A Common

Occurrence

(fiction)

The day mother died came as quite a shock. It was a simple procedure, they said. A common surgery, routine; nothing almost ever goes wrong. Before the procedure, she told me that I had nothing to worry about. "Your father still needs me to take care of him," she said.

They married forty years ago in a small parish house. It was a snowy day, I was told. Also unconventional for late spring. They might have delayed the ceremony to avoid the inclement weather but my older brother, still in utero, needed his disposition to be decent and in order. The wedding took place and a photographer took a picture to commemorate the wedding ceremony. I keep the framed photo on the hearth to this day.

My first appearance would have to wait another two years. I think my father was sated with one of each, a boy and a girl, while Mother often said, "There should be more friends for you."

We traveled a lot, my father being a military man. Even so, Mama was the general of the house. She made sure we grew up with friends, like Ferdinand, our first dog. Gertrude, the cat, came to us as a kitten and seemed to think she was just another dog. We had an obnoxious talking bird who outlived all of the various pets. My brother taught it a few choice swear words. I don't count my brother's snake as a pet. Anything that eats other pets, like mice or hamsters, isn't a pet.

After one of those never-ending wars, my father retired from the military. By then, both my brother and I had moved on, attending college at the insistence of mother. We both found our future spouses and started our own little families. I stayed in the same state as mother and father while my brother settled as far as he could go and still be in the same country. He divorced a few years later and tried again with a divorcee who already had three children. "Instant grandchildren," Mama said.

I chose not to have any children. They seemed inconvenient and messy to me. The world had enough people already. No sense adding to the problems. My brother kept to himself and we didn't see much of him so the obligation of taking care of my aging parents fell to me. Another reason not to have children to look after. My brother didn't see why he should participate since I was doing such a good job. He said I should inherit everything, not that the house was extravagant. His way of washing his hands of the whole thing.

My parents lived their lives, mostly in isolation. Father spent his time watching sports on the television. He didn't talk about much of anything, especially nothing about the war. Mother could predictably be found in the kitchen talking on the telephone. She bought an extra-long receiver cord so she could keep busy anywhere in her domain.

The day of the surgery, I drove my parents to the hospital, and I sat with father in the waiting room. He fidgeted so we took a walk around the neighborhood of the hospital, a large building with a neighborhood of its own. We stepped into one of the coffee shops inside the hospital and shared a hot drink. Father always drank his coffee black. No need for frilly nonsense to him. I drank tea with a splash of milk. I like my frills, thank you very much.

We expected another two hours in the waiting room that extended into a third and then a fourth. My nervousness grew with every second that ticked by like a pulse on my wrist. Yes, I wear an analog windup watch.

The next thing, the inevitable, raised its head even while the doctor came to meet us and divert us to a small conference room. Mother experienced a heart attack, a myocardial infarction. Why use such obscure vocabulary? Mother was resuscitated and she was in the intensive care unit. Time stretched from hours to days until mama passed away in hospice care. She'd suffered a stroke as well as the heart attack. Father wanted her to have some dignity. We didn't bother to consult with my brother.

Death is common. Eventually it happens to us all. A simple procedure. A final breath and the body followed whatever left mama before that. I held my father's hand and we stood on both sides of her bed and held her hands. I'll never forget that day. The only day I ever saw my father cry. What haunts me is that I'll never know if they were tears of joy or sadness.