Tasks of a Codependent

Tasks of a Codependent

My mother died yesterday. At 1:04 pm. That’s when the paramedics pronounced her, but she was dead well before that. She was cold when I found her. Her head had rolled back and to the left. Dark brown eyes stared straight ahead and a spot of drool crusted on the side of her gaping mouth. She was lying on the couch in a blue velour robe that was tied so tightly closed I was sure she was naked beneath it. Her right arm hung off the edge of the couch as if she were waiting for an executioner to hack it off. Left hand tucked down by her side. Feet bare. Ankles uncrossed, and every inch of visible skin glowing a translucent white.

         I knew she was dead the moment I saw her.

         The paramedics rushed in. Went straight over to her. No pulse. No respirations.

         “Did you find her?” the heavyset one asked.

         “Yes. I’m her daughter.”

“I’m very sorry to tell you ma' am,” he began slowly, “but your mother passed some time ago. There’s nothing we can do to revive her.” As if that would come as a surprise to me.

“Call it?” the thin one asked the heavy one. The heavy one nodded. “13:04,” said the thin one.

“I know,” I said.

“Was she on anything? Any medications?” The thin one asked. Was she on anything? Xanax, Ambien, Oxycontin, Digoxin, Lasix, Cipro, Percocet, Zofran...

“No,” I replied.

“Was she sick? Heart problems? Did she fall recently? Maybe hit her head?” the heavy one asked.  Yes, to all of the above.

“It’s okay,” I said. “She had cancer.

“Ooh,” they replied simultaneously. Then the heavy one stood up and told the thin one he’d go make the call.

“Mike’s gonna call the coroner,” the thin one began. “It takes ‘em awhile to get out sometimes. You want us to call someone for you? Maybe a relative?”

“No, thanks. I’m fine.” The nurse in me spoke up, “I need to sign something, though, right?” I knew what was coming. I wanted to get on with it.

“Yeah. Mike’s got the paper work.” Just then the heavy one came back and had me sign a paper saying that I agreed my mother was dead and it was okay for them to leave. I signed, and they left.

It took nearly five hours for the coroner to arrive. After the paramedics left, I went over to her and placed the dangling left arm across her stomach. It didn’t want to stay at first but I pulled it and propped it until it did. The paramedics, the thin one I think, had closed her eyes, but her mouth still hung open. I pushed her chin up to close it and a trickle of pink spit oozed form the corner of her mouth. I wiped it away with my sleeve and went in search of her turban.

My mother never liked to be seen without her baldhead sufficiently covered. She wore a short brown wig that never looked natural to me or one of a variety of cotton or terrycloth turbans she owned. I liked the turbans.

In her bathroom, I found the remnants of her last morning. Two wet towels lay bundled on the floor. A facecloth, wet but neatly folded, was draped across the water faucet in the sink. Floating in the toilet were bloodstained tissues similar to those I’d find littered on her nightstand or filling the wastepaper basket by her desk. That wretched cough a vibrant personification of the demon within her.

I found the white terrycloth turban lying atop the tissue box on the back of the toilet. I gathered the damp towels and placed them in the hamper, wiped the sink down with the facecloth, flushed the toilet, and went back to the living room. I was relieved to find her just as I’d left her- mouth still closed, no more oozing drool, and left arm securely in check. I placed the turban on her head. Then placed her head on a pillow I’d brought from the armchair across the room. 

I got the phonebook from the top drawer on the left in her desk. Macklin’s Funeral Services. I wrote the address and phone number down on a yellow post-it. The coroner would need that information. Then I started down the hall to her bedroom but decided I should eat a cracker first- a trick of the trade, non-medicinal anti-emetics in a box. I turned around and went to the kitchen.

The box of Cheerios sat open on the island next to her pill organizer. I opened the compartment marked with the W. She’d taken her morning pills. In the pantry next to the stove I found the box of Saltine crackers. Plain, no salt added. The salt made her throat burn. I took a coffee mug from the cabinet and filled it with tap water. I think I ate three crackers but maybe I only ate two. Anyway, it was enough.

I headed down the short dark hallway to her room, walking past the photos of my sister holding Eleanor, my brother’s wedding, and my college graduation. The blinds were still closed in her room. She always opened them in the morning. I pulled back the sheer lace curtain and turned the wand. The sun immediately filled the room, but the light hurt my eyes and I wondered if it had hurt hers too. I closed them again.

In her closet hung the long black dress bag. I pulled down the zipper just enough to reveal the soft lavender material inside. Purple was my mother’s favorite color. In deciding what to wear, it was the only obvious choice. She’d picked it herself- a simple purple summer dress, short puffy sleeves, three fake buttons down the chest. Directly below the dress bag sat my navy blue Nike sports bag. I knew its contents without opening it- her underclothes, a pair of nude nylons, and plain white flats. I gathered the Nike bag, the dress bag, and the Styrofoam head that held the short brown wig. After the coroner arrived, I would deliver these to the funeral home. 

