He had driven for nearly three

hours to see her.

He'd sat by the bed for an

hour and half. As he prepared to leave, she squeezed his hand. When he

tried to slip free of her grasp, she mustered what strength she could

to hold tightly for a minute longer.

"Don't leave me. Not yet.

Just sit by me another hour," she whispered.

"I've got to go, Mama,

but I'll be back," he said with a lump in his throat and slowly expanding

crack in the corner of his heart. On the long drive back home both the

lump and the crack seemed to grow larger.

Would this visit be the final

one? He had asked himself that question several times in recent months.

Each time he'd leave, it would be with a growing realization that it could

be the last leaving.

He had thought her first year

as a resident at the nursing home was bad. It pained him greatly to visit

her there and find her confined to her chair, no longer strong enough

to stand or walk without assistance.

Early on, she had been able

to get up and down out of the bed and sit in her recliner. She had brought

it from home. She liked her chair. During the early months she still could

go to the bathroom without assistance. It would exhaust her, but she could

do it.

Of course, it was good not

to worry about if she was going to remember to eat. Her food came three

times a day and she did not have to exert her too tired body to prepare

it. As institutional food went, the staff did a pretty good job.

And some of the nurses and

their assistants were kind. Even warm and friendly. Sometimes bubbly.

It must be a gift, he thought. It had to be a gift.

In spite of the good things

about his mom's new residence, he hated the environment. He could not

bring himself to call it her home. He hated walking up and down the halls

and seeing the little old ladies curled up in the beds like shriveling,

overgrown fetuses. Unresponsive. Alone. At least his mom was not like

that. Not yet anyway.

But that was last year. Things

had changed. The hospice nurses came regularly now to help keep her more

comfortable. Her body, that is. The congestive heart failure and leukemia

were winning. The body was wearing out. And the mind ... that was the

saddest part of all.

How does one comfort a mind

that has become that of a little girl again? A small child in a tired,

worn-out body? How does one address the anxiety? The fear? The aloneness?

Not that she was alone. Family

was there all the time except when she was sleeping at night. Thank God

she still could sleep at night.

He was the youngest of her

seven children. He was the only one who was not retired. There was comfort

in knowing the others were in and out more often than he. There was great

comfort in knowing that two sisters had dedicated themselves to keeping

her as comfortable as possible.

Yet, one thing and one thing

only brought him some degree of personal comfort each time he visited

the nursing home. There seemed to be at least 30 or 40 women to every

man.

We men may be dying off faster,

he thought to himself on the long drive home, but at least we get to do

it in our homes with our wives at our side. What a sad price the women

were paying to live longer. God, how it hurt to leave her there in that

place.

Suddenly he knew there was

more to his pain than that which accompanied each hard good-bye. He felt

her agony. Her loneliness. Her fear. As his own. He was thinking of himself.

Still. We are a self-centered people. It is our nature. Should he feel

guilty? For being human?

He thought how lucky those

individuals are who die quickly. The instant accidental death. The sudden

fatal heart attack. Did he dare hope for such a demise for his own body?

Sure, he thought, he could hope. And pray. For himself and his mom.

And through the connection

that was there, in the oneness he felt with her, some degree of comfort

might find its way into their aching hearts.

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