By James Colgan
You know the names of the board of trustees from the plaque in the lobby.
You know what the cafeteria serves on Tuesday nights, and which vending machines have the best treats, and you always remember to bring small change with you for those late night hankerings or just because you need to stretch your legs or just because you need a break.
You know where the lab and the pharmacy are.
You know all the nurses’ names, and maybe their children’s, and maybe their
parents’ too; after all, it’s a small town.
You know how quiet it gets after ten o’clock at night.
You know that this small, frail person in the hospital bed is your mother
and you remember her from better times.
You know that the doctors have said there’s nothing more that they can do
and you should take her home and let nature take its course.
You don’t know how you’re going to do that.
You don’t know how long it will last if you do.
You don’t know how you feel about that.
You don’t know how the once bird-like woman, always busy, always moving,
always chirping, always fastidious of her appearance, came to be this fragile, motionless being in a shapeless hospital gown with a colostomy bag, Foley catheter, IVs, and a feeding tube, her white hair sticking out in every direction,
dripping drool from a corner of her mouth.
You don’t know how this tough woman who survived an abusive husband,
who survived birthing five children and raising them all alone who themselves in turn flourished and survived, and who survived two different types of cancer can be reduced to this poor, pathetic creature by a simple malfunction of her arteries.
You don’t know whether it’s more selfish to ask God to take her
or to deliver her back to you.
You don’t know if you can ask God to please make up His mind.
You don’t know if He’ll listen.
You don’t know.
You don’t.