In the back seat of their car, I asked whether Dad had taken any pain pills before his death. His brother, Uncle Merlin, did not like to see my father suffering with back pain and often gave him prescription narcotics. My greatest fear was that my uncle might have accidentally overdosed Dad. Another member of the family expressed the same concerned, while my aunt repeated, “We just don’t know.” Then, I was admonished with: “Don’t mention a thing about this to your mother. That’s all she needs right now.”
I meekly retorted, “I wasn’t going to,” wondering how inconsiderate these folks must think I am.
Aunt Eva’s husband counseled, “Don’t mention this to any of the hospital staff, either. They’re trying to decide whether or not to perform an autopsy.”
“Holy shit!” my mind postulated. “Daddy’s gone. My relationship with Mom is distant, at best, and I’m probably the last person she would like to have comforting her. Now, there’s a possibility that Uncle Merlin might be charged with manslaughter. What the hell is going on?”
We finally drove into the parking lot, just outside of the trauma unit, and stepped out of the vehicle. I followed everyone into a small waiting room, where Mom was frozen into a sitting position against one wall of the lobby. She was staring blankly ahead, expressionless. Bending down, I put my arms around her shoulders and attempted to console her, “I’m so sorry, Mom.” Her body was rigid, and there was no response to the hug.
Squatting down, face-to-face with my mother, I perceived, “You haven’t accepted this yet, have you?” (How could she accept it? This wasn’t my husband of over thirty-five years, and I still wasn’t able swallow what was going on!)
Perplexed, she remarked, “No. It feels like I’m having a very bad dream - a nightmare. It doesn’t seem real.”
I meekly retorted, “I wasn’t going to,” wondering how inconsiderate these folks must think I am.
Aunt Eva’s husband counseled, “Don’t mention this to any of the hospital staff, either. They’re trying to decide whether or not to perform an autopsy.”
“Holy shit!” my mind postulated. “Daddy’s gone. My relationship with Mom is distant, at best, and I’m probably the last person she would like to have comforting her. Now, there’s a possibility that Uncle Merlin might be charged with manslaughter. What the hell is going on?”
We finally drove into the parking lot, just outside of the trauma unit, and stepped out of the vehicle. I followed everyone into a small waiting room, where Mom was frozen into a sitting position against one wall of the lobby. She was staring blankly ahead, expressionless. Bending down, I put my arms around her shoulders and attempted to console her, “I’m so sorry, Mom.” Her body was rigid, and there was no response to the hug.
Squatting down, face-to-face with my mother, I perceived, “You haven’t accepted this yet, have you?” (How could she accept it? This wasn’t my husband of over thirty-five years, and I still wasn’t able swallow what was going on!)
Perplexed, she remarked, “No. It feels like I’m having a very bad dream - a nightmare. It doesn’t seem real.”
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