Wednesday January 18, 2006 11am
I sit here beside my mother's hospital bed in the ICU listening to the sounds of the fourth floor. A beep or a tone here and there, people walking past the curtain, that thin wall made out of cloth that separates us from the outside. Outside of this room life is going on, without pause. Inside this room I sit next to this remarkable, courageous woman I have known for 27 years. Her body is battered from the cancer; she's weak from the fight she has tried to win for two years. Once she was young and vibrant and had a million years of life left in her. That was when she fed me, held me, and nurtured me. She turned this motherless child into an adult who will sit here in silence, grieving for her, setting aside all of my compassion in a special place just for her. I wonder how I am supposed to behave. What would she want me to do? I wonder if she realizes what she's leaving behind. I wonder if she can sense my fear. I can see that the time for her is short - my time with her has been too short. I should be 60 when she dies. I'm not ready to cry alone - she never left me alone. I haven't earned my wings to fly solo yet. Will she know when she gets There everything she has left me with? Will her teachings of the past 27 years be enough for me? Will she put her invisible hand in mine and guide me along? Will she know that her love will carry me through this life? My voice catches when I try to tell her these things. I feel like my words are a goodbye speech. It's not as if I'm sending her off on a short vacation to an exotic island. Or am I? Will her Heaven be bright with flowers, blue sky and cotton candy clouds? Will there be music? Sometimes fast and sometimes slow and mellow. Will she be young, her blue eyes shining as she rides a horse on a white sandy beach? I know that she'd tell me she's going Home. She'd tell me she'll always be near, in the wind, in the moon, in that single ray of sunshine. She'll be that butterfly in the spring, that perfect snowflake I catch on my glove in the winter. She'll be every beautiful sight, smell, taste. But does she know this? I want her to wake up so I can tell her. I want her to understand how I feel before she leaves. I need her to calm my fears. Now I realize that I sit here as a woman but still a child inside; I've always been that child to her. I know this when through her confusion she says, "Come here and let me hold you." I let her hold me. She weakened it seems as she put her frail arms around me. I could hear her smell my hair. She said I smelled pretty, like flowers. And she went away again. I don't know where she goes; I just hope it's happy. Today I know she's being called to go Home. I know she's ready. She's ready to walk again, laugh again, eat chocolate again and have her Pepsi in the morning. Without suffering, without pain. Yes, I know she's ready, just as I'm still trying to be.
- Ami Ashley
I sit here beside my mother's hospital bed in the ICU listening to the sounds of the fourth floor. A beep or a tone here and there, people walking past the curtain, that thin wall made out of cloth that separates us from the outside. Outside of this room life is going on, without pause. Inside this room I sit next to this remarkable, courageous woman I have known for 27 years. Her body is battered from the cancer; she's weak from the fight she has tried to win for two years. Once she was young and vibrant and had a million years of life left in her. That was when she fed me, held me, and nurtured me. She turned this motherless child into an adult who will sit here in silence, grieving for her, setting aside all of my compassion in a special place just for her. I wonder how I am supposed to behave. What would she want me to do? I wonder if she realizes what she's leaving behind. I wonder if she can sense my fear. I can see that the time for her is short - my time with her has been too short. I should be 60 when she dies. I'm not ready to cry alone - she never left me alone. I haven't earned my wings to fly solo yet. Will she know when she gets There everything she has left me with? Will her teachings of the past 27 years be enough for me? Will she put her invisible hand in mine and guide me along? Will she know that her love will carry me through this life? My voice catches when I try to tell her these things. I feel like my words are a goodbye speech. It's not as if I'm sending her off on a short vacation to an exotic island. Or am I? Will her Heaven be bright with flowers, blue sky and cotton candy clouds? Will there be music? Sometimes fast and sometimes slow and mellow. Will she be young, her blue eyes shining as she rides a horse on a white sandy beach? I know that she'd tell me she's going Home. She'd tell me she'll always be near, in the wind, in the moon, in that single ray of sunshine. She'll be that butterfly in the spring, that perfect snowflake I catch on my glove in the winter. She'll be every beautiful sight, smell, taste. But does she know this? I want her to wake up so I can tell her. I want her to understand how I feel before she leaves. I need her to calm my fears. Now I realize that I sit here as a woman but still a child inside; I've always been that child to her. I know this when through her confusion she says, "Come here and let me hold you." I let her hold me. She weakened it seems as she put her frail arms around me. I could hear her smell my hair. She said I smelled pretty, like flowers. And she went away again. I don't know where she goes; I just hope it's happy. Today I know she's being called to go Home. I know she's ready. She's ready to walk again, laugh again, eat chocolate again and have her Pepsi in the morning. Without suffering, without pain. Yes, I know she's ready, just as I'm still trying to be.
