After Ten Years, That Tea Still Reminds Me of Mom

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This is my least favorite day of the year. Ten years ago today, on Thanksgiving, November 22, 2007, my mom suffered a brain aneurysm. The next seventeen days would be long — if you’ve ever wondered how many eternities can fit into one hour, I can tell you — and painful. I’d been up all night, watching A Man For All Seasons, then woke about four hours after I went to bed. Hey, it was Thanksgiving, I could sleep all day if I wanted. Ha. When I called my mom (the daily routine) she sounded groggy and complained of her head “killing” her. That was unusual because my mom didn’t complain, so I asked if she wanted to go to the doctor. “No, I don’t want to go to the doctor!” she snapped. She hated going to the doctors, moreso as she got older (and they found more things wrong with her). I figured that meant she was okay. Nope. Two hours later, she had no say in the matter. That day she underwent three operations on her brain for the aneurysm. Any one of the three could have killed the COPD-riddled 75-year-old, but she survived them all. We left the hospital about 2 AM after the third and final surgery of the day was complete. Suddenly there was a “new normal.” No more calling Mom to check on her and to let her know I was okay. No, it was go to the hospital and watch her lie in a bed in ICU. Initially there was hope that she would recover, because she made it through the worst part of it all: the initial rupture of the aneurysm and the trio of surgeries. As the days wore on, however, and there was no indication that there was anything happening, hope began to fade. Then came December 1. I stopped at the hospital coffee shop to get some hot water to make tea. Once I got to her room I opened the tea bag — mint tea — and put the bag in the water. For some reason I took the wrapper and stuck it under Mom’s nose. I don’t know if you’ve ever smelled a tea bag wrapper right after the bag’s been removed. That enclosed area smells like whatever that tea bag is. The powerhouse smell of mint went up my mom’s nose, and she reacted. Not favorably. She moved her nose away from the wrapper and opened her eyes. My brother and I were elated. Mom almost seemed “there.” She appeared to understand what we were saying to her, and she reacted when I put my phone to her ear and let my aunt (her sister) talk to her. She made a motion that sort of resembled trying to squeeze our hands (it was more like a meager tap with a finger, but we got the message). We told her we loved her, and she mouthed “I love you” back to us. That was the only ray of sunshine in those seventeen days. On December 9, with no hope of recovery, the breathing machines were turned off in accordance with my mom’s living will. Even then, God was merciful to us: the machines were disconnected at about 1 PM, and her body didn’t stop for another nine hours. That freed us from the “guilt” of having “killed” Mom. My mom was a wonderful person. Everyone who knew her loved her dearly. And today, ten years after that awful day that turned our lives upside down, I had mint tea....and the wrapper’s smell still reminds me of Mom. May her memory continue to be a blessing.