After being gravely ill for several months, my mother was in the hospital in what the doctor called a “terminal coma.” Her once-lovely face was sunken and gray, her hands motionless. I sat by her bed awhile but because she was completely unresponsive, I stopped visiting.
Several days later, she died alone. I felt sorry that no one had been with her but after all, I thought, she was in a coma. She wouldn’t have known I was there. And I was a young mother at home with a toddler, trying to juggle responsibilities.
Many years later, I learned that people in a coma are aware of others, can hear their voices. Why had no one at the hospital told me this? Perhaps it was unknown at the time. Perhaps I should have been wise enough, kind enough to sit with my mother anyway.
We were not close but both of us had tried to reach out. I never anticipated she would die at sixty-one—long before we were able to resolve our differences. Now, my loss was multiplied by the knowledge that I had abandoned her at the end.
Could she forgive me? I wondered. Probably she already had.