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MetroHealth Main Campus on West 25th. October 12, 2017. I last saw my Mom here in the ICU after her fall. The next day, I left a room with the lights off. I left without her. Today, my friend needed a ride for a procedure in gynecology. Seven years later, I felt ready to return to a place I’d long since avoided. Metro is where I’ve continued my care. There is comfort in the familiar, but Main Campus was too close for comfort. Westlake, Ohio City, Rocky River. I'd go anywhere but there. With trauma, we avoid people, places, and things. Seven years later, I was ready to break on through.
The air was crisp and clean. The on-ramp to 90 East was stained white with salt. I felt energized and optimistic. On my way to the West Boulevard exit to pick up my friend, I tried something new. Something light, something casual. A carefree conversation with Mom. A conversation like the ones before. Before she was sick. Before she slowly lost parts of who she was. Before she died completely. Like an ordinary hands-free phone call so many daughters have with their mothers daily, I told her where I was going. Who I was going with. When I’d be home. All of the simple things she asked me to do as a teenager, but I would mindlessly forget back then. It was the first time in years that I felt anything resembling a conversation with her. I felt her presence in the present tense. I even laughed a little. It might sound crazy, but I could anticipate her responses. Her lightheartedness. Her wit and wisdom. I told her I was a little nervous to go back. She told me, "it'll be okay." My friend was called to see the doctor, and I made friends with an itsy-bitsy spider scurrying across the arm of the chair next to mine until I felt ready to leave the waiting room to wander the halls. First to pathology, where I once waited for my Mom's routine blood tests. Pausing to remember, I thought back to a time she had gotten lost in the labyrinth of passageways after an appointment. When she still drove to the doctor alone. When I felt helpless, trying to navigate her to the parking garage over a phone call. Her fear and confusion stood beside me and her hair-line fractured ego. I walked to gastroenterology and rheumotology, where she saw doctors for her primary biliary cirrhosis and osteoperosis. Where together, we had conversations about end stages, transplants, and medications that brought a possibility of hope we couldn’t afford. Being in these places again was eerie. It felt like time traveling. Visiting a previous life. One where I was balancing the delicate art of being carefree and caretaker. Life of the party and another life of worry. Before I knew seven years without her. Twenty-five, and my Mom was still alive. As I turned to walk down another hall, my friend, waiting for her procedure, texted that she was feeling little nervous. I texted her back, "it'll be okay." Crossing over the sky bridge closer to the main hospital, I saw a glimpse of the ICU. For the first time since, I held space to focus on the place where she left this world as the curved towers contrasted against the dreary January sky. Not a monumental sight. Grey and cloudy. Nothing remarkable from afar. I zoomed in on each scene behind the dim windows and imagined small rooms full of life, death and the in-between. Full of wishes, hopes, and dreams. Full of beautifully written story endings and fresh haiku just landing on the page. I felt a sense of peace and acceptance. I sent love to the people behind each tall window, casting hope with each fragment of winter sun that illuminated their beds. To everyone connected to the people in those beds. To everyone who left this world in those beds. To everyone who's feeling a little nervous. It might be today. It might be tomorrow. It might be seven years from now, but "it'll be okay." In Chagrin Falls, sound bathing on the first of the year. My back melted like a block of ice into the warm floor of blankets beneath me. The crystal bowls vibrated in deep tones, warming my muscles. My brain tickled along with them, encouraging me to clear space for new beginnings, for rebirth. Inspiring me to have fun with her again. I invited good memories to flood my mind, starting with unforgettable firsts. Wining and dining to the nines in New Orleans. Seeing the Glass Menagerie in New York City. Going to Cedar Point to ride the Blue Streak. I was exhilarated with gratitude. How lucky am I to have these moments in my heart. Simple memories of ordinary days dripped into my brain like cool rain on a light and breezy morning. Watching the Young and the Restless and the Bold and the Beautiful. Eating in the car at McDonald's and using the glove box as a table. Going grocery shopping. Listening to What's Up by Four Non Blondes. Laughing together. I'm learning. I'm figuring it out. Everything's coming together. The sounds intensified. The energy shifted to uplifting bells. I felt a closeness, a connection. A realization of how much time it took to invite her in again. Her true spirit, free of pain and free of worry. An appreciation for a fresh start with our spiritual journey together as mother and daughter.
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Sara CifaniTrauma is not stored as a narrative with an orderly beginning, middle, and end. Writing WorkshopsArchives |