Powerlessness

“You will not die.”  The words of NCIS’ famous Senior Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs, delivered to Agent Anthony DiNozzo, as he lay dying of pneumonic plague. A light slap to the back of the head, and again, each whispered word measured out independently, as if with a period between them: “You. Will. Not. Die.” And the junior agent recovers, obediently.

If only it were that easy.

About six months ago, I went through a painful breakup. As with other difficult times in my life, Mom was there, on the other end of the phone line, reminding me of my value as a woman and making me laugh. I vividly recall one particular phone call within a few weeks of the split; as usual, she listened, let me cry, and encouraged me. She understood what I was going through; she’d been hurt badly a few times herself, and she and I were so similar emotionally. She had been feeling pretty lousy around that time, dealing with some pain and numbness related to a couple of car accidents she’d had years ago. Selfishly, I said to her, “Mom, you have to get better. You have to. I can’t lose you, too, you know? I need you.” She responded as I expected she would: “I know, Baby Girl. Don’t worry. I’m going to get better.”

I really do think Mom wanted to get well, at least at that point she did. In spite of the many difficulties she had – financial, family, health – she had three grandchildren she adored and in whose eyes she hung the moon. She loved her dogs and cats as much as most people love their children. I needed her and loved her more than anyone, and she knew that. She enjoyed her friends, music, and books, and when she felt up to going, her church. Besides all that, I flat-out told her to get better.

That last sentence is absurd, isn’t it?

The sense of powerlessness I feel as a result of Mom’s death is profound, beyond description. I wonder if she also felt powerless. I often find myself wondering if the emotional and physical pain of her life had reached some sort of critical mass, so that she didn’t want to live anymore. I ask myself if she knew what was happening to her beforehand, and if maybe she even welcomed the relief. I know she told friends at Thanksgiving dinner that she was “ready,” and I think that is somehow significant.

As I think of our conversations over the preceding days, I remember telling her many times that I loved her. I wish I had gotten to tell her again. It bothers me so much that I didn’t get to look her in the eyes and tell her one more time how much I love her and how important she was to me. I suppose no matter how many times you tell someone that, you always want to tell them one more time. The truth of the matter is the power over death is not in our hands. We don’t get to decide to say “I love you” one last time, to tell death to wait, to stand back, that we aren’t going to let the one we love go just yet. Gibbs and DiNozzo may tell us otherwise, but when death comes, we don’t get to choose.