meet an unsuspecting motorist coming the opposite direction. Oncoming traffic was impossible to see from either direction and people drove much too fast for the conditions most of the time, so she always was careful to keep a watchful eye out for any vehicles at all. Even in the worst weather, when a visitor was leaving, she would stand on the back porch and signal when the coast was clear in the opposite direction. She always thought about other people first.

At the traffic light at the end of the block, I glanced over at her. She seemed tired.

"You look beat," I said, acknowledging that her fatigue was hampering her usual sunny disposition.

"I don’t know what’s wrong with me," mom began, "I have been so tired lately. All week long I just can’t seem to find any energy."

"What do you expect? You are always running somewhere or doing something for someone. Between the church, the symphony and meeting the girls for lunches, you have a busier social life than me," I joked.

"I actually fell asleep waiting for you to pick me up," she explained. "That is why I was waiting outside for you. I thought the fresh air would perk me up."

"Your body is obviously telling you that you need some rest. You shouldn’t push so hard."

I was feeling a little guilty about pushing her to straighten up the mess in her house. It was apparent that it was now beyond her ability, even if she wouldn’t admit it to herself.

In the middle of a Friday afternoon in Sinking Spring, PA there was little or no traffic so we arrived almost 20 minutes early. The parking lot of the doctor’s office was equally deserted. I took a space very close to the front door and helped mom down from her elevated perch. She was feeling a little more frail than I remembered. Actually, I never remembered having to help her with anything like that before.

We settled into the waiting area after hanging up our coats and chatted about many things. I told her about my son’s Halloween experiences just two nights before. We talked about people who I used to know, but have lost touch with. I asked her about her travel plans for trips she had always talked about taking but never did, and we talked about the upcoming holidays. I explained that I was not going to give her a special invitation for each day and that she had an open invitation for them all and we expected her to spend them with us. If she wanted to make other plans, that was fine, but to let us know if she was going to do that.

"Charlotte?" the nurse called, and my mother got up and followed her into the examination room.

I sat and stared at the framed Saturday Evening Post cover and tried to block out the conversations of the others in the waiting area as they droned on about their own aches and pains. It was Norman Rockwell’s depiction of a small child at the doctor’s office that must adorn the walls of every general practitioner in the country. It was Rockwell’s cliché depiction of happy American lifestyles that had made him so popular. His characterization in this illustration was skillfully executed and represented the kind of life I, as a middle class American, had never known. I don’t know many people who ever had that kind of life. I found it ironic how many people felt nostalgic for something they never had.

Mom reappeared from the rear of the office fifteen minutes later and reached for her purse that had been on the chair next to me while she was in with the doctor.

"So?" I asked, wondering if the doctor was able to diagnose a particular illness or condition.

"A touch of the flu." She replied matter-of-factly. "Nothing serious."

"And?" I prodded for more information.

"He said to rest and gave me a prescription for some antibiotics, that’s all."

She wrote a check to the receptionist for her portion of the office visit fee that Medicaid didn’t cover and took her prescription that was paper-clipped to the medical records Dr. Denby had carried to the front desk. I helped mom on with her coat and we stepped back out into the brisk November air. It seemed later in the day than it actually was, probably because Daylight Savings Time had just ended and our bodies had not completely adjusted to the time change. The sun was already angled sharply over the western horizon so I had to put both my sunglasses on and my visor down. Mom made a joking remark about me looking "cool" and I replied, "Yeah. Right." As long as she was feeling well enough to tease me, I knew it wasn’t too serious.

"Where do you get your prescriptions filled?" I asked, wanting to make sure that she got her medication and began taking it right away. Sometimes she didn’t always act in her own best interests.

"Usually at the Giant," she said, referring to a recently built grocery store that had a pharmacy counter inside.

"Okay, I’ll drop you of at home and then go get your prescription filled."

"You don’t have to do that," she argued, "I’ll go get it later. Besides, I need to pick up a few things at the store anyway."

