She'd been trying to get over, (and I'd been encouraging her along, believe me), since Saturday.
Sunday she said "Omar" very clearly, and "Elka", a little less clearly.
I don't know anyone named Omar or Elka, except for Omar on The Wire. (And yes, he is my boyfriend.)
I said if they're here to take you, you just go ahead on Mom.
She didn't listen.
I said a lot of things on Sunday. I got mad at her. Told her she was being a stubborn Florida mule.
Then switched tactics and told her we all loved her and she was free to go. Told her she did a good job and we would be okay. Go be with Dad and Mookie and Whiskey...[inserted all the dead people and pets I could conjur up].
I went through a box of Kleenex. I cried and railed at God and told him I was going to be pissed at Him if she was in pain. (He knows me, it's okay).
I told her that she was pissing Jesus off by keeping him waiting. Someone pointed out that since she wasn't a money changer in the temple, I was probably lying on that last one.
I read Alice in Wonderland to her. We looked at pictures. I timed the breathing stoppages and the moaning intervals. I watched The Last Time I Saw Paris.
I reminisced about things. All the crappy artwork on the mantle. Keeping my Girl Scout pin and the award I won for writing in 8th grade in her jewelry box. Her goofy cookie making habits (the recipe says it makes five dozen, dammit I'm going to get at least that), having a laughing spell in the frozen food aisle at Big and Crusty Bagels in Publix. (Who would give that name to a food item?!)
She stopped talking on Monday. They increased her morphine to a bigger dose, every hour if needed.
When she slept, I could go home. That was our drill for four days.
Steffi was with me (thanks for that), this morning when it happened.
She did it on her own terms. Like she did everything else.
I love you Mom.