It's been a little over a week since I dropped all of my plans and projects, haphazardly packed a duffel bag full of whatever rumpled, filthy clothing was nearest to me, and headed off to my hometown of Sandpoint, Idaho.

Crossing the Long Bridge and merging awkwardly into traffic, I'm reminded of just how much I have grown to hate this town over the last few years. Not even all the happy childhood memories in the world could make me consider loving it here. The mingled scent of car exhaust, sweaty bodies doused in suntan lotion, a hint of dead fish, and commerce invade my nostrils and I hold my breath as I pass through town and head out towards Kootenai. As I leave the main portion of town behind, the streets and landmarks become more and more unchanging, the scenery more consistent with the memories I still harbor.

But I am not here for nostalgia's sake. I'm here because my mother has finally succumbed to the doctor's predictions; she's dying, although admittedly a year and a half later than expected.

When I see her, she's seated in a wheelchair before the large picture window overlooking what used to be fields of wheat; it has since been cultivated into custom beach-front summer homes for the moderately well-to-do. “Hello, Mama” I venture. She doesn't look at me. I take her hand and wait. At long length, she opens her mouth and all that comes out is gibberish, her breath tinged with the scent of slightly rotten fruit left too long in the sun.

Her false coral eye has sunken somewhat into the left socket on her narrow face, but she swivels her good one in my general direction and again mumbles a few m's and h's. I still don't understand, and before I know it, I'm already spilling tears. She squeezes my hand, and with a laboured movement that seems to take forever, she lifts it to her lips and kisses it. I suppose that's what she'd meant to say.

I spend the day with her to give Dad and the boys an opportunity to rip up the rotting back deck. With some help, I wheel her hospital bed outside onto the back cement patio my father poured after I'd left for college, and move her under the shade. “Isn't it a beautiful day, Mama?” I ask. She only moans, and I try not to cry as I drag my crochet needles out of my purse and begin to work. Mom eventually falls asleep, her oxygen hookup hissing softly as her mouth hangs open, reminding me of a zombie. I curse myself for my recent survival-horror fixation and turn my attention back to my simple stitches. Three useless washcloths help me pass the time. Mom continues to sleep, her breathes coming out in all-too-familiar moans of pain. By the time I reach seven washcloths, my nerves have me leaning towards the urge to stab myself in the neck with one of those crochet hooks.

The most frustrating bit is wanting to make her as comfortable as possible, and not knowing how. Listening to her mumble and moan and not knowing what she wants or needs. Feeding her a yogurt morphine cocktail, or water, or Diet Coke through a syringe and fighting off horrible flashbacks of Bean, the newborn mouse who lived in my bedside dresser, whose death resulted in accidental drowning from my own careless feeding barely two weeks prior.

The third morning passes uneventfully, and in her restlessness I hear an incredibly clear sentence. “Where are my boys?” she asks, a tear rolling from her blue coral eye. I stall for a moment, surprised, since I hadn't know the tear duct in that eye still functioned, and I am suddenly filled with incredible anger towards the two biological sons she had been referring to, who should be here at her side when she so obviously needs them. The day passes and she does not speak again.

She has taken on an empty stare when I look at her, and her gaze always passes straight through me. When I move my head, her eyes don't follow. After several hours of this, I need to leave. I march a few times back and forth through the house to calm myself. “Hi Mama” I say as I return to the bedroom. To my surprise, she looks up at me and one side of her mouth attempts to smile. “Hi Sweetheart” she whispers, barely audible, before her gaze clouds again. I cry.

Once every few days a random nurse comes to check on her, each commenting that they would be surprised to see her last through another week. So far she's lasted through two.

I don't really know where we go from here.