"What do you need at the store?" I asked.

"Oh, milk, bread …" she paused trying to think of more items that she may need in the next few days to try and make the trip seem more necessary.

I pulled into the left lane of road reserved for turning traffic and put on my blinker.

"We’ll go now," I stated as I readied the vehicle to cross traffic and head to the store, away from her house. If this was going to be a battle of wills, my 42 year old healthy will was going to out-stubborn her 74 year old feverish one. She offered no argument or opposition. We passed by the assisted care facility where my grandmother had spent the last few months of her life and turned into the shopping center parking lot.

"Do you want to come in with me?" I asked.

"I’ll just wait here," she replied. It was obvious that she was succumbing to the effects of her flu from the exertion.

"I’ll be right back," I said and walked across the asphalt and into the store.

I had never been inside this store before so it took me a few minutes to locate the few "necessaries" that mom had indicated she might need, while the pharmacist filled the prescription. With the small courtesy basket in my hand I returned to the pharmacy counter.

"Prescription for ‘Moon’?" I inquired to see it was ready.

"Charlotte?" the girl asked to ensure she was giving me the correct medicine. I nodded and placed the basket of foodstuffs on the counter to get my wallet out of my back pocket.

"Can I pay for these here too?" I said, pointing to the bread and milk in the basket.

"Sure," she replied and proceeded to scan the product codes into the cash register.

"$66.27," the girl at the register said.

"She is a senior citizen," I stated, making sure that they had applied the appropriate discounts and used her prescription plan insurance information. If she had picked up medications here before they would have that on file.

"I need to see her card, sir." The clerk responded.

"Never mind," I said as I pulled three twenties and a ten from my wallet. I wasn’t going to let mom sit any longer out in the car by herself to save a few dollars. The girl handed me the change and I walked briskly out to the car.

"How much was it?" mom asked as soon as I opened the door.

"Enough," was my answer.

I put the receipt and the change in my pocket and shoved the envelope from the pharmacist into her purse. I knew she would have been angry with me if she found out I paid the full price without benefit of her insurance or discount. Her father, either from living through the Great Depression or some misguided sense of frugality, had over emphasized the value of money. Mom had learned the lesson too well.

"I want to pay you for it," she insisted.

"Pay me the next time you see me," I replied. "Let’s just get you home and under a blanket."

I pulled into her driveway and got out to help her down one more time from my car. We walked together up the steps to her back door, but she blocked my way when I reached for the doorknob. It was clear she didn’t want me to come in, most probably because the clutter in her house had grown worse since the last time I had been there and she didn’t want to hear a lecture from me. I had no intentions of criticizing her housekeeping – or lack of it – today, but I also didn’t want to embarrass her either so I said my good-byes outside.

"You get yourself inside and lay down, but take your pill first, Okay?"

"Thanks, Cha," was her only reply.

I leaned down and kissed her on the forehead and walked back to my car as she unlocked the back door. Mom stood on the step and watched me as I started the engine. I raised my hand and pointed to the back door of her house with a stern look on my face, hoping she would get the message to go inside quickly and take care of herself. She leaned out over the rail and checked the traffic coming from around the front side of her house. When she was satisfied it was safe, she waved goodbye to me and I back out of the driveway shaking my head. I will always be her son and she will always be my mom, no matter how old I get, I thought. I honked the horn one time and pulled away quickly so she wouldn’t linger outside in the cold.

It was only a touch of the flu, but the whole episode had me thinking about her future. For years she had sacrificed. First for her husband’s sake and then her children’s. Finally she surrendered her retirement to the care of her elderly parents all the while talking and dreaming of doing things that were rapidly becoming impossible because of her own infirmities. The endless talk of her starting her own clothing business that my brothers and I had heard since we were children had never materialized. The travel plans that she fantasized about were always put on hold because there were other duties to attend to until she could indulge herself. Now that she had the freedom and the resources to make any or all of her dreams and aspirations come true, her health was deteriorating to the point where it may never again be possible. If we are not in control of our own fate, then fate is cruel. If our fate is of our own making, then God help us all.

