Last Days of a Dying Sun
My Ma
This is a creative non-fiction piece that got published in this years Humboldt State University Toyon, a literary magazine. For those who never had the pleasure of meeting my Ma, she was a wonderful person who struggled much of her life with love and money, yet still never succumbed to the anguish both produce. She touched the hearts of every person she met with her eternal optimism and humor, even when she was given a six month life sentence in 2008 when the second wave of breast cancer emerged. She ended up scoffing that and lived for nine months before finally leaving this mortal world on Jan. 3, 2009. This story documents the last days before she died. This is for you Ma. Much love.
“Your mom’s not doing well,” my Aunt Sheri said over the phone. “You need to get out here.”
Merry Christmas. The news wasn’t a surprise. My Mother, Stephanie Jacobs, was given six months to live after being diagnosed with advanced breast cancer. That was nine months ago. I found myself back in New York several days later, faced with a reality that still caught me off-guard. I knew I wouldn’t leave that place the same person.
My arrival seemed to give my Mom a second wind. When I talked to my Aunt days prior, the picture appeared bleak. My Mom was in so much pain, had peed an almost amber-red urine, and was so dehydrated that the end seemed imminent. But within a day or two, she gathered her strength, ready to fight yet another bout with the cancer that had spread from her breast to her brain, bones, and lungs.
Even in her reinvigorated state, she looked atrocious – a skin-sunken skeletal figure that reminded me of the pictures I’ve seen of victims from the freshly nuked cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki during World War 2, irradiated and drained figures sapped of all their vitality. Despite this, her humor still showed as it always had.
“I thought my pillow was Buddy,” (her dog), she said, giggling. “Man, is that crazy or what?”
Being in that sterile white hospital room, the ambient sound from the television playing in the background, I couldn’t help but smile. Inside though, an anxiety grew.
“Oh, doesn’t that cake look delicious?” she asked, looking at one of those Food Network programs she enjoyed so much. “I think I’ll get some mashed potatoes with white gravy for dinner.”
“Didn’t you have that last night, and the night before?” I asked, glancing over to the nearly untouched tray of food stashed nearby.
“Yeah, but it’s the only thing I can eat that doesn’t upset my stomach. I also like the texture.”
Even after losing her ability to taste, my Mom still chose the food she would eat with careful precision, focusing on shape, texture, and, at times, the taste she remembered. Perhaps it was the cook in her, who couldn’t refuse to surrender such an entertaining and passionate activity. My focus stayed on her, mesmerized by her acceptance of what she faced, but then again, that was her style.
My Mom let out a quick, loud whelp as her eye twitched. She tried to rub her lower back. After letting out a frustrated sigh, she said, “The pain is unbearable at times.” She paused then continued, “Sometimes I just want it to all end. I’m not afraid to die. I’m ready.”
“I’m not afraid either,” I replied, though deep down I really was. “I don’t want you to suffer any longer.”
An uncomfortable air developed but not an unfamiliar one. We talked openly for months about her terminal state, discussing details like what kind of memorial service to have, or what kind of party to throw to celebrate her life, not mourn her death. It was the kind of bond we shared, one of complete honesty and openness. For her, I was one of the few people who understood the gravity of her condition.
She dozed off for a moment as she did at times, a by-product of all the pain killers coursing through her veins. For her, time existed in dosages and she made sure that the nurses never missed one. There was no comfortable living without the pain meds now. Not only did she depend on them, she also depended on the fluids pumped into her body to prevent infection. She no longer could create her own plasma. Her immune system gave up long before she did.
After a particular snooze spell, she awoke and stared off at an empty chair next to me, watching something invisible to my eyes.
“I can see your Grandmother,” she said in a sluggish tone. “She’s kind of blurry but she’s there, waiting for me.”
I looked at the empty chair and asked, “What else do you see?”
She paused for a moment, then replied, “Black dots, floating all over the place. They look like a swarm of gnats.”
“You think you’re hallucinating again?” I asked.
A sullen look formed on her face, a crack in her defenses surfaced as she answered, “I don’t know anymore.”
There was silence for a while after that. Then my Mom said, “If living with cancer has taught me anything, it’s that you have to live life to the fullest. Every day.” I nodded. “You never know when you won’t wake up, or if you end up getting hit by a bus, or something.”