I went back to the kitchen, took the cordless phone from the wall, and sat on a white barstool at the island. It was 3:20. After a while, I ate another cracker and drank some water. My mother usually had the TV on even when she wasn’t watching it. Background noise, she called it. I understood why, the apartment was silent except for the ticking of the cat shaped clock on the wall. It was one of those cartoon-like cats with the giant white eyeballs, too large for its black head. Its dime-sized pupils moved back and forth in sync with the ticking. My mother thought it was cute. I never paid much attention to it until I was sitting there waiting. I took it down from the wall, removed its batteries, and threw them in the trash.  I left the cat sitting on the island next to the pill container and the box of Cheerios.

I sat in the armchair across from my mother and flipped through the copy of Reader’s Digest that was sitting on the coffee table. I took the bags and the wig out to my car and placed them across the backseat. I got her mail- a Harriet Carter catalog, something from the insurance company, a flyer advertising a local church picnic, and a sheet of pizza coupons. I put the coupons in my purse and placed the rest of the mail on the coffee table.

I heard her neighbor come home from work. He has a big black Lab that barks like crazy when anyone comes up the sidewalk. My mother liked that. It made her feel safe. I sat back in the armchair and thumbed through the Harriet Carter magazine. That’s where the cat clock came from. I saw one exactly like it in the catalog. $39.99. I looked over at my mother. Her complexion had changed from that glowing translucent white to a thick, rubbery white that reminded me of the fat she’d trim from a lesser cut of beef before she cooked it. It was 5:30.

An hour later the neighbor’s Lab started barking. The coroner had finally arrived. I let them in, one short, bald man and two skinny boys who didn’t look old enough to be out of high school. The bald man gave me more papers to sign while the two skinny boys opened a large white plastic bag and spread it out on the floor. One boy took my mother from under her shoulders and the other boy took her ankles. They lifted her from the couch and placed her on top of the white bag on the floor. One boy tucked her feet in the bottom of the bag and the other pulled the plastic up around her head.

“What home are you using?” the bald man asked.

I handed him the post-it with the funeral home information and watched the boys bag my mother over his shoulder.

“Macklin’s, that’s a nice one,” he said.

“Thank you. She picked it.”

One of the boys asked me to spell my mother’s name and state her date of birth while he wrote the information on a small rectangular tag. He threaded a thin string through the tag and tied it around my mother’s right wrist. Then, the other boy zipped the bag closed. They lifted the bag containing my mother onto their stretcher and rolled it out the door.

“We’re very sorry for your loss,” the bald man said.

“Thank you,” I said as I reached to turn on the floor length lamp that stood by the armchair.

“Do you want me to call someone for you?” he asked.

I looked out the front door and watched the boys slide the bag containing my mother into the back of a large black hearse. “No,” I answered. “Thank you.”

The bald man apologized again, shook my hand, and handed me a yellow copy of the paper he had me sign. “Keep this for your records,” he said. And then he left.

I stood at the doorway until they drove away.

I went back to the kitchen and flipped on the light switch. The cat clock lay lifeless on the island. I picked up the cordless phone and went back to the armchair. My brother answered on the second ring.

The phone went silent when I told him. I waited a few seconds.

         “I still have to tell Maggie,” I said.

         “Where is she?” he asked.

         “At home probably, with the baby.”

         “Not Maggie. Mom, where’s Mom now?”

         “The coroner just came. They took her to the funeral home. I’ve got her clothes in my car. I’ll drop them off tomorrow sometime. I still need to go to Maggie’s tonight. I don’t think she should hear over the phone.” Six months ago, my little sister Maggie’s husband of two years had been killed in a car accident leaving her a widow at twenty-five and a single mother to ten-month-old Eleanor.

         Roger was silent on the other end of the phone. Then finally, “Mom’s gone. I can’t believe it. I mean, I knew it was coming, but...God. I didn’t even get over there this week. I was going to come tomorrow night. Jen and I. Take her out to dinner. We just talked about it today. Do you think...” he paused.

         “What?”

         “Do you think it was fast? Like in her sleep or something?”

“ I think it was fast. I think she was ready.”

“I’m glad it wasn’t me who found her. That’s a shitty thing to say, but I am.”

“No. It’s not. I understand. I’m glad it wasn’t you too, or Maggie for sure.”

“What now?” he asked me.

“I’ll take Mom’s clothes to the funeral home in the morning, finish up anything that needs to be done there. I’ll call you, tell you the service schedule.”

“Somebody’s gotta tell Aunt Natalie. They were so close.”

“I’ll take care of it. I’ll make all the calls tomorrow. Tonight I just want to get to Maggie.”

“You don’t need me to go, do you? I don’t think I can do that. You know Maggie. She’s gonna take it hard. I...Mom’s gone.”

Roger never had been good in a crisis. It was better for us all if he stayed home. “Roger, it’s okay,” I said. “I can do it. You stay home. You and Jen, you guys just be together.”

He agreed. He told me he loved me. Then we hung up. I put the phone back on the island in the kitchen and turned the light out. I picked up my purse from its place on the floor by the armchair, turned the lamp off, and walked across the darkened living room. I stopped at the door, turned back to look at the couch, and saw the armchair pillow where my mother’s head had rested. I returned the pillow to its home on the armchair, locked my mother’s door, and left.