Saturday, November 3rd opened as lackluster as the previous day had ended. The weather was typical for the time of year and the last few remaining leaves hanging on to their autumn colors in the trees went unnoticed. I mindlessly went through my Saturday morning ritual of attending to the outstanding bills in the basket on my desk followed by a routine trip to the bank and then to the grocery store. It was close to noon when I called mom to see if she felt any better.

"Hi," I said when she answered the phone, expecting my mother to recognize my voice immediately.

"Hello," the weary voice on the other end of the phone replied.

"How are you feeling," I asked.

"Not a whole lot better."

"You are taking you medicine?"

"Yes."

"Well, it hasn’t even been twenty-four hours yet, you have to give the antibiotics time to work. You should start to feel them kicking in by tomorrow." I said. "Do you need anything."

"No, I’m fine."

"Do you want me to come over and make you a bowl of soup or something?"

"Actually, I was napping when you called."

"Oh," I replied sheepishly, "I’ll let you get back to your nap then. You get your rest and I’ll talk to you later."

"Take care," and then the click of mom putting the handset back in the cradle was all I heard.

The rest of the day I did very little of any consequence. I puttered around the house straightening up a few boxes of items that I had brought home from my old office that I hadn’t unpacked. I would occasionally sit down at the computer and check for new mail and respond accordingly if the message warranted it. The TV held little interest, but I found myself wandering in and out of the bedroom, turning on and off the TV as if I was waiting to be captivated by an unexpected show that would consume the rest of the day. It felt more like I was haunting this house than a part of the household. I existed in the same space as my wife and son, but was not connected to them. I don’t know where I was, but it wasn’t here.

Sleep came late, if at all, and it was restless at best. Sunday reinforced the monotonous march of uneventful days and I woke with the desire to break free of the dark mood that had enveloped me so that I could attend to more productive things. After my family had left the house to attend church, something I still found uncomfortable even though it had been decades since my father stood in the pulpit, I jumped into the shower and focussed on developing the next chapter of my progressing novel.

By the time Helen and Eric returned, I had finished reading the first half of the previous chapter to make sure that I didn’t lose the continuity of the story. Helen poured herself a cup of coffee and I refreshed mine so that we could have a brief conversation before I isolated myself into the creative process. Around 11:00 a.m. I had read through to the last line of text I had written and was ready to begin adding to the story when the phone rang.

Helen answered the phone and then held out the receiver to me with a puzzled look on her face.

"It’s a doctor (something – I do not remember his name but it sounded Indian or Pakistani)" she said as she passed the phone to me.

I had no idea what the call was about, especially on a Sunday morning. I took the call anyway.

"Hello?" I said, anticipating some nuisance phone call.

"Is this Charles Moon?" he asked in a thickly accented voice.

"Yes."

"Are you related to Charlotte Moon?"

"I am her son," I said with growing uneasiness.

"My name is Doctor (something), in the emergency room at the Reading Hospital. Your mother is here."

"What happened?" I asked, shocked to discover mom was taken to the hospital without a call.

"She called an ambulance for herself," he said hesitantly.

"Is she all right?"

"She is in serious condition. Her heart stopped in the ambulance." He quickly added, "we were able to get it started again but it stopped again in the emergency room. We have already sent her up to the cath lab for evaluation. She may need to have surgery."

I was dumbfounded. I felt wave after wave of panic gripping me and I wanted to drop the phone and run to the hospital, but I needed more information first. I didn’t know what to ask so I simply repeated my first questions.

"Is she all right? What happened? Is she conscious?"

"I was told that she dialed 911 and told the operator she was feeling very weak and sick and needed to get to the hospital. The ambulance driver brought her here quickly but not before her heart had stopped. They were able to resuscitate her but the heart stopped again when they brought her in. We have stabilized her as much as possible and have sent her for a cardiogram," the doctor explained. "She is in serious condition."

