I stopped at the florist on the way to the hospital. I had to wait in line, but that was okay, because I got the last red rose. Mom and I both liked them; it was one of the few things we had in common. The florist put it in a vase with a ribbon for me.
As the hospital doors opened, I suppressed a shudder. It smelled wrong here, like misery and disinfectant. At least the rose helped. I took the elevator to the third floor and walked down the hall to her room. Mom was in the far bed, next to the window. Three days ago I’d simply sat and read while she slept.
But Mom was awake today. She licked her lips and said, “Doris.”
I hated that name; I’d had it legally changed years ago.
I put a smile on my face and showed her the rose. “I got something for you.” Her lips curved, so I held it close enough for her to smell before setting the vase on the rolling table by the bed.
We watched Happy Days reruns until I noticed Mom trying to move her hand toward the nurse call button. I pressed it for her, then patted the back of her hand gently, once. But Mom wasn’t watching the TV anymore; her eyes were on me. They had widened, and her breathing was labored.
I ran to the hall and yelled, “I need a nurse NOW,” before rushing back to Mom’s side. She had tears in her eyes, so I reached for her hand and held it this time.
“I’m sorry,” she gasped. “Please…remember me kindly.”
So many harsh memories reared their heads. The constant criticism, the wall of indifference impervious to pleas, the sly remarks, the years of hiding both bruises and shame.
She saw my hesitation and managed one more word. “Please.”
Mom had never asked me for anything before. And this woman had kept me alive for fifteen years, until I was able to climb out my window and do it myself. And as hard as it was, at least I’d been alive to do it.
I gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Of course, Mom.” But the moment seemed to demand honesty, and I couldn’t say she’d been a great mother. “I’ll remember you reading me those little golden books. The Poky Little Puppy and The Little Engine that Could.” She had, before Dad left and our lives spiraled out of control.
Her eyes begged for more.
My gaze fell to the rose on the table. “And I remember cutting roses with you, to put in a vase for Grandma on Mother’s Day.” Nothing else was coming to me.
Apparently it was enough, for she smiled faintly as the nurse arrived. He was followed by a doctor, and their attempts, though urgent and well-meant, failed.
Mom was dead.
I took the rose home with me. As I walked out the hospital doors, I took a deep breath and began humming Amazing Grace.
I was free.
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Avid writer and reader of Faerie tales and noblebright fantasy.
Cathleen Townsend 
Wow. Most powerful post I have read today. I am sorry for your loss, both while she was alive and now that she is gone.
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Thank you so much. It wasn’t exactly about my mother–it referred to another family member–but the feelings of complicated grief were the same.
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You know, after I hit send it occurred to me that maybe it was a “story” and not really your story. Having a more than difficult relationship with my own mother, I had the emo response. All this goes to show, well done!
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Thanks again. 🙂
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Sweet and Sad. Bittersweet and Freeing. ❤
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A sad story, but it captured the feelings and realities of ‘complicated grief’ well. I really love flash fiction.
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Just wow!
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I’m glad you liked it. 🙂
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Very moving. I think no matter what our relationship with our mother, in the end, she is still our mother.
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You just can’t get away from that. It’s a powerful tie, regardless of the quality of the relationship.
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Such an honest way to present grief. Sometimes you feel more grief over not feeling the grief you’re expected to feel.
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Right, and then you feel like–What’s wrong with me? I should be feeling something. Sometimes you can’t decide what to feel. But we can always choose to do the right thing (or at least as close as we can come to it in our circumstances).
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I think when that happens the best thing to do is be honest with yourself about what you feel. Put on the face you feel you ought to show the world, but know inside where you really stand. I think this story suggests that really well.
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I imagine this story sounds familiar to many. She made the right choice at the end and the kindness paid off well. 🙂
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Well, the kindness paid off inside of her. She wasn’t the sort of person who abandoned her mother. She didn’t have to live with that inside her skin. Sometimes, that’s the only reward we get–to be the people we want to be.
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Wow you’re a very talented writer – I was captivated throughout. Great work!
xx
https://colourpotblog.wordpress.com/
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Thanks so much, Clare. I’m glad you enjoyed it. 🙂
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This tugged at my heart — the honesty from both the mom and daughter was staggering. It’s so easy to fake emotions when someone close to you is dying. Quite beautiful and genuine.
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Thanks. Actually, this tale was anger driven. I read someone else’s dying mother scene, and I was so furious over the lack of genuine emotion that I wrote this one. Glad to hear that it worked for you. 🙂
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OOps! I’m thinking about the girl…not a smooth childhood she had 😦
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Unfortunately, conflict drives stories. People who live the kind of lives we’d all like to live–loving family, nice job, contributing to their local community–it doesn’t make for very interesting reading. 🙂
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Beautifully constructed and the pain was so very real for both of you.
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Thanks so much for the kind words. The real-life situation was somewhat different, but the feelings were real. : )
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Packed with such raw emotions. You did a great job achieving all that in so few words. I think many people can relate to the story somewhat. A great reminder that our time will come and we should be ready.
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Thanks, Sam. I think a lot of us have wished we could feel genuine grief, and then in turn grieved because we didn’t have the sort of relationship that leads to simple mourning. Grief is often a complicated emotion, especially if a lot of things were left unsaid.
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