The Seeds Of A Daisy: The Lily Lockwood Series: Book One (Women's Fiction)

by Alison Caiola

  He clears his throat and replies, “As we discussed, the next step would be to invoke and implement your mother’s living will, and remove all life support. In this case, that would mean withdrawing her feeding tube.”

  “You still need my signature before that happens, is that right?” I ask.

  “Yes. Again, as we discussed, if you wish to contest your mother’s advance directive, then it can become a battle for the court system,” he said, icier than before.

  “I know…I get it. I just need a few hours to think about everything—can I have that, please?” I ask.

  “Of course. Dr. Grippi will have the paperwork. You can ask the nurses to page her when you are ready to sign.”

  I hang up and lie back down on the bed. I cover my eyes with the pillow. I think about what it would mean if I were to decide not to remove the tube. What kind of life would my mother have? I already know the answer: She would have no quality of life at all. Daisy would never want that, would never agree to it.

  I remember an interview my mother and I saw on the morning show FOX & Friends a few years back. John Edward, the famous psychic, was on, promoting one of his books. It was around the time of the Terri Schiavo case, in which the husband of Schiavo, a woman in a persistent vegetative state with no brain function, wanted to disconnect her from life support. Her parents were against it. There was no medical directive or living will. Finally, after seven years in and out of court, the husband won. Schiavo was taken off life support and died.

  In response to a question regarding the case and about whether Edward could communicate with the vegetative Schiavo, Edward said, “I do believe that the soul, the consciousness, can communicate when they’re in a state, whether it be a mentally incapacitated person, someone who’s in a coma. It’s a consciousness, and the soul has a living consciousness. So whether it’s in a physical vehicle or not, there is still the ability to connect. But she’s clear on what’s going on—and I can tell you that she’s definitely clear on what’s happening now around her.” [

  If Edward is right, would I be able to communicate psychically with my mother? Hell, we do it all the time. When one of us is thinking about the other, inevitably the phone rings and it’s the other one on the line.

  Years ago, when I was a teenager, my mother and I sat in the backyard for hours trying to put numbers or pictures in each other’s heads. It was a game we used to play, and after a while, we got pretty good at it.

  I get out of bed and wrap the blanket around myself. The house feels damp and chilly. The Indian summer of just a few days ago has turned into a prelude of the cold, desolate winter that will soon enough envelop the North Fork. I walk into the closet and put on my mother’s warm flannel winter robe. I toss the blanket on the unmade bed, and head downstairs to turn on the heat and get some breakfast.

  I look out the kitchen window. The sky is dark, almost black. It’s storming again. The rain is coming down hard. I watch as the constant gust of wind finally succeeds in ripping off the last red-and-gold leaf that has been desperately clinging to a maple tree. I’ve experienced more wet weather in the past six days than I have in almost a year in LA. The weather certainly personifies how I feel—dark, tempestuous…and furious. I have all this anger and don’t know where to put it. I am angry that my mother was driving in bad weather, angry that she didn’t just hit the fucking deer instead of swerving, angry that Niptau is a cold son of a bitch. Given my nature, it’s probably easier for me to be furious than to feel depressed or melancholy. Historically, when I’m upset, I usually take it out on a loved one—my mother. I have a quick flash and remember verbatim what I said to her on the phone during our last conversation. The memory gives me a chill that is hard to shake. I’m sure that last conversation will stay at the forefront of my memory for the rest of my life.

  The phone rings. It’s Dr. Karpen. “I’ve just been to see your mother, and I’ve gone over all her tests.”

  I hold my breath.

  “I am so sorry, but carefully going over the results of the in-depth tests and judging by my exam, I have to agree with Dr. Niptau’s assessment.”

  I thank him.

  Like the red-and-gold leaf, my last shred of hope has now been ripped away by a chilly gust of reality. I am truly left with a life or death decision.

  I think of the John Edward interview again, and about a person’s spirit or soul communicating while in a vegetative state. There’s no time like the present to give it a try. I walk into the living room and sit in my mother’s favorite overstuffed chair, cross my legs, push back into the chair for support, and close my eyes. I take a deep breath, hold it for a count of five, and then slowly breathe out through my mouth. I do this four or five times, trying to calm my mind.