The information was sinking in and I grabbed for a pen and a piece of paper.

"Where is she?" I asked.

"If you come into the hospital they will tell you at the front desk."

"Okay," I replied. "Your name again is?" I added, in case I needed to have it. He told me his name and I even wrote it down, but I cannot remember the name of the doctor who told me my mother’s heart had stopped twice.

Helen watched my actions and listened intently to my half of the conversation.

"Mom is in the hospital, I have to go."

"What’s wrong?" she asked and I repeated the events exactly as the emergency room doctor had related them to me.

"Do you want us to come with you?"

She knew me too well. Part of me wanted to just take off and handle this situation all by myself. I knew what it was like to be protected from bad situations by being excluded from them – it never taught me the ability to deal well with them and it never softened the inevitable blow. I thought for a moment of not only myself, but of everyone this affected.

"I would appreciate the support," was how I answered her question. "I should call John and Jim."

Helen put the dogs in their kennels and while she and Eric got ready to leave, I phoned my brothers. Jim was not home, so I left a message on his answering machine. On the third ring I heard the mechanical click of his machine answering the phone followed by the beginnings of his recorded greeting.

"Hello, you have reached…" I didn’t listen to the message except to know that it was my brother’s voice. Jim was considerate enough to make his message short and to the point, so after the tone, I returned the courtesy.

"Jim, this is your brother Charlie. It’s important that you call me as soon s you get this message. If you can’t reach me at home, call my cell phone." I left my cell number and then hung up. I hoped I had stressed the importance of his returning my call without sounding in too much of a panic. Just to be safe, I also sent him an e-mail saying pretty much the same thing..

John was home. I spoke briefly with him and he said he would leave within the hour and go directly to the hospital. His wife and their two kids wouldn’t be coming with him. I gave him all the information I had, and by the time I was finished, Helen and Eric were waiting by the door. We left immediately.

The fifteen-minute trip to the hospital was silent. There may have been a CD playing in the background but I didn’t hear it. My entire focus was on getting to the hospital and finding mom.

"Do you have quarters for the parking lot?" Helen quietly asked. The hospital’s parking garage on Sundays was not attended so you needed to have the exact change to raise the gate in order to leave. Her comment was something to say and the situation gave her the opportunity to say it. Otherwise we would have continued the oppressive silence of not knowing what to say to each other, let alone what to say to the 11 year old boy in the back seat who barely had any idea of what was happening.

"I think so," I replied, looking for coins in the armrest compartment of my car. "I can get change inside, too."

"I think I have some change," Helen offered, trying her best to be helpful.

We were discussing parking fees and loose change. In any other circumstance it would have been funny, but today there was no humor in anything. My mind jumped to the worst possible conclusion inside the sprawling brick medical facility in front of us and then tried to suppress the panic and fear by thinking of a hopeful outcome. Panic and fear were winning the battle.

The cavernous lobby of the hospital echoed with the quiet footsteps of staff members and ambulatory patients respecting the foreboding peacefulness of the institution. I walked directly to the reception desk and asked the woman about my mother before she had a chance to look up.

"I am looking for Charlotte Moon’s room. She was brought in through emergency a little while ago. I am her son."

"What was the name?" The heavyset woman asked.

"Moon, Charlotte Moon. M-O-O-N." It is a short name and a common word, but no matter how many times I have been the position of giving it to someone, I invariably end up having to spell my last name.

"Do you know who her doctor is?" the woman inquired.

I was getting a little frustrated and felt like saying "just tell me where she is and how to get there and stop the twenty-questions," but I knew I was agitated and this lady was only trying to help me. Given the nature of her position and the many times a day this scene must be repeated with worried family members of other patients, I didn’t envy her the job.