Maggie lives twenty minutes from my mother. I drove there listening to my car’s air conditioner blow frigid air into my face and wishing I’d brought the Saltines with me.

The front porch light was on when I arrived. I sat in my car for a few moments trying to get right what I’d say to her.

I walked up the porch steps and Maggie came out to meet me. She knew something had to be wrong for me to show up at ten o’clock at night alone and unannounced. “Hey,” I started.

“Hey. What’s going on?”

“Let’s go inside. Where’s Eleanor?” I asked.

“I don’t want to go inside. Karen?”

She knew before I said it out loud. “Mom’s gone Mags.”

“Nooo,” she breathed. Her arm immediately went across her chest, leaving her right hand to rest over her heart. She crouched down on the chipped white patio floor, her knees folded beneath her. I put my hand on the back of her neck and she leaned her head against my thigh. We held that position for a while as she cried. Finally, she looked up at me. I brushed her fine brown hair back from her face and helped her to her feet.

“How- I mean, where? What happened?” she sobbed.

I told her how I’d gone to check on my mother as usual and how I’d found her on the couch. I told her she seemed at peace and how it was better for her now cause she had no more pain or that horrible cough. I told her it’s okay for us to be sad for a while because we’ll miss her so much but that we had to remember that she went to a better place.

Maggie just shook her head. “God,” she said. “Do they train you all to talk like that or do you just pick it up over time?” She didn’t mean anything by it. She’d just heard it all before.

I don’t know how long we sat on the front porch steps. Eleanor was sleeping on a blanket on the living room floor and Maggie didn’t want to take the chance of waking her. Besides, it was a beautiful night, not too humid, big, bright moon. I told Maggie about the funeral plans, same as I’d told our brother. Maggie asked if our mother had her wig on when she passed. I said no but that I had put her turban on her and was taking the wig to the funeral home tomorrow. Then Maggie cried some more and I held her hand and sometimes I rubbed her back.

After a while, Maggie leaned her head on my shoulder. I put my arm around her and said, “I can stay tonight if you want me to. I have to leave early tomorrow to start the arrangements, but I’ll stay tonight.”

Maggie looked at her watch. “Wow,” she said. “It’s already tomorrow. It’s almost two.”

“You’re kidding?”

“No.” She stood first, and I followed. “No,” she said. “ No, you need to go home and get some rest yourself. I’m okay.”

I knew she wasn’t. I knew she’d break down again the second I drove away. “Mags, come on. I don’t want to leave you.” And that was true. I didn’t.

“No, really. I’m exhausted. My eyes hurt and Eleanor’s gonna be up soon. There’s no way she’ll sleep all night on that floor. I was going to move her to her crib when I heard you pull up.”

I said okay and told her to call me anytime if she wanted me to come back, or even just to talk. We hugged and I started to walk away. I was almost to my car when Maggie called after me, asking if we should send flowers “or something” to the funeral home. I said I would do it tomorrow and then corrected myself and said later today. Then I got in my car. I buckled my seatbelt, and looked back for Maggie in my rearview mirror, but she’d already gone inside. She turned the porch light off. The house went dark. I sat there for a few seconds, and then I drove away.

I stopped for gas at the station down the street from Maggie’s house. I put fifteen dollars in my gas tank. I bought a bottle of water and a package of those crackers with the fake cheese in the middle, and I got back in the car. I drove home listening to some sports talk show on an am station I’d never heard before. I drank all the water. I never opened the crackers.

         The dashboard clock read 3:02 when I pulled into my driveway. My house was dark and I wished I’d put one of the inside lights on a timer like my mother said I should, or bought one of those motion-activated porch lights like my brother has. I unlocked the front door and flipped on the hallway light. I put my keys in the cereal-sized bamboo bowl on the table by the door and set my purse on the floor. I walked into the living room. My phone still lay on the couch. I’d tried to call her from it. I wanted to tell her that Willie Nelson was about to sing on the Today Show. I tried three times. She never answered.

         I picked the phone up from the couch and dialed.

“St. Joseph’s Hospital. Nursing office, can you hold?” a female voice asked. Before I could answer, the music began to play. Barely audible, static-filled instrumentals, the same type of music that was always playing in my mother’s doctor’s office. She hated it, said it sounded sad. She was right.

“Thanks for holding. How can I help you?”

“I need to call in for my shift this morning.” I stood in the middle of my living room, the light from the hallway barely peeking into it. Yesterday morning’s half empty cup of tea still on the coffee table, printouts of my mother’s latest lab results scattered next to it.

“Name?”

“Karen Kassen.”

“What department?”

“Oncology.”

“Title?”

“RN.” I folded my right arm over my left, suddenly aware of the goose bumps that covered them.

“What shift?” she continued.

“7am to 7pm.”

“Calling in sick?’ As if she cared, as if I was anything more than another piece of paper she had to file.

“No.” My eyes burned, but I swallowed back the tears. “My mother died yesterday.” And then I hung up.