On the 4th floor of the Mayo Clinic, there is a waiting room for the families of people who are in the ICU. Everything in that room, from the fabric on the chairs to the paintings on the walls, is done in various shades of brown and green.
Olive, burnt sienna, chestnut, avocado… it’s a palette worthy of Crayola.
My dad and I were sitting there a few nights ago and he commented that Mayo probably paid someone a whole lot of money to come up with a color scheme designed to soothe and comfort those who have a friend or family sick enough to be on the ICU floor. I agreed with him and we moved on to the next topic, but that conversation stuck in my mind.
How many times over the last few years have I sat in that very room and never noticed those colors? Why haven't I noticed them? How many times have I unconsciously allowed Brown and Green to comfort and soothe me? As I tried to count, I lost track.
We were there in that room the night the helicopter carrying my Mama’s new lungs landed on the helipad. We were there when she was in a coma for almost two weeks. We were there when one of the Mayo specialists- one of the most brilliant doctors on the planet- came into the room and told us they had no idea what was wrong with her. We were in that room when the same doctor came in and told us they’d figured it out and she was going to make it.
We have visited with family and friends in that room. We’ve cried together, laughed together, prayed together, eaten meals together, watched movies together, held hands and worried together… all right there in that same room.
We were there when Mama’s sister, my Aunt Kathy, was brought in with the same disease that my Mama has. We were there when the doctors told us there was nothing they could do for Aunt Kathy. We were there when Aunt Kathy passed away.
And I suppose we’ll be there when my Mama passes away too.
I am beginning to loathe that room.
I wonder how many families have sat right there in that same green and brown room while their loved one lay dying down the hall.
My mother is one of those loved ones. One day soon, she is going to die.
God that looks so stark. So bleak. I thought that once I typed it, it would somehow look less frightening. Less intimidating. Less painful.
But it’s actually worse; much, much worse than I thought it would look.
A demon with razor sharp bloody fangs gnashing at my throat would look friendlier.
I thought I was prepared for this. I thought I was in the “acceptance” stage of grief and would be able to handle this with my usual aplomb.
I’m a fairly pulled-together person, right? Some have called me the rock throughout this whole thing.
The truth is I’m just better than most at hiding how I’m really feeling. I might look like I’m okay, but I’m most definitely not okay.
The truth is I am terrified. What in the world am I going to do without my Mama?
The truth is my mother, the woman who gave me life, is going to die. The woman who has never done drugs, drank to excess, smoked, or abused her body in any way, is going to be betrayed by her body. It’s going to give up on her, even though her mind is still strong.
The truth is I am angry. No, not angry; I’m pissed. I want to scream at the injustice of it all. If screaming would help, that’s exactly what I’d do. I’d scream until someone paid attention. I’d shout and tell them they’re wrong. W-R-O-N-G, WRONG, dammit, and they need to fix this right now. She doesn’t want to die. It’s not fair that she has no choice in the matter.
I'd force them to assign this disease to someone else. Isn’t there a degenerate low-life oxygen thief somewhere who could take this one instead of my Mama? How about this: Let’s give her “old age” as her official cause of death and let’s make it happen one night 40 years from now when she’s warm and asleep in her bed, okay?
The truth is I am frustrated. I have faith. I believe in God. But telling me this is “God’s will” isn’t comforting to me. It doesn’t magically make this better. It might work for some, but not me. Not even a little bit.
My Mama won’t get to watch her grandchildren grow up. She won’t get to see them graduate from high school or college. She won’t get to be there when they get married and she won’t be there when they have children of their own. And there’s nothing even remotely fair about that.
The truth is I am not ready to say goodbye. I guess I should just be grateful that we had this extra time with her; time that we wouldn’t have otherwise had if she hadn’t gotten a transplant. While I am grateful, the truth is I’m also selfish; terribly so. I want more time.
The truth is I am heartbroken. It feels like a car door is slowly closing on my soul and there is nothing I or anyone else can do about it.
The truth is green and brown are liars. They make you think everything is going to be okay but it really isn’t. Green and brown are no longer comforting to me; they’re the colors of heartbreak, and of grief, and of sorrow.
