Death, Grief, and Memory

My mom died two years ago; Sunday is the anniversary of her death. Time doesn’t heal all, and you can’t numb grief. Instead, I’ve been diving in and out of memory, waiting for the day to arrive. No, I’m not afraid of drowning; I welcome it.

My mom had a brain bleed in the summer of 2008. She was in a coma for two weeks, and we didn’t know if/when she would wake up.

I was 18 and refused to leave her side. One day, one of the neurosurgeons that had operated on her came to talk to me and my dad in the ICU. She told us they didn’t know when she’d wake up or her overall condition if she did. Me and my dad didn’t have to say anything; the news destroyed our hope.

We stayed at the hospital late that night, and when my dad said we should go, I refused. I was stubborn; I wanted to be there just in case.

I felt something caress my cheek, and a hand tug at my braid. My mom’s eyes were closed, but I knew she was looking at me. She stroked my face some more while I broke down and told her how much I loved her. She nodded, pointed at the door, and went back to sleep.

We left and my dad was determined to find the neurosurgeon to tell her what had just happened; my mom would be okay. We didn’t find her, but it didn’t matter because my mom eventually woke up. Even in a coma, she fought to come back to me and my sisters, and she did.

I miss her so much.

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