Midnight Memories

 It has been nearly three months since my mom left this earth, but tonight of all nights, I cannot sleep. 

Grief is unpredictable. It sneaks up on you when you least expect it, even in the middle of the night—maybe especially in the middle of the night.

Earlier in the evening, I was reading a book where a character was wearing a fentanyl patch, and as I lie there thinking about it, I suddenly remember that my mom had worn a fentanyl patch to ease her pain in the days before her surgery—a fact that has managed to slip my mind these past few months. But now, the memory comes tumbling back, and I think I understand for maybe the first time what it means to be “triggered.”

Because, from there, my mind is gone—reeling down a rabbit hole, and I am back in the hospital room, back in the ICU where she was after surgery and I’m wondering why they didn’t give her a fentanyl patch then, when she was in so much pain. 

I am back spending the night in that recliner next to her bed, outfitted with sweatpants and slippers and my sleep machine and a scratchy, beige hospital-issued blanket, being awakened by Mom’s sweet little Middle Eastern nurse, tiptoeing in to check on her breathing. I am feeling the urge to pee, but the public restroom is down the hall and on another wing, so I kick off my slippers and don my sandals for a 2 am adventure past the beeping machines, past the nurse’s station, and through the hospital. I will do this again in four hours to brush my teeth and make myself presentable for the day. 

I am back in Mom’s room again, looking out at the 100-degree world, noticing that the view of tall buildings and sprawling oak trees changes depending on the time of day and where the sun is casting its shadows. I’ve memorized this view so that I can see it even now as I lie here in the dark. It’s imprinted on my memory forever. 

I am back there, using context clues to parse that Mom’s next-door neighbor in the ICU has passed away suddenly, and there is a hubbub outside our door with tight-lipped nurses and hospital management parading through. But by afternoon, the bed has been stripped and changed and is ready for the next patient. The nurses never utter a word about it, and I am struck by how much death they witness every day. 

I am back there with my mom, making small talk with one of our favorite nurses (named Kayla? I can’t remember), as she shares her plans to go wedding dress shopping on her day off. We will never see her again (Mom will be moved to hospice before Kayla’s next shift), and I wonder now if she ever found her wedding dress and whether she is married now. And I wonder if nurses ever find out what happens to their patients on their day off—if they ever find out that the person they cared for ended up dying that week. 

I am back there with my mom, and we are laughing together at how the drugs make her loopy and say funny things. And then it’s right before surgery and she is trying to sign consent forms but having trouble holding the pen. So I take her hand and guide it in the scrawl of her signature. And we giggle as we do it. Moments later, the anesthesia has already kicked in and put her to blessed sleep. 

I am back in the waiting room, and I remember how the 8th floor waiting room is quieter and cleaner and cooler than the 7th floor waiting room (where it’s always 80 degrees and people move chairs together and lie across them). Nobody seems to know about the 8th floor waiting room; it’s like it’s our family’s little secret. But I am in the waiting room when my dad calls and says the doctor wants to talk to us, and so I take the elevator down a floor and rush down the hallway. Dad is standing at the nurse’s station with a Nigerian doctor who is gently suggesting in hushed tones that we start thinking about a DNR order and end-of-life palliative care. And I can’t believe that this is where we are. 

I am back there in her room, taking every opportunity to hold my mom’s lovely hand, memorizing every wrinkle, every mole, the color and texture of her skin. She is asking me to adjust her legs, and I do so, but then I rub her feet too—just older versions of my own. And it doesn’t seem real that there may be a day very soon when these hands and feet are still—that this physical body may expire. 

I am back there on the day that they tell us there is no treatment available and that there’s nothing they can do. After the doctor leaves, I ask her if she understands what they’ve said—what’s happening—and she answers (although a little bit gruffly) “yes.” I swallow hard and tell her that we are still asking God for a miracle, but that she may be with Jesus very soon. My voice breaks, and yet seeing her in this kind of pain and agony, I know that going to be with Jesus will be best. 

Now, in the present, it is 12:30 in the morning, and tears are streaming down my cheeks and soaking my pillow, the memories of three months ago still fresh and keeping me from the sweetness of sleep. There’s no stopping the barrage of thoughts chipping away at my brain; one memory flows right into another. It’s like the word “fentanyl” is a key to unleashing the memories from where they’ve been buried in a safe room, deep within my mind. 

And memories are fine—in their right time and place. But this isn’t it. 

“Jesus!” I cry out silently. “Please help me now. Give me peace!”

And He speaks to me in quietness, so that I know He’s reassuring my spirit: 

“She’s with Me.

She’s with Me.

She’s with Me.

She’s Mine.”

And I know that she is. 

I picture my sweet mama right there next to Jesus, staying in His shadow. 

“I am my Beloved’s and He is mine. His banner over me is love.” 

And I know in my heart that, after all she suffered at the end of her earthly life, her passing was actually God’s mercy. 

And there’s no place she’d rather be.

***

“So be truly glad, there is wonderful joy ahead.” — 1 Peter 1:6