Going through mom’s pictures, flipping through her pristinely-organized file drawers, I think, “Wow, mom was really smart … and pretty.” I’ve never seen her this way before.
I wonder about that little girl growing up in Indonesia, who would jump into the ocean and swim out to arriving boats. Or the young woman standing there, pregnant with my older sister. She has a smug satisfaction in her eyes, like the cat that ate the proverbial canary. Then there’s the dreamy look as she poses for a portrait, holding a flower. The man behind the camera is my father.
I remember the look in her eyes last week as we sat at the dinner table and debated politics. All the neurons were firing. Our last photo is from the morning she went off to chemo, with a cocky look in her eyes. She’s going to fight this thing and win.
Thursday night she lay in a hospital bed, restless with pain but barely conscious. I leaned down and said, “Love you, mom. See you in the morning.” She opened her eyes for a moment and looked into mine. Was she thinking, “Yeah, right. I won’t be here in the morning.” Or perhaps, “I love you too. Goodbye.”
The last time I saw mom’s eyes was when the nurse shined a flashlight into them. Her pupils did not respond. The neurons were no longer firing.