- Ami Ashley
Wednesday January 18, 2006 11am
I sit here beside my mother's hospital bed in the ICU listening to the sounds of the fourth floor. A beep or a tone here and there, people walking past the curtain, that thin wall made out of cloth that separates us from the outside. Outside of this room life is going on, without pause. Inside this room I sit next to this remarkable, courageous woman I have known for 27 years. Her body is battered from the cancer; she's weak from the fight she has tried to win for two years. Once she was young and vibrant and had a million years of life left in her. That was when she fed me, held me, and nurtured me. She turned this motherless child into an adult who will sit here in silence, grieving for her, setting aside all of my compassion in a special place just for her. I wonder how I am supposed to behave. What would she want me to do? I wonder if she realizes what she's leaving behind. I wonder if she can sense my fear. I can see that the time for her is short - my time with her has been too short. I should be 60 when she dies. I'm not ready to cry alone - she never left me alone. I haven't earned my wings to fly solo yet. Will she know when she gets There everything she has left me with? Will her teachings of the past 27 years be enough for me? Will she put her invisible hand in mine and guide me along? Will she know that her love will carry me through this life? My voice catches when I try to tell her these things. I feel like my words are a goodbye speech. It's not as if I'm sending her off on a short vacation to an exotic island. Or am I? Will her Heaven be bright with flowers, blue sky and cotton candy clouds? Will there be music? Sometimes fast and sometimes slow and mellow. Will she be young, her blue eyes shining as she rides a horse on a white sandy beach? I know that she'd tell me she's going Home. She'd tell me she'll always be near, in the wind, in the moon, in that single ray of sunshine. She'll be that butterfly in the spring, that perfect snowflake I catch on my glove in the winter. She'll be every beautiful sight, smell, taste. But does she know this? I want her to wake up so I can tell her. I want her to understand how I feel before she leaves. I need her to calm my fears. Now I realize that I sit here as a woman but still a child inside; I've always been that child to her. I know this when through her confusion she says, "Come here and let me hold you." I let her hold me. She weakened it seems as she put her frail arms around me. I could hear her smell my hair. She said I smelled pretty, like flowers. And she went away again. I don't know where she goes; I just hope it's happy. Today I know she's being called to go Home. I know she's ready. She's ready to walk again, laugh again, eat chocolate again and have her Pepsi in the morning. Without suffering, without pain. Yes, I know she's ready, just as I'm still trying to be.
- Ami Ashley
I sit here beside my mother's hospital bed in the ICU listening to the sounds of the fourth floor. A beep or a tone here and there, people walking past the curtain, that thin wall made out of cloth that separates us from the outside. Outside of this room life is going on, without pause. Inside this room I sit next to this remarkable, courageous woman I have known for 27 years. Her body is battered from the cancer; she's weak from the fight she has tried to win for two years. Once she was young and vibrant and had a million years of life left in her. That was when she fed me, held me, and nurtured me. She turned this motherless child into an adult who will sit here in silence, grieving for her, setting aside all of my compassion in a special place just for her. I wonder how I am supposed to behave. What would she want me to do? I wonder if she realizes what she's leaving behind. I wonder if she can sense my fear. I can see that the time for her is short - my time with her has been too short. I should be 60 when she dies. I'm not ready to cry alone - she never left me alone. I haven't earned my wings to fly solo yet. Will she know when she gets There everything she has left me with? Will her teachings of the past 27 years be enough for me? Will she put her invisible hand in mine and guide me along? Will she know that her love will carry me through this life? My voice catches when I try to tell her these things. I feel like my words are a goodbye speech. It's not as if I'm sending her off on a short vacation to an exotic island. Or am I? Will her Heaven be bright with flowers, blue sky and cotton candy clouds? Will there be music? Sometimes fast and sometimes slow and mellow. Will she be young, her blue eyes shining as she rides a horse on a white sandy beach? I know that she'd tell me she's going Home. She'd tell me she'll always be near, in the wind, in the moon, in that single ray of sunshine. She'll be that butterfly in the spring, that perfect snowflake I catch on my glove in the winter. She'll be every beautiful sight, smell, taste. But does she know this? I want her to wake up so I can tell her. I want her to understand how I feel before she leaves. I need her to calm my fears. Now I realize that I sit here as a woman but still a child inside; I've always been that child to her. I know this when through her confusion she says, "Come here and let me hold you." I let her hold me. She weakened it seems as she put her frail arms around me. I could hear her smell my hair. She said I smelled pretty, like flowers. And she went away again. I don't know where she goes; I just hope it's happy. Today I know she's being called to go Home. I know she's ready. She's ready to walk again, laugh again, eat chocolate again and have her Pepsi in the morning. Without suffering, without pain. Yes, I know she's ready, just as I'm still trying to be.
- Ami Ashley
