Flatline

Beep. Beep. Beep.

A woman with short peppered black hair peered over at her daughter and smiled softly at the sight that greeted her. Her daughter was staring intensely at her math book and was flipping the pages back and forth as her eyes were darting across the words and numbers to find a way to solve a difficult homework problem. The woman's features when watching this scene were serene. A few wrinkles were across her forehead and a few freckles splashed upon her cheeks. The woman's stature wasn't tall, something that her daughter had unfortunately inherited, but her black eyes were now filled with none other than love. These same black eyes could also glower in anger and in turn produce the deadliest glare. Putting down her cooking tools, the woman walked over to the girl to pat her head and hug her. Then she went back to her cooking. The girl only smiled back, already used to her mother's own rare but simple displays of affection.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The woman before me now could not be my mother—absolutely not. She was red and bloated covered in a white hospital gown. Her once peppered black hair, or what was left of it after the operation, was covered with a hospital cap that covered the entire top of her head. The IV in her arm was constantly feeding her liquid sugar for nutrients and there hooks all over her body. A machine monitored her heart, blood pressure, and breathing. A tube poked into her two nostrils to provide and force the comatose that woman to breathe. The woman in front of me right now was a stranger. Her face was puffy and any wrinkle lines had disappeared in that swollen mass of flesh. This wasn't how she was supposed to be! This wasn't her! Mom was never this quiet or this still. She was always moving around keeping busy, working, scolding, cleaning, or cooking. She was—never—like this.

"Ms. Vu, anytime you are ready," a voice behind me spoke up, startling me. I jumped and turned around to see the face of a doctor behind me. He held a clipboard in his hands, a stethoscope around his neck and the trademark white lab coat of a doctor. His eyes held such...sympathy for me. He knew the choice I had to make; after all, he was the one that presented me with it. The wrinkles on his face and the grey hair on his brunette head showed that he had many years of experience with these cases, and that he was tired.

"Can you…can you give me more time? I'll ask for you once I'm finished, Dr. Thompson," I croaked, trying not to choke up as I looked at him.

"Of course," he said right away with understanding in his eyes, "Let me know whenever you are ready." As he prepared to exit the room, I looked at my mother again, wondering, yet again, if I was making a rash decision. I wanted to look for a scrap of hope or anything but this option.

"Miss Vu?" the same voice spoke up again, this time behind me. I turned around to see the doctor with his hand at the door handle about surveying me with piercing eyes.

"I just want to say that this was a choice that you made for your mother, not yourself. This is what you think is best for her," he said kindly.

"I know but still…" I began.

"The doors we open and close each day decide the lives we live Miss Vu. Think about the life your mother wanted for you. Think about how she wanted to live. You should find the answer there," Dr. Thompson said wisely and then left closing the door behind him. His words struck me deeply because I didn't understand at first. What doors? What was he talking about? I knew in my heart that this was not what mother wanted. I knew that. Yet, it was hard to do what was expected of me.

I could tell this was taking a toll on me physically as I bent over my bag and pulled out a mirror to assess the damage that sleep deprivation had on my appearance. I practically lived at the hospital nowadays, so I always brought a few things with me. Looking back at my face I saw some of my mother in me. I had the same hair, eyes, and eyebrows but the facial structure belonged to my father. In short, looking back at me was a woman with dark eyes with long lashes, thick eyebrows, and a round face. My clothes even looked worn out, the purple blouse and jeans were clean but wrinkled. The long, thick black hair I received from my mother refused to anything but straight. No hairstylist was ever a match for such a thing. As I put my mirror back, I felt a little ridiculous, caring about my appearance at a time like this. It wasn't like mom could see me.

Alone in the room with my mother, I looked at her again and took a deep breath. Then I pulled up a chair next to her bed and smiled at her through teary eyes. This would be the last time I would talk to her while her heart was still beating. She was just so quiet. The mother I knew was never idle; she was always so energetic and her temper…oh dear god her temper.

