Forced Silence

Be aware this story involves the loss of a child and may trigger an undesirable emotional reaction in some readers.

My mother will not stop talking. I’m trying very hard to focus on this instead of the flood of thoughts dammed up within my mind. Mom is peppering me with bits of information about today’s weather and my brother’s baseball game. Shockingly, he snagged himself a no-hitter this morning even though he is a mediocre pitcher. I imagine the other team must have been atrocious. I want to interrupt and ask if the rest of the team made amazing plays, contributing to the opposing team’s hitless massacre. Instead, mom just rumbles on, changing the subject to tell me about one of her coworkers buying a new car. Why would she leave out all the details about the game? I truly don’t care how quiet the woman’s fancy electric car is. I want to know the details of how my brother managed to pitch a no-hitter.

               Mom steps out of my view and continues talking. Too many feelings are screaming for my attention, and it takes a moment for me to realize she is no longer speaking to me. This leaves me listening to the incessant beeping of the monitor beside me and the whoosh of some other apparatus behind my head. I use the time to focus on my thoughts. I have a lot I need to explain to my mother. I need to tell her how I got here and I need her to know it’s not my fault. The antiseptic cleanliness of the room is muddling my thinking. I can’t stand the idea of her assuming I caused all this, and though she hasn’t told me, I sense that she already blames me.

               Abruptly, I miss my mother’s presence. I know she is near, but I need her closer. I concentrate on picking out her voice and when I find it; she sounds concerned. Mom’s voice pauses and a man’s voice replaces hers. He speaks medical words that I’ve never heard before in a soft, but firm voice, and I can’t stay focused. I want to tell the man to stop talking to my mother. I want her to come hold my hand. I want to look into her eyes and tell her I wasn’t even driving the car. I shouldn’t have let John have the keys, but it was just one tiny mistake. Him dying, that wasn’t my fault.

               A harsher voiced man is talking now. “I’m sorry, ma’am. There’s just no way to know exactly how it happened. Likely, she lost control traveling around the curve. Both occupants were ejected.”

               No, no, no! That’s wrong! I wasn’t driving! John was driving! I had my seatbelt on! I was doing everything right. It was only for a second. I needed to grab my purse from the back. I need my mother to know this. I never meant for this to happen and I really want to take it all back. I want to tell her. She needs to understand. I didn’t mean to do this to her.

               I hear my mother crying. At last, she returns, and she takes my hand in hers. All the machines beeping and puffing are making it difficult for me to focus on her touch, but it comforts me to know she is beside me again. Someone please turn those things off so I can speak to my mother in peace. If I could just let her know I am still her baby girl and I didn’t want this to happen, it would soothe her. She needs to know it was only seconds. She needs to know I’m still smart and I know better. This was just an accident.

               I can’t feel my mother’s hand anymore. I can see her though, even though I saw nothing earlier. A man in a white coat drags a chair up beside her. Somehow, the sound is jarring, breaking through all the whirring and bleeping sounds surrounding me. The doctor waits for her sobs to subside. It takes a moment, and then he delays another minute before speaking.

               “The latest results came back. I’m very sorry to say her brain is no longer sending messages to her heart and lungs.”

               Mom doesn’t take her eyes from my face as she speaks. “I don’t understand. Are you saying Joanie will die if we turn off the machines?”

               “In a way. By definition, your daughter is already gone. He brain is no longer functioning. You need to consider ―”

               Mom’s scream of emotional agony mirrors the one in my head. How can I be brain-dead? I have so many thoughts running through my mind that I can’t keep them straight or concentrate on any single consideration. Brain-dead people can’t think. They’re like vegetables. They have no thoughts and no emotions. I’m a disaster right now. I cannot control my feelings. They’re twisted up among all these thoughts and running around inside of me. I have so much I need to tell my mom!

               Mom is only whimpering now. “How can we be sure? What if she wakes up?”

               “She will not be waking up. The machines can keep Joanie’s body alive, exactly as you see her now. The other option is to disconnect the machines and let her go.”

               “You want me to kill my child?”

               No, no, no! I’m here! I’m listening! I’m watching. Hold on a moment. I can see everything in the room. I have an unobstructed view of the small space with pale green walls. A television hangs dormant near the entrance where a nurse leans on the doorframe. I look down at my own body. I do not recognize myself. My face… my head… that is a lot of bandages, and is that… is that a tube coming out of my brain? It is. It’s some kind of contraption that’s draining blood. Oh, that isn’t good. I can’t look at myself anymore and I turn my attention back to my mother.

               She’s staring over my body, eyes glazed. Mom licks her lips as if she is going to speak, but she remains silent. She inhales with purpose, as if forcing herself to breathe.

               “Do it,” Mom says.

               The doctor doesn’t ask if she is sure or even double-check that he heard her correctly. He stands and turns off the monitor. He nods to a nurse in the doorway and she approaches the bed to help. My mother continues to stare, silent tears running down her face, as the nurse removes tubes and wires from my body.

               It only takes seconds. The doctor and nurse leave and I’m alone with my mother. I will not get to tell her it wasn’t my fault. She’s never going to know I wasn’t driving. She lifts my pale hand to her lips and kisses my fingers.

               “I love you, baby.”

               I want to speak to her. She needs to know how much I love her back. It’s not fair. There’s so much I need to tell her.