The Long Road Home

“Mom, listen. It’s our song!” Annie reached over to turn the radio up.

Mom and daughter sang in unison as they had done so many times before.

Saturday in the park I think it was the Fourth of July People dancing, people laughing A man selling ice cream Singing Italian songs

The warm evening air was blowing in from the open windows. The unusually mild temperature and the beautiful evening sky were too tempting for us. Mom and I took a drive up to Crescent Hill to watch the sunset at the last minute.

“One day, my darling daughter, you will be on the radio.”

She is so fragile and small in the bed. I am grateful she is resting. Life has been a struggle for both of us for the last couple of years. Mom’s mental state rapidly declined following the accident. Memories frozen in time for me do not even exist for her any longer. She did not even know who she was or me, her only daughter in recent years.

My life has become one of a caretaker. Every waking moment and often, my dreams involve her and her struggles. The day’s fading sun is casting light through the blinds, catching dust particles in its rays. The air is still, and a sterile smell permeates my nostrils. The only sound I hear is the rhythmic humming of machines monitoring vitals.

There is not a day that I do not relive those last moments before the accident.

Suddenly I can’t control the wheel. Oh God, the trees! Where’s the road? I can feel the car heaving and thrusting as branches and dirt hit the windshield.

The last thing I remember is the awful sound of breaking limbs in my ears as we plunge down the hill.

Nothing has been the same since. My mom never remembers the accident or anything else about the day, and she is quickly losing many other memories of her long, beautiful life, and I am to blame.

If only I had paid more attention. If only my mind was on the road and not on the song coming from the radio.

I haven’t listened to or sung to music since.

It was my negligence that brought us to this place and this day.

For a long time, I took care of mom at home. But in recent months, her health has declined severely, and her heart has begun failing.

We did everything together. Mom was my confidant and my go-to when life was hard. She was always there for me.

She was my best friend.

Now I sit beside her each day, holding her hands, bathing her, and talking to her. But she doesn’t answer. Occasionally, she will open her eyes and look around, bewildered, and then close them once again as if to say, “This is just too hard.”

My shoulders ache as each day I hunch over her bedside. My eyes are weary from staring at monitors, and my heart is full of what-ifs and what may have been if I had just paid more attention to the road that day.

I’ve prayed for healing, for miracles, for peace. Yet each day, we repeat the routine, and life around us goes on while I sit in room 212 at the end of the long-forgotten hallway.

I love my mom, and I do not know if I can ever forgive myself for the consequences of that night. My life is here, she needs me, and it is my fault her life ended on that day. Am I wrong to pray for peace, peace for her, peace for me?

As the setting sun gives way to the darkness of night, the air turns cooler in the room. It’s a quiet night, and the only sound is the tick, tick, tick of the wall clock as the minutes, then hours pass by.

Her organs are struggling to function. In recent weeks her meals have been reduced to IV fluids.

I will sit here with her every day for as long as there is breath in her body. She is my mother and has always given everything for me. I owe her everything I have to give.

“Annie, here’s a blanket for you.” As I open my eyes, I realize Mary, one of the night nurses, is wrapping a soft, comforting blanket around my shoulders. I did not even know I had fallen asleep. This was getting quite common as my body sought slumber against my will.

A little past midnight, I was finding this old chair particularly uncomfortable. I couldn’t seem to find a comfy position to rest. It was like this most nights as I sat beside Mom’s bed.

In the dimly lit room, I hear a soothing, familiar voice

“Sweetie, are you warmer now?”

Surely, I must still be sleeping. My eyes fixated on the bed in front of me. There, with eyes wide open, sat my mom looking at me with a questioning look on her face. Again, I heard the voice I distinctly recognized as my mom’s, “You look so tired, dear.” She said to me.

It was as though time was standing still, barely breathing; I shook my foggy head for a moment and reached over to turn on the table lamp. A soft yellow hue filled the room and cast a warm glow to my mom’s usually pale complexion.

My mom was speaking to me. She talked to me as though she knew me as her daughter and was taking care of me.

“Mom, do you recognize me?” The words tumbled from my lips without hesitation, and I briefly thought I must be imagining this. I must be dreaming. But as the sound came from my voice, a smile crossed her face as she looked longingly at me.

“My dear, Annie, of course, I recognize you. What mother doesn’t recognize her child? I know this has all been so difficult on you. So many times, I have wanted to speak to you, but the words and the heart would not connect with my brain.”

As my mother spoke, her pale green eyes glistened with tears. My own eyes, who many say look just like hers, also fill with tears as they quickly run down my face.

I struggle to find the words; I reach for her hand and am surprised at how warm and soft her skin is beneath my touch.

The years of pent-up guilt and anguish rise from my body as I sobbed, “I am so sorry, mom — hurt — you — I did not — mean to.” “I love you and never meant to hurt you!”

“Shhh…it’s ok. It was an accident. It was not your fault. You would have hit the other car if you hadn’t swerved.”

“Other car?” What did she mean? I started to pull back, to question what was happening when I remembered. There was another car! It had come around the curve so fast and had crossed lanes. There was no time to stop, and I grabbed the steering wheel and made a quick turn. That is when we tumbled over the hillside. I had completely blacked out all memory of the other car until now. It never stopped. No one else knew about it. It was not my fault all these years, all the guilt and self-loathing.

Suddenly my mind was wrenched back to the present day by the sound of mechanical alarms. My mom had slumped back in bed, the warm color of her skin earlier was now an ashen grey, and her body was going limp. The light in her eyes was fading as she looked at me. “I love you, my darling daughter.” “I always will.” The words crossed her lips as her eyelids began to close.

“No!” I screamed. This can’t be happening. “Mom, don’t go! I need you!” Her hands fell listless to her side; her face took on a calm but empty look as I knew she was going home.

As briefly as she had returned, she was gone again. Only this time, it was the end. The doctors believe she had a heart attack, and there was nothing they could do.

I know they didn’t believe me when I said she had been coherent and spoke to me. They just smiled and shook their heads.

My mom left this world but not before giving me a great gift. I had spent years filled with sorrow and pain at what damage I had caused. In her brief time with me at the end, she freed me from that guilt. She let me know she didn’t blame me. She loved me and always would. I may not be able to hold her hand, but I know in my heart she will always be with me. She gave me the peace I had prayed for so long.