MERCY

**I've been trying to tell this story, in writing, since July 2020. Today, the one-year anniversary of Mommy's death, it is done. This is not the full story; lots of backstory details are missing. But they're not needed for this version to be a complete meal. I'll write the full one at a later date. **

In movies
and on TV
we often see
terminally ill people
begging those they love
to help them die

don't just stand there
watching them suffer
do something
make it stop

In movies
and on TV
it's all fake

until in real life
your life
it's not

You think you know
compassion
selflessness
think you've displayed them
in the biggest ways
think you've helped people
done the most valuable favors
given of yourself
in the hardest ways

you think
when you tell
someone you love
you'll do anything
for them
you'll have the strength
when the time comes
to do whatever

no matter what
whatever
is

until
whatever
is help them die

In movies
and on TV
the anguish
on the face
of the loved one
being stared in the eye
while hearing that plea for help
is fake

until in real life
your life
on your face
it's not

When your mother
now barely 90 pounds
whose skeleton
dismally protrudes
through her rice-paper thin

brown skin
whose ability to tend
to her basic needs
even the simplest of them
has been savagely snatched
by The Intruder
while you watched
her discouragingly rapid decline
for weeks

when you witness your mother
whose idea of freedom
is self-sufficiency
grow angrier
more rebellious
more defeated by the hour
because her freedom

has run its 76-year course

when your mother
stops fighting and instead
starts verbalizing
her intense desire
to exit the scene
posthaste

when your mother
has already been
subtly asking you
to help her escape

when your mother
two days
before her flight
looks you in the face
as you two struggle
to adjust her ravaged body
in bed
and wails in gut-wrenching agony:
"HELP MEEEE!
I'M SUFFERIIIIING!"
and your heart
airbags
inside your chest
from the crushing
verbal impact

when your mother
finally declares
a state of emergency

you call 911

but not on the phone

they can't bring her

the help she wants

you gotta go

above their heads

way above

you gotta call

the ancestors

Of the myriad on staff

you're certain

of the most influential

six

the ones whose grip

would be firm enough

yet still loving enough

to convince her to let go

come live with them 

in the upgraded realm

where she would know

the best kind of freedom

convince her

that her only child

her last-living sister

and all her unfinished business

that weighed so heavily

on her heart

will be covered 

and handled

with the utmost care

Two days after her plea

consciousness waning

suffering deepening

yet grip on the unfree world

still tight enough with worry

to keep her bound

you make the literal

life-changing call

intentionally

verbally

clearly

with your whole chest

with all your faculties in place

with the knowledge

that 911 calls

are the most serious

of them all

You get in the car

start driving 

and you call the six of them

one by one

loudly

by name

tell them to listen

tell them you're serious

tell them you understand 

what you're about to say

give them explicit instructions

"She's tired.

She's suffering.

She doesn't wanna be here.

But she won't let go.

One of you has the influence.

One of you can make her let go.

So one of you gotta come get her.

I don't care who.

But one of you gotta do it.

And you gotta come get her

TONIGHT

While Pauline is still here.

Before she goes home for the weekend.

She has to be here with me when it happens.

So you gotta come get her...tonight."

You finish your command

drop the bills at the post office—

the bills for June 

that she was so upset 

the day before

that you hadn't mailed yet—

go back home

call freshly made

and lie on her bed

while she thrashes incessantly

in the hospice bed

and watch her

for four hours

the two of you

engaging in countless 

wordless glances

glances you know

are the last ones 

you'll ever share

At 10:14 p.m.

on June 5th

when you look at the clock

after you

and her sister

with hands affixed to her body

have stood inches from her face

watching her finally let go

you look in your mother's peaceful eyes

before you gently

press them closed for good

and ask her:

"Which one of 'em

came and got you?"

©2021 Charlene E. Green