Her fight with morality felt like my own, made me think about wasted time, about cultivating relationships with friends and family alike, about chasing my dreams through action, not words. It made me think about what I would regret not doing if I died. I wondered if I could even answer that question, because nothing came to mind, just a bunch of jumbled thoughts.
I nodded and replied, “I know. I try to live that way, but it’s hard.”
“I know,” she said. “You don’t realize how short life is until you’re given a time table for living it.”
The family stood at a crossroads, both paths bringing its own challenges and tragedies. We could continue radiation treatment in the hope that the tumors breaking her spine, causing most of her pain, would subside and move on from there, or we send her to hospice. The latter option meant my mom would die within days. At the same time, she wouldn’t feel any pain anymore, or be conscious for that matter. It was the nuclear option. But during one particular visit, that second wind seemingly brought about by my arrival dwindled. The reddish-colored urine returned, along with pain so excruciating it brought her to tears.
During that visit, my Uncle, Aunt, Grandpa, and cousins joined me. I can’t remember the conversation they had while I sat in front of my Mother’s bed, my head spinning and heart feeling pressure as if being squeezed like a stress ball. I never felt so sick, so stricken with a sense of loss. It was like floating in a void, feeling your breath being slowly sucked out of you, paralyzed by the gravity or lack thereof.
This is it, I thought. It’s coming to an end. I felt Death inside that hospital room, waiting in a corner somewhere, biding his time. He’ll do it when everyone leaves, make us sweat out the night in bed-turning anticipation wondering if that phone will ring, bringing with it that long-feared news. Yeah, that’s how Death rolled. I’ve seen it before.
As we left that night, I kissed my Mom on her forehead and held her hand. When I tried to let go, she grasped it tighter. I looked into her wide eyes. I felt what she wanted to say, as if she sent it telepathically. She smiled as our hands clasped. It felt as if we said goodbye in our strong stare.
The hospital visit had us all on edge. My Aunt and I talked long into the night.
“I don’t think she’ll make it through the night,” my Aunt said, sipping her tea in the kitchen.
“If she isn’t better tomorrow, we need to put her in hospice,” I said. “I can’t stand seeing her in pain.”
“I don’t think we’ll have to make that choice,” my Aunt said, almost hopefully. “I think God will make it for us.”
God, or whatever force guides the universe, did make that choice the next morning. I got the call early.
“Get to the hospital,” my Grandpa said. “She’s got hours at most.”
By the time we arrived at the hospital, my Mom’s breathing was labored. Hose attached to nose, mouth hung open, she slept deeply in a drug-induced coma. To see my Mother laying there on the precipice of death, to wait for that critical climax when life ceased inside her broken shell of a body, made me feel helpless. It was all so surreal. Surrounded by family, I counted the intervals between breaths, the only indicator I had of how close she was to dying. It wasn’t like television shows where doctors and loved ones watched the bouncing electronic line of the heart monitor, waiting for it to flat line. It was far more torturous than that. I didn’t know what to do, or say, in those final moments.
Eventually, a justice of the peace entered the room and gave my Mom’s last rites. As my family followed along in prayer, I couldn’t help but be silent as if her passing would also be, to a degree, the death of me. After the rites, I sat beside her. She clutched onto a metal pendant in the shape of an angel, along with a cross. I grabbed her hand and shut my eyes. Her pulse was weak and her skin cold. It felt like she was waiting for something.
Let go, I thought hard, trying to send her the message mentally. Let go. You’ve fought hard enough. Now it’s time to rest. I love you.
Tears rolled down my cheeks. It was in that moment I felt her soul evacuate her body, like a sink full of water swirling around the drain, emptying fast. I sniffed and cried, “It’s happening. I can feel it.”
My eyes still closed, I clutched even tighter and listened to her pulse as it faded. I felt a great build up of energy inside her, then an explosion, and finally nothing. I don’t know how long I sat there holding her hand. The world around me ceased to exist in that moment. When I opened my eyes, she wasn’t breathing, a tear drop frozen in the corner of her eye. I looked at her, what shell remained, and I couldn’t recognize it as my Mother. No, she was gone.
I couldn’t bear being in that terrible collective release of sorrow, when everyone breaks down, says they’re “sorry for your loss.” No. Tears flowing, I ran outside into the cold morning, where pockets of snow still lay fresh on the ground. I walked a lap around the hospital, let the sun beat down on my face. The world looked crisper as if I saw it though a high-definition lens. I watched as families entered and exited the hospital. With my eyes wet and red, I wondered if they could look at my face and know what had happened. I wondered if we ever did when we look at others plunged into the same pit of loss. People die every day, but when it hits home, it hits hard.
