Sleepless Nights

I entered a writing contest recently in the human interest category.  This was the entry – definitely not in the humor direction that I typically go but very healing to write.

I don’t remember ever seeing her sleep when I was growing up. I know that she must have at some point; I just have no memories of seeing it. My mother used her sleepless nights to sew after the six of us were in bed. She made rag dolls to supplement her income as a secretary. Her job didn’t pay enough to raise six children. Regardless, she never complained; she commented that the sleepless nights were a blessing.

The insomnia is hereditary. Her craftiness and musical talent must skip a generation – neither evident in my life. The sleepless nights, however, I am well acquainted with. I am, unfortunately, not as productive as she was. Her nights were filled with creating…mine with shopping. We both had our vices.

Her accident took us all by surprise. She was recovering from a stroke, but the doctor felt that she was stable. Her vision was almost entirely gone, and the aphasia had stolen her beautiful soprano. She was able to walk and move around unassisted – her strokes sparing her the indignity of needing full care. The task of caring for her as a single mother of three was still overwhelming. When her best friend suggested a trip out to lift her spirits, I wasn’t even worried. I was happy for the break.

The call came while I was out to lunch, enjoying my freedom. Another stroke…this time while she was stepping into the trolley. She had fallen straight back onto the pavement, leaving a pool of blood from her head. By the time I reached the ER, she was being prepped for surgery. I was able to get her to squeeze my fingers, not knowing that it would be for the last time.

After the surgery, I just watched her…sleeping. Quiet. She would have seemed peaceful if not for all the equipment attached to her. I watched her chest rise and fall in time with the ventilator. The brain scan came back with no activity. Three days later, we had the life support removed and she was gone.

The guilt was crushing. I should have kept her home. I should have kept her safe, as she did for me as a child. That night, I had a dream. Mom was there, watching me as I slept. She was smiling, singing a hymn from my childhood. She looked revived. I woke up the next morning feeling peaceful, knowing that she was OK. Insomnia still plagues me at times, but the guilt is gone – one last gift from my mother before she slipped into the night, finally getting her hard-earned rest.