Mama, my mama, you are my sunshine, and I love you forever

Tonight India and I are sleeping together in Nana's bed.

She doesn't know how she is going to live without her Nana. I don't know how I'm going to live without my mama.

This morning Betty was rushed to the ICU. Her body was in crisis, and they were working to stabilize her.

Yesterday, out of the blue, she had tremendous pain. She couldn't quite identify where. But so much pain. She had more pain today.

They were doing a pain medication dance, as narcotics lower blood pressure, and hers was crazy low. But ketamine wasn't doing it. They needed to add a narcotic.

She was agitated, in pain.

While we waited for more medication, I sang to her, though I sing for very few. 

I sang, "You Are My Sunshine," because it's a song she loves, and I knew it would soothe her. It's the song she sang to her mom the night she died. 

I sang it over and over, sometimes putting in lyrics about how much I loved her and would always love her.

Sometimes she sang some of the words, too. She loved that song, and she was comforted.

The surgeon offered an operation to see what was happening with her intestines. They suggested an angiogram to figure out a mysterious bleed in her leg, one that had caused massive blood loss. A nephrologist called to talk about emergency dialysis. We were looking at kidney and liver failure.

I said no, no operation. She wouldn't survive. My brother and I talked to the radiologist several times about whether the procedure on her leg could save her, or just buy her a little time.

We didn't want to put her through more trauma if it wasn't going to make a difference.

But in truth, her little broken body was shutting down, bit by bit. 

Her primary care doctor called during one of these conversations and she said, "What does your mom want?"

Today Betty wasn't talking much. She understood everything. But talking intelligibly was a strain.

So I asked her. I asked if she wanted this procedure, which would take an hour and a half, and was, they felt, the best chance to save her.

She gets to choose.

And she said no.

I said, "This most likely means goodbye. Not in a minute, but ultimately goodbye. Are you ready to say goodbye?"

And she said yes. She was done.

We told her very kind doctor, who stopped the two-person restriction for the room, and long-time family friends, with whom we'd been taking turns in the waiting room, came in.

The doctor took her off the machines, just leaving the ones that would keep her comfortable. They increased the pain medication, and authorized more as needed, so there wouldn't be a painful moment.

They said it could take a long time. More than a day. It was impossible to predict. We could stay as long as we liked. Visiting hours no longer mattered.

We all held her hand in turns, and told her loving things.

I kissed my mom's forehead, over and over. I told her how much I love her. What an absolute treasure she's been for my kids, for me. What a blessing it's been to have her with us all the time.

I called home, and India wanted to talk to Nana. I put her on the speaker next to my mom's ear. She said, "Nana, I love you so much. I love you with my whole heart."

That was my mom's last phone call.

We sang "You Are My Sunshine" again. My brother sang it, though he only knows half the words, it turns out.

And neither of us can carry a tune.

We kept talking to her, holding her hand, rubbing her feet.

She began to seem farther and farther away.

My brother and I were each holding one of her hands, and I was telling her loving things when she stopped breathing and her heart stopped beating.

It was fast, and it was peaceful.

She decided she was ready to let go, and she let go. She was small, but she was mighty.

Today, in 2009, is the day my dad left us. I don't believe this is a coincidence.

We stayed for the two hours they allow you to stay. In truth, it's good they give a time limit, because I'd have stayed the night. I couldn't bear the thought of leaving her alone.

I still can't bear the thought.

Another friend came. We took turns saying our goodbyes.

I kept holding her hand, kissing her, telling her I love her.

My brother took her glasses off her face, and this gutted me. Her glasses.

We took off the ear tags and the oxygen nose thing.

And we stayed as long as we could.

Then I said one final goodbye to her small body, knowing her soul had already floated free.

She left making the choice, surrounded by people who have loved her a long, long time.

I know she wasn't scared, she wasn't in pain, and she wasn't alone. My dad, her family, her dear, dear friends--all of them were waiting for her.

And now she's at peace. And we are devastated.

How do I live without my mama?