The Cutting Room Floor – Volume 2

This is an unpublished piece from my memoir, scenes that never made it into the final manuscript. My turbulent relationship with my mother is coming to a close, and I’m struggling to find the heart to comfort her as she approaches death. I’m also striving to personify the strong, stable mother I never experienced during my own childhood.

 By the second week in April, Mom became immobile and nearly non-verbal. She responded to small requests to take a sip of water or a spoonful of chocolate pudding into which Dad stirred a carefully measured dose of morphine. Her rambling, opiate-induced monologues ceased and her eyes stayed shut most of the time. We learned from one of the hospice nurses that just because she appeared to be sleeping didn’t mean she wasn’t listening, so I chose my words with care while in earshot.

After a long, quiet Sunday afternoon, I hugged my Dad and told him I had to go home and take care of my husband and young family. I bent over Mom’s quilted body, placed my hand on her warm, dry cheek, and kissed her on the forehead.

“I have to go now. I love you Mom,” I murmured.

“I love you too,” she said, never opening her eyes.

Those were the last words she would ever speak to me.

The following afternoon I picked up nine-year-old Emma and kindergartener Erik from school, my heart heavy with the words I needed to share with them about their Nana. I had stalled for weeks, but I knew this talk couldn’t wait any longer.

We finished our usual routine of an afternoon snack, along with the ritual emptying of backpacks where I sorted folders, homework papers, and stray notices from the classroom. Emma pulled out her accelerated reader book and Erik began to color on a page from his daily phonics lesson.

I took a seat between them at the kitchen table. “Hey you guys, there’s something we need to talk about.” The tension in my voice must have caught their interest because they both looked up at me in unison.

“You know that your Nana has been sick for a long time, right?”

Five-year old Erik spoke first, his desire to beat his sister to the right answer always in play. “Nana has cancer,” he said knowingly. Emma said nothing, her soft brown eyes wide and unblinking.

“That’s right Erik, Nana has cancer. We were hoping that she would get better and be able to live with us a long time, but it’s looking like that won’t happen. Nana feels really sick all the time and is in a lot of pain. She can’t walk or talk any more. I’m really sad about all this and I know you guys are too. Your Nana loves you very much, but she probably isn’t going to live much longer.”

“So is Nana gonna die?” Emma asked. Mom and Emma enjoyed a special bond—Emma showered her with unconditional love, and Mom responded with perpetual delight. Fear gnawed at my insides as I considered how this news would affect my loving, tender-hearted daughter. I leaned towards her and took her small, chubby hand in mine.

“Yes, I’m afraid that’s true sweetheart. We’re only going to have Nana with us on this earth a little while longer.”

She pressed her lips into a small frown, but continued to hold my gaze, her eyes clear. I glanced at Erik who had returned to coloring his phonics page.

“But there’s a good ending to this story,” I said. “We should talk about that too.”

Even though I had mentally rehearsed this talk for weeks, I struggled to form the words that would make this amazing concept understandable to little children.

“You know how God created all the people on the earth? He created us with a body, but he also created us with a soul and it’s our soul that lives forever. So even though our bodies get old and become sick and we eventually die, our souls go to live with God in heaven. This is what Jesus taught us when he lived on earth, that people who believe in him will live forever. Your Nana believes in Jesus and she is going to go be with him in heaven pretty soon. She won’t be sick or sad or feel bad there. She won’t be lonely or unhappy. We will miss her, but she is going to be so happy in heaven.”

Erik stopped coloring and looked up at me. “So is Nana gonna be like a teenager again?”

Wow—where did that come from?

I drew a deep breath and chewed my bottom lip. He continued to watch me, his sweet face a sunrise of innocence and wonder.

“What do you mean, Erik?”

“I mean when you get to heaven you get to start over, right? So Nana will be like a teenager. She’ll get to run around and do stuff and have fun.”

I had never talked to the kids about death and heaven before. It was my turn to stare, open-mouthed and speechless.

“You know, that’s exactly what it is gonna be like Erik.”

“Well that’s a good thing then,” he said, and promptly began to crayon a blue sky along the top of his page.

I turned towards Emma. Her feet were tucked onto the seat of the chair and she hugged her shins, her chin resting on the space between her knees. “How are you feeling Emma,” I said, using my quiet voice, the one I used in the middle of the night when she wakened from a bad dream.

“I don’t know. Okay I guess.”

“You know you can talk to me about this any time. It’s a good idea to talk about how we feel ‘cause this is gonna to be a really hard time for all of us. But I know we’ll all be okay because we love each other and God is going to help us get through it.” I reached over and squeezed her arm. “I love you Emma.”

“I love you too Mom,” she said, dropping her eyes the floor.

“And I love you Erik,” I said, turning to face him.

“Yep. Check out this crazy cow I drew!” A knobby animal with blue spots and crooked eyes stared up at me from the page.

“Can we watch Disney?” Emma asked. “It’s time for Madeline.”

“Sure. But you guys are okay, right?” My ever-vigilant, hyper-responsible Mommy Persona needed to be sure.

“We’re good mom,” Emma said, uncurling from the chair.

“I’m gonna bash you with this crazy cow!” Erik chortled, hopping out of his chair and rocketing towards the living room, flapping his paper over his head.

The wisdom of children. It grounded me in the present. It helped me understand that the beauty of eternal life always begins with today.