Keeping my smile on my face I pulled in closer to her, careful not to get the chair stuck on the numerous wires near her bed. "Hey mom," I began in a shaky voice.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

"Oh no! I will not be paying the difference between airline tickets! It was your job to make sure we could get on that plane and we couldn't, so it is your job to make sure we get on the next one with no expense to us! You are the traveling agency, not us!" the woman yelled at the young receptionist who had a panicked look on her face. No client had ever behaved this way before. The woman's facial features were hardened in anger as her eyebrows knitted together and a scowled graced her face. She stood to her full height of…five feet, but still looked overbearing and extremely fierce.

"M-m-ma'am," the reception said trying to calm her down, "we can get you that plane flight, we will make sure you get on the next one, but we really can't pay the difference. Please under-"

"No, I want to talk to your manager, now" the woman growled. The teenage girl next to her stood with a rather blank expression. This was her mother arguing after all and she had grown used to it. However, it amused her to no end, so she kept a blank expression and tried to repress her laughter that was underneath. When she was younger, she was always mortified and horrified when her mother yelled in public. However, after years of seeing what amazing results that kind of "bargaining" had, her mother accused the IRS of making a mistake on her taxes and won for God's sake, the girl decided to sit back and enjoy the show. Not to mention this would also be another learning experience for the girl. However, the teenager couldn't help but feel sorry for the receptionist though, well, she felt sorry for anyone that had to deal with her mother when she was in this kind of a mood.

What had started out as a simple plane ride to Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam to attend the wedding of her brother had escalated into a nightmare for mother and daughter. Right at the ticketing line, the flight attendant informed the middle aged woman and her daughter that their Vietnamese visas had expired and they couldn't go onboard the plane. Their travel agency had failed to check that matter for them. After several phone calls back to Vietnam, another phone call home to her uncle to pick them up, and a final phone call to their travel agency as a small warning of the assault that was to come, they went home, tired and irritated. The girl was nowhere as agitated as her mother though.

Thus, they found themselves at the travel agency the next day, with a receptionist already whimpering before the wrath of her mother.

"Mai, c-call Ms. Hoa," the receptionist said abruptly picking up the phone. After that phone call, the poor woman looked around everywhere except my mother's smothering eyes. She did not want to deal with this anymore.

A few minutes later, another woman came out. Unlike the receptionist, she was taller, and had a far calmer attitude and confidence radiated in her presence. "Can I help you Ms. Tim?" came her cool and collected voice. Still, Ms. Hoa never stood a chance against the girl's mother as she changed tactics. Instead of just blind rage as she had done with the receptionist, the mother used a completely different strategy. The next few minutes were spent between the two women exchanging sharp but polite words.

"Ms. Vu, we really cannot pay the price difference. I can assure you that we will get you on the next plane but a difference of over a hundred dollars in ticket value just isn't plausible for us," Ms. Hoa tried to reason with the other Asian woman to back down.

"No. That isn't fair. We knew nothing about the visas; we trusted your agency to check everything for us. That was what we paid you for. You cannot say to my face that you cannot take full responsibility for this," the middle aged woman said firmly.

As the manager of the travel agency was about to speak again, the mother spoke once more in a lowered tone.

"Did you know," Ms. Vu all but whispered, "how we felt last night? Being denied on that plane and at a loss of who to call? At that time, no one could pick us up. Did you know we had to take the shuttle home? Do you know how much those cost?" Her tone was now sad and severely disappointed. The teenager blinked several times while keeping her face neutral once more. She hadn't recalled having to take the shuttle home.

It was at this point that Ms. Hoa, in a matter of speaking, caved into her mother's demands. Not only would the manager make the agency pay the difference in ticket fare, Ms. Hoa, herself, would accompany the mother and daughter to the airport. Upon their departure of the office, the mother saw her daughter's amused face. All she said was, "Nuong, we are in America. Things are fair here. If they are not, we have to fight, understand?"

"But…we never took the bus home mom," the teenager replied back with a small smile.

"A small lie never hurt anyone," her mother said dismissively. The girl believed her mother deserved an Oscar at times.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

"Mom…you know…those vegetables you always gave me with lunch? I never ate any of them, I always threw them away. Simply because I liked the rice and meat better," I said in an attempt to be playful or cheerful. The façade crumpled after about ten seconds.

