It's not easy to die

I think about my mother, off and on during the day. It's easier than living with her.

When I lived with her I thought about her first thing in the morning and last thing at night. I laid in my bed and worried about her. I worried that she was awake. I worried that if she was awake she would trip going down the stairs. I worried that she was taking too many pills. I worried that she wasn't taking enough of them. I worried that her blood sugar was too high. I worried that it was too low. I worried that she was too cold or too hot. I worried that she didn't have any food she liked in the house and would ask me to make a special trip to the store for her. I worried that she was going to ask me to call her doctor for her or the pharmacist. I worried when she didn't want to go to church. I worried when she went outside for a walk. I worried that I wasn't giving her enough attention. I worried that I got too mad at her too easily. I worried that I made her feel guilty.

I pulled up some pictures from last Thanksgiving and some of them were of me and some of them were of Mom. In one, we were smiling at the camera, our heads tilted together. I was wearing a hat that she'd knitted for me. By Christmas, when the next pictures were taken, I looked ten years older, faded. There are no pictures of us together.

She took a handful of her blood pressure pills on a Friday night in January. When I went in to check on her the next morning she was laying on her back in bed, her hands folded on her chest, like she'd been laid out for her funeral. I thought she was dead, and then I saw her chest rise and fall. She opened her eyes, sat up abruptly and said, "Marie? I tried to kill myself last night." I looked at her, alive and alert and I thought, "How? There's no blood. Her wrists look fine. Did she imagine it? Dream it?" and aloud I said, "It didn't work." "No," she said and got out of bed.