At that moment, her glance sought something – I don’t know what or whom. Then it stopped on me. It stopped on me, became milder and was filled with tenderness. She patted me on the head.
"Don’t be upset, sonny. Everything will be all right."
“My dear Mama," I thought. "I believe you’re not afraid. But it’s me who cannot take it. I can’t see you the way you are without doing anything. I can’t, I can’t… How can I explain that to you?"
In a day or two I resumed my attempts to persuade her. "No chemo, just radiation. That's much easier. It just affects the tumor. Your organism won’t suffer, on the contrary…" I asked, persuaded, explained, and Mama at last agreed to have a radiation session.
It would have been better if she hadn’t.
The room where radiation sessions were performed was cooled to a low temperature to avoid overheating the machines. Overcooling of the patients didn’t seem to bother anyone.
"Please, cover Mama with a sheet," I begged the doctor. "She catches cold easily."
The doctor promised to do it.
Twenty minutes passed, the very long 20 minutes of the radiation session. The door opened, and Mama was led out, nurses supporting her under the arms. What had happened to her face? It was gray.
"Valera, you’ve been cheated. They didn’t cover me with anything."
What I had been afraid of had happened. Mama had gotten a chill, and other consequences of the radiation turned out to be no better. Mama had no appetite. She was losing weight. She refused to drink herbal brews. Her depression intensified.
I blamed myself for everything. I tormented myself. Why had I insisted on that damn radiation session? I bothered doctor Umarov with telephone calls. Our kind tabib came to visit. He brought new combinations of herbs that would boost Mama’s immune system. Only powerful resistance from her organism could prolong Mama’s life. We both understood that if Mukhitdin had been with us, he would have noticed any slight changes in Mama’s condition. He could have prevented some things. But what could we do? There, in Namangan, his students and his hundreds of patients awaited him. The telephone helped out. After asking me many detailed questions, Mukhitdin would give some advice and send new combinations of herbs.
By midsummer of 1999 Mama felt awful. It was necessary to send her to the hospital to have liquid pumped out of her lungs several times.
“Mama is tired. Ah, she’s so very tired,” I repeated to myself. I could see that, but there was something else I wasn't aware of. Not only was she not afraid of dying, she wanted to leave this world.
How strange it was. We had switched roles. Now it was Mama who had a secret – a desire to pass away. It was her secret because even now she did everything possible not to upset us, her children. She tolerated pain without complaining. She only asked for a stronger painkiller. Out of love and pity for us, she tried to deceive us, just as we had deceived her before. She hid her secret, and I didn’t notice or sense anything at all. I was striving to do what I had been doing – to prolong, prolong, prolong her life, which was so dear to us but so torturous and unbearable for her…
…Mama was at the hospital again. We were in her room, I and Dr. Spivak, her physician, a man my age with a kind face and broad shoulders. Mama lay with her eyes closed. An intravenous drip attached to her arm, so thin and motionless. The doctor put his hand on my shoulder and motioned with his head at the door. We left the room.
"Doctor, what about another…" "I uttered one of the thoughts that crossed my mind at feverish speed.
"Valera," the doctor interrupted me, his eyes sad. "Valera, it’s not often that we meet children like you and your sister. Your mama… Everyone on this floor talks about you, about how much you love her and take care of her. They all see it, Valera. But you don’t see the most important thing. Your mama wants to die. She has no strength to continue suffering."
At first, I didn’t quite understand him. What nonsense was that? Mama didn’t want to live? She had no more strength? That meant it was necessary to help her to mobilize her energy. It was necessary to bring back her desire to live. That’s what we were striving for. Who could stop children’s desire to prolong their mother’s life? That was our right.
Dr. Spivak was looking at me sadly and calmly.
"Valera… it’s her life. It’s her right to live or not to live. I am doing everything possible to prolong her life. But she doesn’t want it. She told me herself… herself. There's a limit to one’s strength. It’s something one’s soul dictates. Believe me, I’m a physician. Think about it… You’ve done all you could do."
Emma, my little sister, was waiting for me in the corridor. We hadn’t seen each other since the day before.
"Valery," she said. "Mama wants to pass away. Mama’s requesting…"
And Emma told me that the night before, when she was in Mama’s room, Dr. Spivak had stopped by to give an injection of painkiller. Mama thought it was the injection that would allow her to pass away. She cried happy tears and blessed the doctor…
Emma interpreted her blessing…
Then the three of them were crying…
The three of them were in agreement. Now it was up to me to consent.
Chapter 19. Give Me Your Advice, Mama
It’s me, Mama, Valera, your son. Let’s talk. I need your advice. You don’t need to answer me. Just listen.
We’ve been together for such a long time, actually not that long… You’ve always been by my side. I can’t imagine life without you. You’ve always supported me. You’ve always been my friend. Remember, I’ve always asked for your advice, and even when you answered, 'Do as you find proper, sonny,' it was important for me to hear your voice.
And now… I also need your advice.
It concerns a woman, a young good-looking woman. I remember her very healthy… She’s very dear to me. We’ve always been together…
Mom, do you remember how we laughed when you told me about my two-year-old redheaded self running around our courtyard with my empty potty, banging it against the walls like a hammer?
Mom, do you remember taking us to Grandma’s place in the Old City before going to work? Do you remember our walk to the streetcar stop? You had Emma in your arms, and I ran behind you, barely managing to keep up with you and whining. “Mom, Emma ei, Emma ei, I opp-la!” And you would answer, “But she's your little sister.”
Remember about the cigarettes? How old was I? Must have been 18… You must have seen a pack of cigarettes. I thought, “Now I’ll get a scolding.” Cigarettes were taboo in our family. Well, any of my friends would have gotten a scolding for that. But you did it in a very special way. I don’t remember you ever scolding anyone. You sat down next to me and told me a funny story about your brother and cigarettes. We were both laughing so hard.
Well… What did I want to tell you? You see, this woman, my friend, is not well, not at all. And the doctor says that I must part with her, that I must leave her alone, only help her to reduce the pain. What should I do with this pain that’s in my heart? What should I do? I don’t want it. I can’t let her go. Mama, I don’t want to give up! We’ve been fighting for so many years.
Mama, can you hear me? I need your advice…
Her answer came a few hours later.
It seemed to me that she was dozing or semi-conscious. Then suddenly her eyes were wide open and she tore off the oxygen mask. I rushed to put it back, but she held the mask firmly in her hand. I tried to take it away from her, tried to persuade her, “Mama, you need to put it back on.” Looking at something up above, she wheezed, “That’s enough! Everything’s been done…”
I still managed to get the mask back on, even though I knew I had her answer.