Friday, May 1, is the 7th anniversary of my mother's death. To appreciate this story you must understand the following:
1. My mother, while generally extremely classy, knew her way around a curse word.
2. My mother did not like to be nagged.
3. My mother's cancer had metastasized to her brain, so her filter was not in full working order.
When my mother was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer and given 2 to 6 months to live I dropped everything to be with her day and night. She did not want any treatment, but a radiologist talked us into some radiation on her brain which I am certain hastened her decline; I really wish we had not allowed ourselves to be swayed. Still, nobody could have predicted how quickly she would fail.
Once it became apparent that she was in a rapid downward spiral I put out an all-points bulletin to her friends to come say good-bye. One friend, Gale, had to fly in from Massachusetts. She was due to arrive on Tuesday.
On Monday, as my mother drifted in and out, and I brushed her hair as she absent-mindedly smoked cigarettes I reminded her throughout the day that Gale was due to arrive the next afternoon. I didn't know if she was retaining what I said, so any time she seemed alert I reiterated that Gale was coming.
Around 7 p.m. my sister, Grownup Girl and I helped my mother shuffle down the hallway and into her bedroom. We pulled back the covers and lowered her into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. I knelt in front of her and removed her slippers in anticipation of lifting her legs onto the bed and tucking her in.
Me: Mom? Remember, Gale will be here tomorrow.
Mom (Sitting upright and looking directly at me): If you say that to me one more time, you bitch!
That was the last sentence my mother spoke. Gale came and we spent the day around my mother's bed, along with several other friends, telling stories and laughing. I'm sure she heard us. On Wednesday evening my mother died, 3 weeks after her diagnosis.