Our father was left to keep his loving vigil. It was painful to leave him that
night, too painful to think of him alone looking at my mother in coma,
waiting for the death to come. But he reminded us that he would not be
alone, at least for this night, he had her Love.
And morning came. We gathered and prayed for mom. We kissed on her
brow and silently followed her gurney until we were told that only one of us
could go any farther.
My father continued to walk alongside her as he always had. Two people
who had stood together against all odds. My mother orphaned at a young age
and moved from place to place for food. My father the youngest of nine in a
family hurting with poverty. They who had found and protected each other
in a very happy family.
We children were born and grown up amidst the love of that happy house.
Given by these two what they had not been given in their own childhoods:
safety, nurturing, moral guidance.
We knew that we were created from their love but that their love was an
entity separate from us.
I see the kiss, the parting. My mother was wheeled through the door, alone.
My father, his back to me, placing his hand on that door, praying love and,
strength and hope to his beloved woman.
He turned and walked slowly toward me. The sunrise lit his tired face. At
that very moment, I glimpsed how deep the love he gave her is.
This love of great self-sacrificing. A love so great that he was willing to bear
the pain of being far away of his dear love, walk alone the rest and upbring
the children.
Despite our advice, he kept on waiting for my mother’s revivification alone
after her two-week-coma. It was the months of waiting, doubt, anxiety as
well as our hope for her rehabilitation.
In the end, my mother had lost her speech but she had won her fight to live.
She has not spoken to my father for five years, but for that, he is truly
grateful.
- Cynthia M. Hamond