  Okay, now I am going to relax. I wonder if anyone called me; shit, I left my phone upstairs. I breathe in through my nose; hold it to the count of five. I breathe out through my mouth. Shit, I forgot to call Auntie D. after I heard from the doctor. I breathe out through my mouth. I make an effort not to let any other thoughts pop into my mind. I breathe in again, hold it, breathe out. I tell myself to take cleansing deep breaths. I don’t know if I breathed too deeply or hyperventilated, but the room starts spinning.

  I uncross my legs and stretch them out on the ottoman in front of the chair and lean back. I close my eyes, hoping to alleviate some of the spinning.

  Suddenly, my mother is standing right next to me. Her bandages are gone. As a matter of fact, she doesn’t have a scratch on her face. Her hair looks beautiful. She looks like herself, but happier—that’s the only way I can describe it. I start to cry—get out of the chair, put my arms around her, and hug her. She hugs me back, just as tightly.

  “Oh, God, Mom, I’m so glad to see you—you have no idea what I’ve been going through,” I say. By this time I am openly weeping.

  “What you’ve been going through?” she says and smiles. “You, you, you, Lily—it’s always about you. I’ve gone through a couple a speed bumps myself the last couple of days.” She bursts out laughing. I look at her and realize what I’ve said and laugh with her. Before we know it, we are laughing so hard that we end up sitting on the floor. After we both catch our breath, I take a really good look at her. Her skin is glowing and she looks serene.

  “You look gorgeous, Mom,” I say, and give her another hug.

  “You look like shit,” she replies, and puts her arm around me. “When was the last time you did your hair?”

  “You’re kidding me, right?” I say, and put my hand to my hair. “I guess I could use some product and a flat iron.”

  “So, kiddo, let’s see what’s going on here. I’m brain dead, right?” I nod sadly. “Dr. Niptau, is that his name?” I nod again, and she continues, “What a heartless jerk. He’s lucky, ’cause if I weren’t brain dead, I’d give him a piece of my mind. Get it—piece of my mind?” She explodes into laughter again. I can’t believe what I am hearing. My mother sounds like the comedian Henny Youngman!

  “Mom, you’re not taking this seriously. This is no joking matter. You don’t seem like yourself…”

  “Feel like I lost my mind, do ya?” She howls with laughter.

  I am furious. My face is flushed, and I stand up and stamp my foot like a kid. “Enough. This is not something to laugh about. Mom, I have to take you off life support. Do you know how hard that’s gonna be for me? This is fucking serious stuff.” She stops laughing and puts her arm around me.

  “I know this is serious and that you’re scared. First of all, there was a reason I wrote up that living will, honey. I don’t want to be a vegetable. Plain and simple. And in the event that an accident ever happened, I didn’t want you to have to make that decision. It’s been made for you. Have you looked at me, in that bed? It’s a terrible shame—but that’s not me anymore, sweetheart. I know that probably hurts you, but it’s simply not me. I know what’s ahead of me. I’ve been there. It’s amazing.” With that, she takes my hand. “Walk outside with me.”
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br />   “We can’t—it’s pouring,” I tell her.

  “Not anymore.” We walk onto the porch. She is right. The weather has changed, the sun is shining, the sky is a light turquoise color, and there isn’t a cloud in sight.

  We sit next to each other on the twin rocking chairs, just as we’ve done hundreds of time before. I feel relieved. It feels wonderful to have her next to me again.

  “Lily, I need to show you something,” she says. “Please close your eyes and keep them closed, no matter what.” I do as I am told.

  Within minutes I feel myself being lifted off the ground and actually flying—not flying, more like floating in the air. I don’t open my eyes, but I have the strangest sensation. The air, which is palpable and has weight and depth to it, is charged with love and acceptance. In a split second, within the realm of this atmosphere charged with pure love and approval, comes an immediate understanding of what our time on Earth is really about.

  “You can open your eyes again,” Mom whispers.

  “No, I don’t want to,” I tell her.

  “You have to, honey,” Mom says softly. I open my eyes and find myself back on the porch, next to my mother. I am speechless. I try to understand and put into words the experience, but I cannot find the words to describe accurately what I’ve just experienced, so I say nothing.

  “Awesome, huh?” My mother smiles. “That’s just the tip of the iceberg, Lily of the Valley. That’s all I can show you. But believe me, it is sheer joy and love. And the colors, honey. They’re like nothing we’ve ever seen before. I got a really good preview, Lily.”

  I am overwhelmed.

