A for April fools or “Avant-hier”: Prequel

That night I mourned my mother when she was still alive is still very fresh in my memory..

About 4 or 5 years ago, on a very cold winter night..

We gathered around my mother, her bronchitis worsened by the minute. She was gasping for air as she convulsed and we just watched her in horror. It’s then that my father decided to take her to the clinic. I helped him shoulder my mom to the car and that’s when she said in a feeble voice “Ahmed, don’t go out in your pajamas, it’s cold” and that hit me, the fact that she could barely breathe and still give me her usual motherly advice, my heart skipped a bit as her words resonated in my head.
They call it terminal lucidity..

My mom is a healthy woman in her forties. She goes to the gym weekly and eats healthy. She does, however, have this health breakdown once in a while, mostly because of her seasonal allergies. She’s had 4 children, all born with C section, which made her much more fragile since every C section carries along more risks than the one before. Her fourth kid, my youngest brother Amine, made her stay in bed on IV for more than two weeks. It was so painful she couldn’t go to the bathroom on her own.

My father and my younger sister went with mom, I was left home taking care of my youngest sister Amal and my youngest brother Amine who is still an infant at that time. I remember that I was playing with my brother as I tried to keep my mind busy when I heard the phone ringing. Amal was the closest one to it so she answered and then.. she left out a loud cry..

Time froze, colors faded, everything became blurry and dark.. this is not happening, this is a joke, this must be a joke..

I found myself asking my sister what was wrong, it seemed that I was so caught in my soliloquy that I didn’t notice my legs transporting me. She answered while she was ugly crying: they put my mom on a ventilator.

I wanted to yell at her for freaking me out, she always had this annoying overreaction to anything and everything. I wanted to sigh in relief. But I couldn’t. Because I already accepted her death.

Tomorrow, I’ll cry her more with everyone, and maybe later that day or the day after that, we’ll bury her and we’ll pray for her soul. I won’t see her again, I won’t hear her voice or see her smile. Life was less unbearable with her around.

I can’t recall what happened that night. Have I gotten some sleep? Did I stay awake? I can’t remember.. The only things that I can recall are my thoughts and feelings that night, feelings of grieve, deep sadness and chagrin.

The next day, she came back from the clinic. Her conditions got much better but she was still requiring some rest. I was still dealing with grieve and, on the other hand, pretty mad at my sister. I was yelling at my sister for no good reason when she summoned me.

I stood before her and, as I was starting telling her that I thought she was dead and that’s all because of Amal’s innocent reaction, I cried my eyes out. My speech slurred as I was sobbing and shaking. She opened her arms to me and I hurried to hug her, my mom, my real mom. It’s only then that I stopped my grieve. I was a kid, crying because he was afraid he’d lost his mother.

On one hand, recalling those memories always leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. On the other hand, it horrifies me how much I was disillusioned by my own mind, how I picked believing it over reality. Perhaps it was some sort of defense mechanism that made me “prepare” myself for the worst outcome. Either way, it felt real, and it broke me.