More Than Once a Day, I Wish My Mother Were Dead.

Perhaps I’m a horrible person, an ungrateful, selfish, possibly even reprehensible son. But, more than once every day, I wish my mother were dead.

My father waved the white flag at the Grim Reaper just three weeks shy of what would have been his 95th birthday. Clearly, he harbored no fear of death. He knew the end was imminent. Still, he hung on a little too long — his exit was not the least bit graceful — for the sake of his bride of nearly 73 years. Holding her husband’s hand was the one constant in Mom’s life, the lifebuoy keeping her nose above the surface, the last thread preventing her from spiraling down into the depths of mental oblivion.

Mom’s life was rich with purpose and meaning. Singer, nurse, wife, mother, grandmother, teacher, artist, and tireless, self-sacrificing volunteer, she put loving, creative energy in motion that will continue to ripple in wider circles for generations to come. But, I can see little discernible value, let alone purpose or meaning, in the life she is living now. Much of the time, she is unable to comprehend where she is, who she is with, and/or why she’s there. She merely exists, drifting aimlessly from one squall of delirium to another.

It’s as though she’s trapped in one of those nightmares in which a routine task suddenly seems impossible. For me, it would be a dream…