"I was called by a doctor (something)," – I had to look at the scrap of paper I had scribbled his name on to remember it – "in the emergency room, but he said that she was already taken to the cath lab."

"That’s in the cardiac wing," she finally said. "Go straight down that hall," the woman instructed, pointing over the top of the counter and down a long corridor behind me. "At the end of the hall," she continued, "turn left and go to the double doors. Then turn right and down the long hall that connects the buildings. There will be elevators on your left. Go to the third floor."

"Thank you," I said as I stepped away from the desk and towards Helen and Eric who were waiting a few feet away.

"Follow me," I instructed.

"Do you know where you’re going?" Helen asked.

"Not really, but the directions are simple enough."

I needed to move – to feel like I was making some progress toward finding someone I could talk to about my mother’s condition. We walked down the long corridor past closed doors and darkened rooms, inactive on Sunday afternoons. Historic pictures of the hospital grounds silently told the story of it’s founding and growth over the last century to become this huge maze-like medical complex. We reached the end of the hall, turned as instructed and easily found the double doors to the connecting hallway. The elevators were exactly where we were told they would be. I pressed the "up" button. The light encircling the plastic button glowed, indicating there was a new call for the elevator. I pressed the button again. The light went out and the doors opened. A small placard on the back of the elevator car stated clearly the cellular telephone use was not permitted anywhere within the building, so I reached down and turned mine off. Eric pressed the button marked "3".

The smell of alcohol filled the air on the third floor. The sign on the wall where the elevator deposited us listed the cardiac catheterization lab to the right. We walked past a laundry cart of soiled linens and turned left down another long empty corridor. There was no one in sight. Most of the doors in the hall were closed and labeled as labs or rooms used for storage. We passed a small lounge area and headed to the nurse’s station. That too was empty. I took a few steps around the counter to look down an adjacent hallway. On one side were two solid swinging doors leading to an area marked "authorized personnel only" and the other was just another empty corridor. I stood confused for a moment. I saw no indication that anybody was here to tell me where my mother was.

A nurse in hospital scrubs pushed though the double doors and approached me.

"Can I help you," she asked. Her expression told me that we were not supposed to be in that part of the corridor … at least, not yet.

"I’m looking for my mother, I was told she was brought up from emergency. Charlotte Moon."

The nurse guided us back down the hall to the lounge that we had passed a few moments ago and said, "If you’d like to wait here the doctor will be out to speak with you as soon as we know anything."

We settled into the comfortable but dimly lit area with one window overlooking the rooftop of another section of the medical campus. The television hung high on the wall flickered with sports highlights from the day before while another group waiting in the same room stared mindlessly into the screen. Helen sat on a wide loveseat-sized chair and Eric curled up next to her. I sat in an adjacent single chair with my back to the window. A gap in the opaque curtain let a thin slice of the sunlight stream across my back and shoulder. I felt its heat, but no warmth. I thought about my grandparents and their constant travelling between home and hospital stays throughout the final years of their lives. I stood by my mother through their slow decline and ultimate demise. How hard it must have been to watch her parents slip away day by day over a prolonged illness. I envisioned the beginning of the same scenario for me.

Helen tried offering Eric some words of comfort but we had nothing comforting to say. We knew very little of the situation ourselves and in the past two years, with the deaths of not only great-grandparents, but his paternal grandfather as well, this child had experienced more funerals than many adults. I did not want to pretend that everything was going to be all right only to have it turn out differently and leave him believing we lied to him. And yet, at his age, burdening him with all our fears and concerns was unthinkable. The only thing that was possible was to tell him the truth and we did not know what it was.

I paced across the room, pretending to survey the layout in case anyone required a restroom or wanted a soda. I looked at the blank cell phone clipped to my belt and wondered if Jim was trying to call me. I sat down uncomfortably on the edge of the same chair I had risen from moments earlier. What felt like only a few minutes may have been many more. The door opened and I saw the silhouette of a nurse against the bright fluorescent light in the hall.

"Mr. Moon?"

