“Your mother’s going to die,” he answered. My father’s words came slowly as each sigh pushed another syllable forward. “She knows. The doctors told her this morning. She lost strength. It’s over. It’s over.”
We already knew this, but the charade was over. The jaundice increased steadily and her bilirubin numbers reached 17. Within a month, her number had nearly doubled, and the doctor said her liver was working around 5 to 10 percent capacity.
“I would cut out my liver and give it to her. Can they do that?” asked my father.
“...no…”
“I would. I would donate my liver, my stomach, anything.” He paused. “We were praying when you called.”
“How is she?”
“She lost her strength. She’s sapped. She’s tired.”
We wished that her faith stringed with hope and prayer would lift her beyond the grave, while we deflected the sharp realities. And in a moment, the doctor’s words stabbed our weak dirigible and cut what cords held her spirits.
“Pray for me. It’s in His hands.”
“Of course. Always.”
---
It’s been six weeks since I’ve returned. Either the distance or time has removed some of the worry that I carried in Los Angeles. Now I’m the familiar terrain of guilt.
---
I don’t know what to write or say any more. Every day brings a slight variation of emotion built on the same foundation. How else can I feel panicked, saddened, distraught, hopeless, defeated, or guilty? How is it possible that every day may bring another level of disappointment for my mother?
