My son Brett wanted Chinese food
So I went to get it at his favorite place.
I pulled the car over on the way there.
I screamed until I could breathe no longer.
No one could hear.
We ate our dinner.
I hooked up his TPN.
He said, “Good night, Mom; I love you.”
I could barely look at him.
All the lights were on in the room.
And Brett looked small all alone in the big
four-poster.
Like when he was a baby in his crib,
Now I couldn’t even give him a big hug;
He was too frail.
The French door was open a little to the deck – it was
a brisk late winter night.
Brett, a glass of water in one hand, was waiting for
my response.
“Good night, pumpkin,
I love you, too with all my heart.
I love you with all my heart.”
Down the stairs, back to my own four poster bed.
Brush my teeth; put on PJ’s; climb into bed.
Pull out a book, read.
You are not here.
You are nowhere
Your son is dying up stairs, right above your head.
You can do
nothing.
You can do nothing.
You can do nothing.
I didn’t think I would ever see Brett alive again.
The last few hours of his life were to be a gift
For Brett and his partner Marc to have alone.
And then Marc came downstairs for me.
“Please come upstairs and sit with us.”
Brett was asleep as I took his cooling hand in mine.
Marc climbed up on the bed beside him.
I moved across the room to the big leather chair.
Brett was scooping in the air with his loud, slow,
deep breaths.
Marc talked to him, “Go into the light.
You are safe; you are loved; go into the light.”
I felt like a voyeur.
But I could not move.
I could not leave my dying son.
I could not leave this quiet moonlit room
Where my son and his lover lay side by side
In the four poster bed that had been Brett’s
birthday gift when he was 25.
Where the moonlight fell like a striped blanket
across them.
Where they were sleeping as they had for so many
years.
And then all was quiet as we all slept.
I was awakened; I do not know by what!
Perhaps a divine force, perhaps Brett’s three last
gulping breaths.
I walked over, and I knew he was dead.
I looked at the clock; it was 4:44.
His face did not look peaceful as they described in
all the books.
I held my hand in front of his mouth; there was
nothing to feel.
I leaned down and kissed him.
There were now no stars.
Brett’s hand was hanging down.
The glass of water was empty.
I tried to close the one eye that was open looking
nowhere.
I could not.
I walked down the stairs to my bed.
Marc’s words resonated.
“I want to awaken and find that Brett has died
peacefully beside me during the night.”
I went back to sleep.
Marc came downstairs early in the morning.
He shook me to awaken me.
“Brett died,” he said.
I did not say, “I know.”
I just went upstairs with him to see Brett.
© Brenda Freiberg 2008