Moment of Silence

Sharing a personal piece as I accompanied my fiesty 90-year old mother on her last journey on this earth in March 2023 amidst many pressing work and family demands.

This poem was shared with healthcare colleagues and first published on HEARTBYSDMHI on 18 November 2024 (mum's birthday!)

You made it, mama!

I’m so proud of you!

It’s 4am, quiet and calm as you

slip silently into the future.

No fanfare

No weeping and wailing

Just you and I

in peaceful silence

punctuated by your last ‘Ah-Ah’

gently calling out before expiring.

Was that your farewell to the world of 90 years,

or your excitement at being free to dance with the angels?

Tired of breathing, swallowing, talking, moving,

Shunning bright lights, noisy interferences, chest thumping, throat suctioning, tube-feeding, painful blood-taking—

You shut your eyes, ears, mouth,

disengaging from the world of the living,

willing us to stop all the pointless ways of delaying your home run.

Just stay with me, hold my hand, love me into the next life,

you seem to say,

with each uncertain breath,

a little scared to go alone.

We’re here 24/7, mama,

You will not be forsaken on this final stretch, I promise.

Bronchiectasis, heart failure, aspiration pneumonia, low oxygen concentration, high urea, hypercalcemia, bedsores, lung crepitations, arrhythmias, chest X-rays, MRI scans, dextrose-saline drip, Augmentin, Calcitonin..

Why do they matter now?

Can’t you see that I only need to hear the voices of grandkids,

feel a familiar soft touch,

soothing voice,

calm presence,

to know that I’m safe in this strange room

that’s not my home?

‘I want to go HOME!’

—last strong words you uttered in frustration.

And I had promised you could, once you swallow and walk again.

We were hopeful.

Maybe this was not the end yet.

Please mum, we just need the system to tide us over.

I could not contemplate another fall at home,

another broken forehead,

serum on the bathroom floor,

deep purple bruises on your delicate arms,

another month of fearing we might both fall through the cracks,

another day of feeling I have failed you as a doctor.

We just need some help here, mum, please bear with this a little longer. For us.

Receiving the anointing of the sick,

Peace descends.

I accept my mission.

I will help you go home.

I will be midwife to your soul.

Minutes after your last breath,

Charging into our serenity with the Trinity,

Peace rudely shattered by a trio of bright blue—

resuscitation trolleys

commanding prompt action:

‘Stand clear, get ready to shock the patient!’

as your pacemaker ticks away in defiance,

confounding best-laid procedures.

I slip away quietly from the growing frenzy, in disbelief.

After our sacred silence

moments ago, the incongruence

was too much to bear.