30 minutes. It feels like nothing at times, but right now it feels like an eternity. My mother lying on a hospital bed, tubes coming out of every orifice she has. She looks less human here in this state. She’s dying. I know it. The doctor is telling me what to expect when he removes the life support. He sounds like he’s far away yelling over a great void. I tried to imagine my mom when she was healthy and not lying on her deathbed. She has shimmering wavy dark brown hair. Her lightly tanned features have a giant smile upon them. She’s chasing after myself and my sister at a park we used to go to.

“Dante, your mother has been through a great deal of pain over the course of the past 24 hours. These machines are keeping her alive. We believe she is brain dead and there is no way she will ever wake up again. I can give you some time to figure out what you’d like to do, maybe we can call someone to come down here and help you make this decision?” The doctor addressed me while I held my mother’s hand and was watching her face, looking for any sign that she was the woman that raised me and not someone that just got into a fatal car crash just driving to the store to go grocery shopping.

“No. My sister is 16 and she wouldn’t want to see our mother like this. Not to mention I wouldn’t allow her to see mom like this. I’m 20. I’ll make the decision.” I held back tears but knew my dark blue eyes were slowly filling with them. I ran my right hand through my hair that I got from my mother and straightened up to let the doctor know my decision, “We’re going to take her off the machines. She wouldn’t want to be like this.” My voice broke towards the end.

“Okay. Do you want some time to say goodbye or would you like me to proceed with removing the tubes?” The doctor was trying to be as gentle as possible considering my age and the situation.

My voice breaking with the realization dawning on me, “You can start removing the tubes.”

He nodded his head and started turning off the machines. The tears began to fall from my eyes.

25 minutes. Mom’s life flashed before my eyes. I remember every story she ever told me.

“Hey, mom. Do you remember that one time you took me and Kelly to the arcade? We won a ton of tickets and had the best time,” I tried talking to her, but it was difficult with my voice cracking as if I were going through puberty. I didn’t want her to see me like this. I have to be an adult now. I have to take care of my sister. My deadbeat dad isn’t going to do it. I remember every fun thing we did together. I wish I could take it all back and do it all again. Make the memory better or something, but mom always believed that things that have happened, have happened for a reason and shouldn’t be changed. I never believed in that.

20 minutes. My own life flashes before my eyes. Every single time I’ve been reckless when driving my car. Mom hated me after every time I drove because I was such a reckless person. She got over her anger at me after a short time because she was just glad I was alive. God, I wish she were alive right now. I have to figure everything out. I work, but I don’t make enough to pay the bills on our house. Kelly and I would have to move out. Dante, stop thinking about that. Just worry about mom right now.

15 minutes. Mom believed in heaven and hell and God and all that, but I don’t. I hope God will make an exception, so I can be with my mom after we’ve both died. If not, what kind of God would allow that? I’ll miss my mom more than even I think I’ll know and now? Now, I have to figure everything out. I have to be Kelly’s guardian. I have to take care of her. If God can’t take care of us and bring us all together again after we’ve died, how can I believe in someone like that? Mom always loved talking about that and preaching that we need to have faith that everything will be okay when it isn’t right now.

10 minutes. As each moment passes and mom’s breath comes less and less, I feel myself dying a little inside. How am I gonna tell Kelly? Oh, God. How can I even take care of her? How will I be able to afford anything?
I try to mentally talk to mom, Mom, how can I do this? You never told me what would happen if you ever died. I need your help. What should I do?

I never got a reply as expected, but I felt a hand on my shoulder. I spin my head to face whoever decided to interrupt my mom from death and me from watching. The doctor had placed his hand on my shoulder to comfort me. He knows I didn’t want to call my sister to come in to see this and I have no one, but my mom and my sister.

5 minutes. It’s been five minutes since she last took a breath and I feel the sobs creeping up. The doctor goes over to check if my mom is dead or not. He announces her time of death at 1:56 p.m. The sobs come in full force and wrack my body. I have no control over them.

My only wish is that I can join my mother wherever she is when I die. I want to see my mother again.