"Damn it, this is sounding like a confession mother! And there's no god damn priest here!" I bit out angrily. Then I reprimanded myself, I shouldn't swear in front of her. From sadness to anger, I was just a bundle of emotions today. I breathed in and out, in and out to regain a sense of calm again. This time I reached for my mother's hand. It was bloated along with her body, the fingers swollen and red. I rubbed her palm and could still feel the calluses on them. The five fingers still had thick nails upon them and there was a mole on the right hand. The skin was not quite smooth, the fingers, even before the bloating, were never quite straight and petite, they were a little stubby. These were the hands her mother always complained about.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The mother looked long and hard at her hands that day. She had always thought of her hands as ugly. The nails were never perfect the hands never soft because they were always sporting hard patches of skin everywhere. There was even a callus on her middle finger, where she used a pen in her younger days. With rather large hands and fingers that were not thin and dainty, the woman never wore a ring or any form of jewelry on her hands.

Sighing as she looked at them, she wretched them from her sight and instead looked at the hands of her daughter. Unlike hers, her daughter's hands were free from the hardships of her youth. They were smaller than her hands and the fingers were shorter but thinner. Most of all, there were not as many calluses. She always loved buying her daughter a ring or bracelet because her daughter could wear them well. It was at that time the ten year old girl next to her mother in the car ride to LA woke up. "Mom, I'm cold," the girl muttered as she grabbed her mother's hands and wrapped them around herself.

"Your hands are warm," the girl said softly before drifting to sleep again. In the dark of the night, within a van bringing them to LA, the mother smiled.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

"Your hands aren't quite as warm anymore, but they were always beautiful to me mother, you knew that right?" I asked softly knowing I would not get an answer. These were the hands that singlehandedly supported their family of five. These hands welcomed me and my brothers into this world, and these hands that waved goodbye to each one of us as we left to create our lives. These were the hands that slapped, cooked, cleaned, or hugged all of us. My mother's hands always tried to take on all the burdens my family carried. Why couldn't my mother ever be selfish?

"You never cared about yourself. Everything was for us, for our education. Even now…it's summer right now you know? It's almost as though you planned this, because you knew college was out for vacation," my voice said an admonishing tone. Within the admiration I had for my mother's altruism, there was also a good amount of anger. It was impossible to get mother to do something just for herself. She never cared for personal happiness, because she always cared for the happiness of others. She always told me that my happiness was hers and as I grew other, I wanted to tell her that was a load of bullshit. There had to be a time when she lived just for herself. Out of everyone, it was my mother that deserved happiness that most.

There was still silence. It was almost as though I expected my mother to say something, anything, out of the blue.

"I wanted you to be here mom, for my graduation," I said quietly. The anger was coming back again. It started as a trickle and then slowly built and built and built. Then it poured out of the floodgates and I found myself on my feet but still holding her hand.

"I wanted you, not the money you would leave behind!" I hissed to the motionless body before me.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

"Nuong, listen, if I ever die before the age of sixty five, look in these files, alright? They contain my life insurance, which should be enough to get you through college," the mother said one day while digging through and sorting her paperwork cabinet. Her daughter blinked several times, looking horrified.

"Mom, don't say that," the college student admonished, "you are not going to die."

"You never know what will happen," her mother said back in her practical tone, "this way I know you will be fine in your studies. Remember, nothing is more important than your education, nothing. I don't care what you become, follow your dreams but you need to finish college. Besides, I don't want to live longer than sixty five anyway." There was silence after this. The young woman tensed, unsure of how to reply to her mother. The air was now awkward and uncomfortable as the tension between mother and daughter built up.

"What if I said…I don't want the money? What if all I want is to see my mother at my college graduation? Why is it always about my education? It's always been that! Good grades, study hard, and become a good person later in life! You always supported my education, even before my well-being mother. For once, why can't you just think about me? The daughter, not the scholar because as your daughter, I want you there for another good portion of my life!" the daughter all but yelled. This time, before her mother could retort, another sound interrupted the conversation between the mother and daughter.

