The intimacy of witnessing her passing

How does eighty year old skin feel? What is it like to carry a body over decades, through three political systems, nourishing three children? How does your heartbeat change when you see your husband die. When you see your son die. When your friends pass away. What does it do to you when your love marries another person. When you can never be together. When you have his baby, but you can never meet again.

I have so many questions left unanswered that only she could have known the answers to. We talked so much in the last two years, but I never dared to ask the big questions. I remember asking her if she was afraid to die. She said no. She believes there comes something after. That was when she was still healthy and at home.

When she was already very sick in the hospital, she talked about the demons that haunted her in her dreams. She was so scared of the night she kept crying at the thought of it — the first time I ever saw her cry — and I asked her again. She said she was. And I could do nothing to relieve her. We both knew she was going to die soon and there was nothing we could do. I wanted to take that fear away from her but nothing I could have said would have done that. This is my most painful memory of her.

I found her last wishes last week. It said “don’t cry for me. Be thankful that the sun shines for you. Remember me from time to time.” like the humble person she was.

We used to eat dumplings with blueberries when I visited her. The mere smell of it tears me apart.

I had witnessed how her body changed over the past few years. She had lost a lot of weight and also quite some of her height. Her back bent and she turned more and more into the old person she was. She has had this full, bright white hair as long as I can think back. But watching her sinking into herself was painful. She still lived by herself, but she needed help with everyday tasks. I helped her dress and undress and noticed the marks on her face. The hair on her chin. The texture of her body. How her breasts drew a line along her chest. How her feet shrank together. How she kept manicuring her nails best as she could. I felt a distinct love for her aging shell. Everything about her reminded me of life. Of bearing children. Of walking through Moscow. Of buying dessert from her pocket money during war times. Of typing, cleaning, bathing, carrying, cooking, meeting, remembering, loving, hurting.

On her last day — she had suffered several strokes and was unable to move — I held her hands for hours. I think she noticed me, but it might have just been my wish. I looked into her faded eyes to assure her she wasn’t alone, because it was all I could do. I wanted to say something, but words failed me. So I just sat there and cried while life slowly drifted from her body. Her feet and hands turned blue and cold. I remember trying hard to keep her hand warm, trying to keep that last bit of life in her with me. I wanted to feel that she was still there. I wanted to hold the memory of her ever warm hands, her ever warm body.

She died on mother’s day. How can she not be here anymore.