Three Weeks by Betsy Ashton

Our topic this month is love and hate. Love is easy, since this is Valentine's Day month. It is also the 11th anniversary of my mother's passing from lung cancer. I offer up a different look at love. It took me seven years and twenty-four minutes to write this poem, seven years to be able to put grief aside and write, twenty-four minutes to put the words down on paper. The poem came fully formed on a dawn walk. I changed one word.

Warning: you may want to grab your tissues.

This one's for you, Mini-Mommy. With love from YBDK.

THREE WEEKS

I thought we’d have more time.

She lived with us after it was too hard to live alone.

She had her chores, self-imposed.

She laughed, chattered, kept us happy.

She was a pain in the ass, sometimes.

I thought we’d have more time.

She said she didn’t feel right one afternoon.

No, she’d never felt exactly like that before.

Is it pneumonia?

No.

Is it bronchitis?

No. It’s different.

Do you want to go to the emergency room?

It’s icy out. I’ll see how I feel in the morning.

I thought we’d have more time.

It’s still icy but I think we need to go, she said.

Okay. I put the ready-bag in the car.

It’s pneumonia, they said.

Let’s get some x-rays.

Yes. It’s pneumonia. There’s fluid.

I thought we’d have more time.

The biopsy said different.

Dr. Elizabeth called it cancer.

Too far along. No real treatment.

Too tiny at 81 pounds.

Too old at 81.

How long, she asked.

Not long.

I thought we’d have more time.

One option, Dr. Elizabeth said.

Hospice.

She thought about it and decided.

Hospice. No heroics.

I thought we’d have more time.

We were together every day.

I read to her when she couldn’t hold a book.

Role reversal from childhood.

I listened to her stories, told so many times before.

I told her my dreams, my hopes.

She told me hers.

Wayposts to guide my way forward.

We shared more deeply than ever before.

I thought we’d have more time.

Days passed.

Stories, until she couldn’t speak.

Then hand squeezes.

Smiles in between lengthy naps.

I stored the moments to turn into memories.

Later.

I told her I loved her.

Hand squeeze.

I told her she’d done a good job.

Hand squeeze.

I thought we’d have more time.

I told her, her job was done.

Tight hand squeeze.

I told her she could go when she was ready.

Double hand squeeze.

She opened her eyes and looked at me.

One last smile, one look upward.

She was gone.

Three weeks from “it’s cancer” to death.

Mom,

            I

                 thought

                          we’d

                                 have

                                         more

                                                time.

###

Betsy Ashton is the author of Mad Max Unintended Consequences. This poem appears in Voices from Smith Mountain Lake, an anthology that came out in 2013. It was featured on Radio IQ, the local NPR station, as well as on national NPR for Mother's Day, 2012.