"Yes." I replied.

"The doctor would like to speak with you a moment."

I rose and glanced down at my wife and son still sitting, huddled together.

"I’ll stay here with Eric," Helen said.

I walked out into the hallway. Standing to one side of the door was the nurse who had just called me accompanied by another nurse and a man who I assumed was the doctor. All three were wearing green surgical clothing, complete with hair nets and shoe covers. I thought about asking the volumes of questions swirling in my head and hearing lengthy medical explanations, but more than anything I just wanted to hear that mom was going to be fine. I stood there silently pleading with the doctor for good news… any news.

He looked at the floor, and then glanced at one of the nurses before looking directly at me.

"Your mother’s heart had stopped again on her way up to us. We were able to get it going again briefly, but there was nothing we could do. She didn’t make it."

I stood frozen in numb disbelief. "No," thought, "that not right." I looked away briefly at the closed door to the waiting area where Helen and Eric were sitting, hoping for the good news that would never come. I turned back to the doctor, who, along with the two women, was assessing my ability to handle the news that my mother was dead.

"What happened?" I asked, trying to force myself past this terrible moment in time.

"Her heart had too much damage," the surgeon explained, "we tried to perform an emergency bypass but the arteries that feed the heart were so clogged there wasn’t enough clear tissue to do a bypass with."

"But she never had any symptoms," I argued as if somehow I could convince the doctor he had made a mistake.

"It’s very common in older women with heart disease for them not to feel any symptoms, especially diabetics," he replied. Obviously he had checked into mom’s medical history. He may have said more. It may have been one or both of the nurses. I didn’t hear it. The voices faded in and out like trying to understand a conversation while your head is submerged in water. Turning quickly to the closed door, I grabbed the handle and opened it. I stood framed in the doorway exactly as the nurse had done a few minutes earlier.

"Helen? Could you come out here for a minute?" I called out, trying to appear calm for the sake of my son. She spoke softly to Eric and then stepped into the hallway. The spring and damper on the heavy wooden door swung it closed in a smooth steady motion and it shut with a solid thump and click.

I looked at Helen. She wasn’t expecting what I had to tell her – what I would have to tell everybody.

"Mom didn’t make it," I said slowly. I can only imagine that the look she reflected back to me was similar to the one I had moments earlier. Helen looked at the medical trio standing off to one side with seriously somber expressions, confirming the news I had just told her. She too was silent. I think the doctor explained the medical details to Helen again, as we both stood stunned by this tragedy. She was either being strong for my sake or was still reeling from the shock. I was simply empty.

"Take all the time you need," one of the nurses compassionately added. "We will clean her up and bring her out so you may see her. I’ll come and get you when you are ready."

"We have to tell Eric." I don’t know whether I actually said it, or only thought it, but if it was unspoken then Helen had the same thought.

The doctor and nurses stood awkwardly for a moment or two longer and then one by one turned and left, going back through the double doors into the restricted area.

Helen took my hand and said, "I am so sorry, Charlie."

I nodded in acknowledgement.

Eric watched us approach from the hallway and in unison, we sat in our original positions and postures. I don’t remember who spoke first. The whole scene still remains surreal and unfocussed in my memory. Calmly, we explained that his grandmother’s heart was too weak to keep beating and that there was nothing anyone could have done to save her. Grandma was dead. That was the truth that he least wanted to hear but needed to be told. He heard the words but I don’t know if he really understood. I suppose he understood as well as any 11-year-old, or anyone at all, can comprehend death.

"I have to call John," I said to Helen after a brief pause. Things had changed. I felt the need to call him right away in case he wanted to wait to come down and make the long 5-hour drive later.

"Are you okay?" Helen asked as I got up to step outside to use my phone.

It seemed a strange question. I had just learned that mom was dead, we just told Eric that his grandmother was dead and now I was about to call my brother and tell him the same thing. I was not "okay" by any stretch of the imagination. Still, I knew what she meant. It was one of those impossible moments when there are no appropriate words but something still needs to be said. She was concerned for me.