"Má à!" came a cry from a voice crackled by age speaking in Vietnamese. It was equivalent to the word "mother" being called out. The woman stopped her activity and immediately left to go to her mother's room, the daughter's grandmother. Sometime during the grandmother's final years in her nineties, she had forgotten if she was the daughter of the middle aged woman or the actual mother. Age came with wisdom but also carried a curse and burden.

The young lady waited patiently until her mother was done attending to her grandmother before she once again watched as her mother started on the paperwork once more. After a few more minutes of silence, the mother spoke with a sigh. "You see your grandmother? Whenever I look at her, I get scared. I do not want to live to be a burden to you," the woman spoke quietly. The papers were still being shuffled and organized into folders. Then the motion ceased as the mother looked the daughter straight in the eye.

"There was a day when you were at college when your grandmother couldn't go to the bathroom, because she was very constipated," the older woman said in a weary tone, "So at first I tried pumping in the glycerin like I normally do when that happened but it didn't, it didn't work." There was a pause in the story here, the silence then filled with more paper shuffling as the mother then avoided her daughter's eyes.

"I had to reach in there, Nuong. I had to reach into her anal opening to get her to go to the bathroom. And when she started, it didn't all go in the toilet. You know, she's not very coordinated right now; it was one of her bad days. I had to clean it all and her," the mother spoke with an even voice that still had a touch of anguish and slightly, just barely, shook. The daughter knew her grandmother had on and off days. There were days when she was a wonderful old woman but there were other days when she was just confused and lost in her own world. It was those days that were the worst. Those days diapers had to be worn and her grandmother had to be watched all the time.

"I don't want to do that to you. I don't want to hold you back in life. That is what I can do for you as a mother, remove your burdens. This is how I choose to live my life. Should I live to an old age, I don't want you to take care of me. I will go to a nursing home. The door on my life will be closed to make sure your door; your opportunities will always be open. Not just for your education, because I love you I don't want you to resent me in my later years. You will grow bitter watching me grow old my dear so I pray I leave you before then," the older woman said fiercely, now looking her daughter in the eye. The life insurance papers were in the mother's hands.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Tears were streaming down my cheeks. I tried to wipe them away, but they refused to be dismissed. They fell like rain drops upon the metal handrail of the hospital bed as I just looked at my mother who was motionless, soundless, and practically lifeless. This would be the time to cry, for various things. I cried for the regrets I had in my life with my mother. I cried for not being a better daughter to her and for her. I cried for each time I yelled at her, and I cried for each time I thought badly of her in my head. Most of all, I cried for the condition she was in, because I knew, better than anyone, that this was her worst nightmare.

However, it was about time to end that nightmare. I understood the doctor's words because they were once my mother's own words to…me. I knew that I was doing something that would make my mother happy. I knew that I was doing exactly what she wanted me to, because she would have hated being in this state! I knew that but it…it was so hard to just shut the door on her life. It was always just us, mother and me against the world. In the beginning of my college years, she was also always there. Now…it would just be me. That thought scared me more than anything.

"I can cry now, right mom? Because, you're still with us, here, alive," I sobbed out, "Even if you don't consider this living, you're alive! So for now, I can cry, right?"

Beep. Beep. Beep.

"Your grandmother is in the emergency room. I don't know if she'll make it. At times, I almost hope she doesn't," her mother told her in the car ride back home. The daughter looked at her mother with a panicked expression.

"What happened?" the young woman demanded.

"Her gallbladder stones are the problem again. The stones in there are plugging her system and giving her an infection. I've…I've signed a consent form for surgery to remove the gallbladder," the mother said in a steady and determined voice.

"What are her chances of living?" asked the daughter quietly. The grandmother who had always been there with the daughter and mother was now reaching the end of her life. It was funny how often the young woman complained about taking care of her grandmother over the years in her head but if her grandmother was gone, there would be a great void that just couldn't be filled. The daughter and mother both knew that if she couldn't pull through, it wouldn't necessarily be a bad thing—no matter how cruel that thought was.

"Fifty percent," said her mother curtly. It might as well have been a statement that the daughter's grandmother would was about to die. The ride was silent on the way home.

