My Mother was dying and I went shopping. What was I thinking? She had given me money and I went out; went shopping to but myself a new pair of shoes and meet Jessie, and she was lying in bed. She could hardly move. When I finally got home, Mum was so weak, she could barely stand up. She’d been gagging and heaving and I hadn’t been there. Dad took her to that nightmare doctor, Dr. Luskin and Mum was placed into the hospital. I cried because I was so relieved that she was going to the hospital. I couldn’t stand to listen to her sick noises; to her suffering. She never came home.
Dad never said anything to me. But I know that he thought I should have stayed at home with her. All I can think about is how I should have stayed home that afternoon, and all those afternoons, not gone to netball practice, not left her to that visiting nurse who came an hour a day three times a week, who took her blood pressure and temperature. And that physical therapist who made her stand and attempt to lift her leg. The woman was almost dead and they were making her do exercises. I should have protected her. I should have been there in the hospital with her when she died. But no, I was at home, asleep. Dad was there with her. He said it was ok that she had died peacefully. But how could it be peaceful to die? I had to throw the shoes away; I couldn’t keep them, not after what had happened.
