We’re Good People

Though it's tied for second as the worst moment of my life, my mother's last breath is the memory I would unflinchingly uncork and drain. Were that memory not there, the choice would be impossible. The triumphant smile on my daughter's face when she realized the word "daddy"meant me, the surprised joy in her mother's eyes when I proposed to her on the beach, holidays, vacations, all of the moments that constitute what we call a good life; it would be a true paradox of choice.

And that life is all my mother wanted for my brothers and me.

Her life was guided by that desire at the relegation of all else. Her North Star was raising her children to be the kind of people that a life like that would naturally find; kind, honest, courageous in discovering the world, strong through hardship, and committed to the bonds of friendship and family. And that was how she lived. There was more tragedy than many experience, but we lived a life of laughter, of throngs of close friends and family always nearby, of adventures, of encouragement. A life of love around the kitchen table.

But at the relatively young age of 65, broke, having buried her youngest son, and dying in a house she didn't even own, my mother suffered in confusion, turning her head back and forth in anxiety, moaning in pain. Cancer, having spread from her lungs to the lining on her brain, caused a deep dementia. Sometimes comically endearing but often terrifying, her understanding of where she was and whom she was with was wildly out of place.

I had missed much of her illness. Another harrowing situation in my life, which would cumulate into the aforementioned tie for second, was developing quickly. But my mother, wholly in character, had understood and assured me during her decline that I had been doing enough. I'm grateful for my brother. He had been our savior.

And so there we both sat, at her side, my brother and I. My father, watching as nearly a half century of an indescribably deep bond slipped away, had fallen asleep, utterly exhausted by the day's emotional toil.

What could I say? At almost forty, I had so much to thank her for, so much to remember. The life lessons, the support, the opportunities, the wisdom in those moments as a youth when I thought the world was ending. There was more than I could even say in another forty years. And would she even be able to understand my words?

As her death rattle intensified, the truth in my heart became unmistakable. There was only one thing she wanted to know.

I leaned into her ear and said "We're good people, Mom. You made us this way. We'll always be good people."

And in a moment that could be described as nothing less than miraculous, she looked at me with a clarity not seen in weeks and nodded, with a smile weighed by palsy. And within a few moments, she breathed her last.

I felt I had been a good son in that moment. But I had also made a promise. "Always."

My life is no longer the good life I described earlier. Life's ordeals didn't end with the acceptance of my mother's loss. There are always new catastrophes around every corner. And now I struggle to be the man I promised. And I fail. A lot.

But Mom taught us it won't be this way forever. I can't be embittered or nihilistic. While the other bottles on the shelf might be full of the libations that would bring me a smile, right now I need strong medicine. And man, would I love to see her one more time.