The Momoir Project

by Erin MacNair

I have dreams that frighten me, stir me to wakefulness, often. Most of them lose their power in a respectable few minutes, but others stay lingering, like a bad ghost watching at the bedside. Tonight, a bad ghost. This was a dream about my mother dying, me having to call and break the news to my brother. I pushed the thought away and stared at the ceiling, a feeling of creeping dread fingering at my thoughts. “Paranoia,” I tell myself, paranoia, not premonition. Not this time. Tomorrow, we were going out on the town and I won’t let some hairy dream ruin it.

“I’ll have the omelette.” I decide, eventually. Mom went for a salad, a paired down affair of interesting greens and snazzy dressing. We were enjoying this rare moment of mother-daughter time, sans children. How often had I taken those everyday occasions for granted, before I had my own kids, before I knew what “busy” really meant? I settled into my cushioned seat and surveyed our surroundings. Despite our usual cautionary ways, we’d decided to eat at a place we’d never heard of, one that looked expensive. It looked like a place that may not even want to admit jean-clad women sporting multiple shopping bags. Perfect, I thought, I am going to treat her and she doesn’t know it yet. When we have to, we can use an hour or two for soul bearing and shopping, and today is no exception.

Midway into our delightful meal, Mom stops. She tries to cough, but nothing happens. I see her reach for her water, take a sip, and spit it out again. Then her eyes grow large, fear written into them. I feel the panic of my dream drain into the moment.

“Mom, are you choking?” I say, staring at her. She nods, yes. I stand up, though my legs feel strange, I think I am tilting. “Help! Waiter…help! She’s choking!” It doesn’t occur to me to use my own Heimlich manoeuvre skills, as they haven’t been updated since the 9^th grade. We unruly teens were all giggles and smiles then, wrapping our arms around a rubbery doll with a bad haircut. I should have paid more attention. Jesus, I have children, why don’t I know how to do this? I see she is trying to stand, but is sliding instead on the bench across from me, losing her balance. I panic, and turn to the woman sitting next to me. “Help me, please…” I beg her. I can’t bring myself to help my mother. I can see her frailty, her terror, and I am unable to do anything. This is my worst nightmare, and I am going to lose the person I love most in the world. My life feels like it is sliding away. “Can you do the Heimlich?” She asks.

“I don’t know if I can.” I squeak, thinking I will hurt her if I don’t know what I am doing.

“I can.” She states, moving behind my mother with a quick slide. Mom goes limp in her arms. She is barely breathing. With a few sharp movements it is over. She emits the aspirated salad piece, is coughing and taking in a large breath. I turn to see the entire restaurant ogling our terrifying ordeal. I am crying now, but my Mom just blinks her eyes in shock. She’s always good in a crisis. “Thank you!” she tells the woman. “I think you just saved my life!” The woman smiles and pats her, strokes her like a cat. “No, you just saved my life,” I say, awkwardly. Nothing I can say to this women will let her know what she has done for me. I am crying and shaking and I can’t stop, and the manager keeps coming back to see if we are okay. Our waiter checks in and says…”I’m sorry, I..I didn’t know what to do.” We say that’s okay, we didn’t know what to do either, make a few funny remarks about what a nice time we were having here, ha ha, but everything is all right now?

Mom pays for my saviours’ lunch. She tries to protest, but Mom swiftly insists that paying for her meal is the very least she can do. I just sit back and watch, as if this is all happening to someone else. I don’t get to pay this time.

We leave, silent and stunned. I take my Mother’s arm and put it in mine, as if she is 90 years old. I feel like hugging her and I feel like screaming. Trauma is not in my everyday emotional repertoire.

“Well, that sucked,” I say, in my usual understated humour. Mom looks at me and smiles, beginning to laugh. I crack jokes to separate the oily realizations sticking inside our heads. It doesn’t really dawn on her until an hour from then, when she is sitting quietly in her room at my house. Then she breaks down, realizing that her life very nearly ended.

Night comes with cool quiet and darkness. I don’t even attempt sleep. I want to go downstairs and lay in my Mother’s bed, to coo to her like a dove and stroke her arm, tell her that I love her. But I know that I will just bawl, upsetting her more. I want to be seven years old, and I want to curl up next to my soft, warm Mom, so she will tell me everything is fine, and I will believe her. But I don’t. I hope beyond reason that she is sleeping, and regret that now. I should have woken her up, to tell her she is my everything, that I’m sorry I failed her. That thought wouldn’t have crossed her mind. “Don’t be silly,” she’d say, brushing an invisible spider out of the air.

I lay awake, guilt knotting my insides. She needed me, and I was frozen, paralysed. I am usually the protector, the fearless one. Faced with this danger, I slipped into a tiny shell and watched from afar, as my whole world seemed to shrink into milliseconds, saved only by the strength and swift action of a complete stranger.

Learn how, now.

In Canada, contact St. Johns Ambulance:

http://www.sja.ca/Canada/Training/AtHome/Pages/EmergencyLevelFirstAid.aspx.

In the U.S.: www.redcross.org

Writing Start: Emergency