I walked out of the lounge and shuffled down the hall back to the elevators. There were two hospital employees already waiting for the elevator doors to open so I smiled numbly and waited while the lights above the door flashed up to the number 3. My hand clasped the cell phone attached to my belt as I walked off the elevator and followed the exit signs out to the parking garage, attached to the rear of the cardiac wing. The hallway seemed to blur in my peripheral vision like walking through a tunnel in the fog. I only barely perceived other people moving in the corridors around me. The automatic doors opened to allow an orderly pushing a wheelchair-bound patient to enter the building. I slipped though the glass exit after they passed and stepped over to the cement wall overlooking the park-like grounds of the hospital.

The phone beeped and then displayed its connection message. I had a strong enough signal to make the call I was dreading. I scrolled through the numbers until "John’s cell" was highlighted. I pushed the select button and held the phone up to my ear. The sound of my brother’s phone ringing reverberated through my skull.

"Yeah?" John answered.

"John, this is Charlie. Where are you?"

"I’m on the expressway just outside of Bridgeport."

"Is there a place for you to pull over?"

"What’s up?" he asked. My question must have seemed indicative of something serious. It was.

"Let me know when you are stopped."

"Okay, I’m stopped, what’s going on?"

"John," I started hesitantly, "mom didn’t make it."

There was silence.

"Okay," he said after a long pause.

I heard the shock in his voice. For the third time in ten minutes, I was relaying the details, as I knew them, of my own mother’s death. John listened stoically and then said, "I’m still coming down."

"Be careful," I warned. I wasn’t fully feeling the shock yet and he was going to be driving through some of the most treacherous traffic in the country around New York City. I was concerned for my little brother, both for his physical as well as emotional conditions.

"By the time you get here," I added, "we’ll be back home."

"I’ll meet you at your house, then. I’ve got to call Cathy and let her know."

"Okay, John. I’ll see you tonight. Take care."

I turned off my phone and walked back through the corridor to the elevators. Back in the lounge, I told Helen that I had contacted my brother John and he was still coming. The nurse arrived a few moments later and led us down the hall in the opposite direction past the nurse’s station to an area divided from the rest of the hallway by a curtain. She stood at the edge of the curtain and held it open, but not pulling it back to display what was hidden behind it.

I stepped through to the small area, not much larger than the bed it contained, and Helen and Eric followed. As soon as Eric stepped through, I wondered if it was a good idea that he saw this, but who was I to deny him the chance to say goodbye.

Laying face up on the bed was mom. She was laying motionless with her eyes closed, wearing a hospital gown and covered in a light cotton blanket. Her arms were laying, almost relaxed by her side and there were still marks where they had removed the intravenous tubes. Her hair lay freely flowing around her head. The nurses must have taken out the braids as a medical precaution. They had also removed her dentures giving her pale face a sunken and gaunt look. It didn’t look like mom, but it was the corpse of my mother. I stood by her head and softly stroked the unbraided hair while Helen and Eric sadly looked at her lifeless body.

Helen leaned down and whispered into Eric’s ear "you’re father needs to be alone with grandma." She took his arm and guided him past the curtain and left me standing at the side of the bed.

There was none of the fire left. The kindness and temper and love were all gone from this empty shell lying in front of me. I was afraid to touch the body, but I found my hand resting on her shoulder. Slowly the tips of my fingers traced down her sleeve until I felt the touch of her cooling skin. It was an eerie sensation, and not what I expected. She wasn’t cold or clammy at all. But there was no life. No response to a son’s touch. I grasped her hand one last time and holding it, I leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. A single tear rolled down my cheek and dropped onto the fabric of her gown. I couldn’t speak, but my lips parted and my mouth silently formed the words, "bye, mom."

"It seems in a moment, your whole world is shattered…"
-- Phil Collins, Genesis.