I couldn’t help but look upward while thinking about how she was at peace now, free from pain – wherever she was. If there was one place she was for sure, it was inside me. I foresaw the months to follow, a gauntlet of grieving, heartbreak, coming to terms with such a tremendous loss. Now was not the time to grieve though, not for me. I knew I had to be strong, like my Mother was, not for myself but for my family. I took a deep breath and walked back inside, no longer feeling like her son, but more like a living, breathing monument to her ability to create and mold life. A reflection of her.
A Deer's Corpse
Originally published in the Humboldt State Toyon 2007. This is the version sent to the publication. Couldn’t find electronic version of final draft that was published.
I wandered down the wooded trail connecting my house with the parking lot below. There, I expected to meet up with my friend Serena, who called me five minutes earlier saying she was coming over. After waiting and wondering what the hold up was, I decided to investigate. What I found was Serena hovered over the body of a fawn lying on its side. She looked worried, almost sad, as she meditated on the animal.
I joined her by the fawn’s side and gazed down at the body. The chest was not moving but I swear I noticed the leaves by its mouth rustle briefly, as if the last remnants of air flowed freely from its lungs. Serena touched its chest lightly, observantly.
“I don’t feel anything,” she said. “I think its dead.”
There was no stink, no defecation, no noticeable wounds, just a dead fawn. I rubbed its chest, noticing that the body had not stiffened up yet. It was strange, seeing a dead animal. I’ve seen roadkill on the side of the road, torn to shreds by racing cars uncaring or unsuspecting of the animal. Not this though, not an animal in the forest seemingly unharmed by exterior forces, and so young.
“What do you think happened?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” replied Serena. “I startled the mother as I came up the path, and she ran off deeper into the woods. So sad, it looks like she just died.”
I wasn’t sure if it was a male or female, but I guess we personalize our experiences, and Serena thought the fawn female. She appeared peaceful, as if she just plopped on the ground and went right there and then. I remember the eyes the most, rather one eye, black and void, peering upward toward the sky. I hoped the animal didn’t suffer, went quickly and as painlessly as possible.
“What should I do with the body?” I asked. Like I said, I never dealt directly with a dead animal before.
“Don’t know,” she said, “suppose you could call the county, or maybe the university can use it for experimentation. Either way, you don’t want to let it rot here and stink up the place. Besides, she could have died of disease.”
There was a strange black spot near the mouth of the fawn, but maybe it was just a color spot. Part of me just wanted to let it lie in peace, untouched by my hands. A part of me wanted to allow other animals, insects, bacteria, to feast on the remains, to support their communities of life. That’s what would have happened had the deer died two-hundred feet further in the forest, where human eyes would not have seen it but maybe smelt it.
“I’ll make phone calls right away,” I said, trying to comfort Serena. She seemed disturbed by the scene, but she was very empathetic. She smiled and continued to meditate on the fawn as if whispering a prayer. I decided to leave her be and returned to the house.
By the time I returned home it was too late to make phone calls. I did try out the university’s biological sciences department, and got a voice mail.
After the beep, I said, “Yeah, my name is John Osborn, and I found this dead young deer on the path to my house that didn’t look like it died of a gunshot wound or anything. Maybe it’s diseased. You want it for scientific experimentation, or something, call me.”
They never called back.
The day passed on, then the night, and I wondered what was happening to the fawn. I wondered what creatures discovered this edible prize waiting for them as they made their travels through the brush. I wondered what state the fawn was in after night became dawn. Would she be decomposing, eaten, form broken by ravaging beasts, buzzing flies, or scavenging yellow jackets. I wasn’t sure, but I would find out soon enough.
It was the afternoon by the time I returned home from work. The only thing on my mind was to make phone calls and get the fawn situation taken care of. Although a part of me just wanted to leave her there, thought it was right to leave her there, another part of me was hesitant, as if I would be doing an injustice to others who lived in the area if I did nothing at all. Shatter illusion, the illusion of civility, of dominance over nature.
You really understand this when you call up county agencies to get this corpse removed and all you get is the run around. Nobody wants to take responsibility, not unless it risks shattering the illusion.
