Please Talk about Me When I'm Gone

Mothers and Sons (Truth)

(2001)

The room was dim and cool, a shadowy contrast to the searing humidity outside.

Her son had left his car running while he took her upstairs. In the elevator she noticed he'd sweated through his shirt and she felt guilty, once again. He had to get back to work, having left to drive her here, like he'd done so many times this summer, like her husband had done and her daughter as well. Thank God he worked close by; thank God he lived close by. Thank God both her children were close and involved; there was no chance she could get through this without them, no chance her husband could bear this burden by himself. She knew, even as difficult as everything had become, that she was fortunate.

She thought about her mother and how quickly everything had happened. They hadn't caught it in time; less than four months from diagnosis to death. Something else to feel fortunate about-at least they caught this the first time, then the second, and again. At least this gives you a chance, at least you can hold on to hope. She had kept her capacity for hope alive when her mother got sick. And then she saw her. Living in another state (something she couldn't help; something she'd never been able to fully reconcile), she'd heard the updates and listened to her mother's voice on the phone. It wasn't until she saw her that she knew. Worse, her mother knew she knew, and then she knew. It was summer then, as well-stifling, unforgivable. Those handful of months measured by hope, expectation, and finally acceptance. It was over so quickly nobody had time to make adjustments or contemplate alternatives. For her, it was a summer of silence. She had nobody who could comfort her (that was what her mother did) and nobody to whom she could talk. She talked to God but it was a one-way conversation. Still, she prayed, she hoped, and she tried not to believe the things she saw when she was alone and it was silent.

She sensed she was being watched.

She looked over and the woman was indeed scrutinizing her, an elderly woman who'd been sitting alone when she'd arrived. She started to look back at her magazine and felt guilty, again. She could feel those eyes measuring her, craving reciprocation.

"Hi," she said, smiling.

"Hello," the woman responded, a bit startled, maybe unaware that she'd been staring.

She smiled and looked back at her magazine.

"Hot out there, isn't it?" the woman said.

"I'm sorry?"

"I said it sure is hot out there, isn't it?"

"Oh, yes. Very hot."

"Hot as blazes," the woman said.

"On our way over the car said it was ninety-five, and that's without the humidity!"

"Was that your son who was here before?"

"Yes, he and my daughter help my husband get me to my appointments."

"My husband passed away two years ago," the woman said.

She went on to say several more things. After a while, she asked a question that didn't require a response because both of them understood she already knew the answer. It sounded like a question but it was actually a statement, a reminder for anyone who would listen. It was the simple truth the woman confronted every day that she needed to share with someone, to make sure someone else knew. She was still alive-and she was alone.