A few days later, news of the daughter's grandmother came in a phone call. She hadn't made it through the surgery, the doctors were sorry, but they had done all they could. It was in the tone of their voices that the real message was hidden in. The grandmother was just far too old for the procedure to be made a success. Everyone involved in this surgery had known that. The mother made funeral arrangements immediately.

The funeral was depressing to the daughter. Everyone wore black and everyone was somber. It was the point of a funeral but the young lady didn't need to really feel any worst. She, like her mother, wore a simple black blouse and pants. It was neat, it was black, and it was appropriate.

What hurt the most was that her grandmother had died in pain, away from her family. That was the part that tore their hearts to pieces.

As they prepared to cremate the body, the daughter's eyes stung with tears, unshed just waiting to fall. Her mother took one look on her face, and took her by the hand to a quiet corner to face the older woman directly in the eyes. "Nuong, you will not cry. This, this isn't something to be sad over," her mother said quietly. The girl was shocked, unable to comprehend what to do next. Why couldn't she cry? Everyone else cried at funerals, why couldn't she cry for her own grandmother whom she had known all of her life?

"What am I supposed to do then?" the daughter demanded in a shaky voice.

"When the cremation happens, smile. Smile so your grandmother's spirit won't be held back. The dead are always among us Nuong, especially when they have just died. If you cry, her spirit will feel obligated to stay behind, so don't. Let…her…go. It's far past her time," her mother said solemnly. It was culture, a belief that her mother always followed. As a Buddhist, what her mother wanted more than anything was peace for her grandmother. A simple nod was all the daughter to could do as her mother led her back to the funeral. Her grandmother was ninety six years old when she died.

After the funeral was over, the mother gave her daughter her will that night. It stated in the will that she would not be given life support for a prolonged period of time if there was no chance she would survive. As the daughter took the will from her mother to sign as a witness her mother spoke once more. "Promise me, when I die, you won't cry. Remember what I said about the dead, smile for me. Let me go."

Two years later, there was a car accident during the summer. A middle aged woman was reported to be driving at night coming home from work and was hit by a drunk driver. The woman was admitted into the hospital but the damage had already been done. She was brain dead and on life support within twenty four hours.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

"Doctor…I'm…I'm ready," I said in a shaky voice trying to stop my tears at no avail while peeking outside the door. Dr. Thompson nodded and offered me a sympathetic smile. Behind him were a large group of people waiting to get in as well. Dr. Thompson entered, followed by my brothers, uncles, aunts, grand aunts, and most of our family. In a way it was heartwarming because it showed just how much my mother was loved. During her life, everything she had done had been to benefit someone else and she never stopped giving.

Another part of me however was slightly bitter because half of my relatives never cared enough for my mother until her death. It was always me, mother, and grandmother, with occasional visits from my brothers and my closer relatives. I set aside those feelings however because now was not the time for them. Before I could say anything though, I found myself sandwiched in between my two older brothers in a big giant hug. Their eyes and their whispers of support meant more to me than anything right then. It was time.

"Please, Dr. Thompson," I motioned to the doctor who nodded and pulled out the plug for the life support. Slowly, the machines died. The machine which breathed for my mother stopped, as did the motion of her chest. The heart machine started to slow. Tears still obscured my vision.

Beep…Beep…Beep…

"Remember to eat your vegetables at lunch. It is a sin to throw away food."

Beep…Beep…Beep…

I threw it away anyhow, always too lazy to listen.

Bee…..…..Beep….…...Beep….

"Remember to go to school, you don't have to be brilliant, just be brilliant at trying alright?"

Beep….…...Beep…..Beep…...…..

I always did try my best, was it good enough for you in the end?

Beep…...….Beep…..….…...Beep….….….

"I'm glad you don't have my hands, they're so ugly."

Beep…...Beep…..…..Beep….….

But I always envied your hands and their strength. My hands can only wipe away my tears, see, I'm not crying anymore, but yours could wipe away other's pain.

Beep…...Beep…..….Beep….

"I'm proud of you, my daughter, very proud. Just because I don't brag doesn't mean I'm not."

Beep…..…Beep….…Beep

I just wished you could have had more happiness in the end mother.

Beep…Beep….

"Smile for me."

.

I smiled.

The End