I first called the city’s police department, talked to the officer in charge of animal control.
“Yeah, got this deer that died on a path between my house and an apartment complex,” I said. “Can you take care of it?”
“No,” the woman said, “but you should call the Department of Fish and Game, they can help out. Here’s the number.”
“Thanks.”
Click.
She gave me the number for the place and I called. I sensed this was going to be hard from the moment she gave me another number. I took a breath and dialed the number she gave me. Meanwhile, my roommate Maia sat at the kitchen table giggling and brainstormed with my friend Josh as to how to dispose of the corpse.
“They directed me to Fish and Game,” I said to them.
“They take care of deer corpses?” Josh asked.
“Guess so.” The phone searched for connection, that ominous hum that lasts only a second, then a pause, a second, then a pause, then connection.
“Department of Fish and Game,” a woman said routinely.
“Hi, so this deer died on a path that connects my house to the apartment complex below. The deer doesn’t have any wounds, but it is young and maybe diseased. Can you take care of it?”
“The deer didn’t have any wounds you say,” she replied.
“No, I think it was internal, or something.”
A pause, then, “Well, I’m sorry, but we only take care of animals when there is a possibility of poaching. If there are no signs of mutilation or exterior wounds, then you have to call up the Transportation Department.”
I almost wanted to laugh, but I was too stupefied to. I mean, you’re kidding me right.
“Well, sure give me the number, I’ll try them out.”
She gave me the number, and I clicked off the phone. All I had to do was give my friends a stare and they knew what was up.
“What’s the reason?” Maia asked.
“They only deal with poaching, but I got a number at least to another agency.”
“Zero for two, man,” Josh said. “We should start thinking of alternatives.”
He was right, but I wanted to make sure first. So, I called the Transportation Department, whether it was the county or state I had no idea.
I dial the number. Same hum. Same click, pop, then connection. A man answers the line on the other side. I regurgitate the story to him, same as the others.
“Did the deer die on a county road?” he asked.
“No, it’s dead on my trail,” I replied.
“Is your trail a county road?”
I paused for a moment, making sure I heard what he actually asked. I was pretty sure he asked if the trail was a county road. If he did, then this guy is either an idiot or he was playing with me.
“No, my trail is not a county road,” I replied sarcastically.
“Well then, there’s nothing I can do for you,” he said apathetically. “We only take care of dead animals on the road since they can be a hazard.”
Frustrated, I asked, “Well who do I call to take care of this then.”
He retorted, “If we focused our attention on attending to every call pertaining to dead animals, then we would have no time or money to maintain the roads.”
I chuckled, “So, you got any suggestions as to what I can do. I mean, isn’t this corpse a health risk?”
“Call the Department of Health then,” the man sounded as if he were growing irritated with the conversation, “other than that I don’t know what to do?”
“Should I bury it?”
“No?”
“Should I just leave it there?”
“Definitely not?”
“Should I burn it? I have a fire pit?”
The man started laughing. Not one of those funny, ha-ha laughs, but one of those, ‘Are you fricking out of your mind’ laughs. I chuckled, but inside I grew irate at this entire situation. My friends laughed at the table. I gave them a cold stare.
“Seriously though, call up a farm or something. They should know how to dispose of animals. Other than that, you could call the Health Department, but tell them we sent you.”
“That’s all you got for me man?” I tried to lighten the situation.
“There’s no agency to take care of dead animals. Besides, there’s not much money in the agencies that exist to do much of anything.”
Here I am trying to resolve this situation with the fawn and the man is laying his budget woes on me. I shook my head, thanked the guy, got another number, and hung up the phone. I looked over at Josh, who was smirking.
“Zero for three,” he said.
I mumbled some obscenity and got back on the phone.
Moments later, a woman answers, “Department of Health.”
Same spiel, same story recounted every other time.
“Well, I would call the Transportation—”
“Already did, they sent me to you.”
She laughed, “I think everyone gets sent to us in the end. Nobody wants to take any responsibility.”
“I know,” I smiled, “I’m almost tempted to drag the fawn into the street so they can pick it up.”
She laughed again, “That’s what I would do. It’s so ridiculous that they don’t have anything set up to take care of these things. Make people rely on doing it themselves.”
“Can I just leave it there? Is it a health risk?”
“Not from the fawn, but the flies it attracts and the smell are a health risk. It’s more a matter of inconvenience. I could give you the number to the Environmental Health division…”
I shuddered at the thought of another phone call, “No thanks. I’ll deal with it.”
“Sorry I couldn’t help.”
I took a breath, placed the phone on the receiver. My friends, meanwhile, were discussing what course of action to take next, since they could tell the county was not going to do anything.
“We could burn the body. If it’s diseased that would take care of that,” Josh said.
Maia shook her head, “Hell no! My room is closest to the fire pit. Besides, it will stink up the house and ruin the pit. Have you ever smelt a burning animal?”
Josh and I shook our heads.
“Well, it’s not a pleasant smell, believe me.”
We all scratched our heads for a moment, then I said, “The lady on the phone said we could always drag it up to the road, so the county can take care of it.”
Josh giggled, “Man, you don’t want to get caught doing that. Besides, its daylight out, and it’s hard to miss two people dragging a deer’s corpse to the road.”
“What do you mean two people?” I eyed Josh suspiciously.
“Hey man, I don’t live here. Besides, I get squeamish looking at rotting corpses and what not.”
“Fine!” Maia said, as if the entire situation seemed overly ridiculous, “Me and John will take care of it.”
I thought for a moment. It didn’t feel it right to just dispose of the body in a landfill somewhere, or a rending plant for that matter. It seemed both natural and right to allow the fawn to be deconstructed by other living creatures desiring sustenance. At the same time, I really don’t like the rotting smell that comes with that deconstruction.
“What if we drag it deeper into the woods, off trail? That way, it can just decompose naturally and we won’t have to smell it too much. I mean, if the fawn died a hundred feet of trail, we wouldn’t even have noticed it until the smell came,” I said.
We thought about for a moment and concluded it was the best course of action. Eagerly, Maia and I psyched ourselves up for the mission. I grabbed two rubber gloves from the cupboard, giving one to Maia. She grabbed an old blanket to use for the transfer. We were set.
We walked down the path until we came to the fawn. Many flies already began to pick slowly at the body. There was no smell yet, but I wrapped a bandana around my mouth and nose just in case. Maia laid the blanket flat on the ground, while I scanned the area for a good site. The brush was thicker than I thought, and no opportune place existed anywhere near the body. I walked down the trail further and noticed an opening in the woods where we could carry the fawn of trail.
“Found a place down here Maia,” I said in a muffled voice.
“OK, let’s do this then,” she said energetically, as if this entire episode excited her.
I put one of the rubber gloves on my hand and hovered over the fawn. Her face was still, just as it was the day before. Strangely, a twinkle glistened in her eye, though the darkness beyond seemed to have grown deeper, as if the soul completely evacuated ship. She was an empty shell now, just matter.
“So silent and still. So strange to deal with death,” I said. Maia nodded slowly. After a moment, we continued.
We each took a side of the blanket and tossed it over the fawn. The body was stiff, as if frozen solid as we tried to lift her up to wrap the blanket around. She was surprisingly heavy for her looks, and as we moved the body, a wave of noxious scents escaped as if trapped underneath the body, the smell of death and defecation.
The flies went crazy as we finished wrapping the body. A few still on the fawn bounced the blanket up and down in scattered spots as if feasting still, or trying to escape what was to come. Either didn’t surprise me.
We each took one side and carefully lifted the fawn. We cut through the woods awkwardly, trying not to rip the blanket or get it caught on a branch. Finally, when we were about a hundred or so feet into the woods, away from the trail and street, we tossed the fawn into the brush. Maia quickly left the area, but I stayed behind for a moment.
I stood silently as the wind brushed the leaves lightly. Sunbeams penetrated the green canopy above. All was calm, I could feel it. For the first time ever, I wanted to say a prayer, anything, that may give sacredness to this event. I wanted to whisper kind words to her, to give her safe journeys wherever they lead. Nothing came to mind though, nothing but silent reflection.
It was my prayer to the fawn, the only one I could give, one of silence, one of sweet return to the elements from which all life came. I couldn’t deny her that. I couldn’t doom her flesh to a trash pile, to a factory to be made into cat food. Sure, it’s all recycling, but here in this moment and place, there are many mouths to feed, many plants and animals that need nourishment.
Maia had stopped a little ways ahead when she noticed me not following. She gave me a moment and then said, “The blackberries will grow strong there.”
I smiled and nodded as I turned away and walked back to the house.