  “I want you to know that I will be experiencing that and more, much more. I don’t want you to worry about me,” she says.

  “Well, what about me? Can I go with you? There’s nothing for me here… if you’re not around. Please take me with you,” I plead.

  “I can’t. It’s not your time. My time is up. I did whatever I had to do—this time, that’s all. And you have so much here that you still need to do. Anyway, time doesn’t really exist—so we’ll be together again, don’t worry.”

  I nod. Somehow I know she is telling me the truth. I fully accept it. It is as if, in those couple of minutes, I have been given the knowledge of what life truly is about. We sit quietly for a few minutes, rocking away and enjoying each other’s company.

  “You’re going to be an author, you know,” she says simply.

  “A writer? Mom don’t be ridiculous, I can’t put two words together—you’re the writer, not me.”

  “Well, you will be, and you’ll start by writing a novel about everything you’re going through now,” she replies quietly.

  “I don’t know about that.” It’s highly unlikely that I can write a story, much less a novel. Acting is my forte; writing is hers.

  “Have I ever predicted anything in your life that failed to come true?” she challenges me.

  “Well…no. But…” I say hesitantly.

  “But what, young lady?” she asks, in that Mom voice I have loved and hated all my life. “After all these years, I’m not about to start giving you wrong information, that’s for certain. Don’t you worry—I’ll be around to help you through that and so much more…” She stands up. She is getting ready to leave.

  “How will I know you’re around?” I start to get nervous that she is leaving me again.

  “You’ll absolutely know I’m around—I promise.” With that she kisses me and says, “And for heaven’s sake, please stop beating yourself up over our argument. That’s all it was: an argument between a mother and daughter. Had I not gotten into the accident, we would’ve made up the next day and moved on, like it was nothing.”

  I am incredibly relieved. She smiles. “Remember, you’ve got to be the glue that holds the family together,” she says as she walks down the porch steps toward the beach.

  “Family? What family? There’s just me, Mom.” I stand up and walk toward her.

  She laughs, “Just you? Hardly, Lily of the Valley. You’re going to be the glue that keeps everyone together—wait and see. Now go back inside, it’s going to start raining again.” She turns to walk away, then stops and walks back to me. She looks very sad and there are tears in her eyes. She hugs me and whispers, “I want you to be prepared, honey. It’s going to happen a week from Wednesday.” She kisses me and walks away. I strain to see her, but I am having a hard time focusing.

  The sun hides behind a dark cloud and I hear a roar of thunder.

  I open my eyes—I am back in the living room, seated on the overstuffed chair. The wind and rain are thrashing the roof. Yet I feel indescribably happy and joyful. I believe I just had a visitation from my mother and she was able to show me a glimpse of another dimension.

  I start to second-guess myself. Maybe it was just a dream, a wonderful and comforting dream. But I know that’s not the case. I feel a shift. Everything is crystal clear to me. It’s as if I’ve been living in a dense fog and wasn’t aware of it until now. I am able to see more clearly and sharply than ever before. This moment is the product of the convergence of everything that has happened over the last couple of weeks. I am amazed that each piece of the puzzle has been revealed, but not until this very moment have I am been able to put it all together. My mother has been controlling everything. Trying to tell me a story—step by step—little by little—revealing each segment. Just waiting patiently for me to gather all the pieces and put them together.

  And yet, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m missing something. I think back over the last couple of weeks—over everything that’s happened with Jamie and Nasty Natty, my mother’s car accident, the diaries and the discovery of Steve Santini, the text from Natalie, finding out about my mother’s pregnancy, discovering that I too am pregnant, meeting my half-brother, and finally my mother’s brain damage. I have more than a nagging feeling that there is another piece to this puzzle. What am I missing?

  Almost as soon as I ask myself that question, I figure out the answer. I run upstairs and walk into the back of my mother’s closet. I pull out the silver box again, open it, and rifle through her papers. Finally—there it is—the missing piece!

  I read it over and over again, and understand how integral this piece of paper is going to be for the future of the family. I hold on to the paper and say, “I got it, Mom. I understand.”

  I must get dressed quickly, because I have to get to the hospital as soon as possible. I close the silver box, shove it back into its place in the closet, and walk out.

  As I head to the shower, I see it. I stop and stare. A few minutes earlier, I was so eager to get to the silver box in the closet that I walked right past the bed without giving it a second glance. Now I am transfixed. The bed that I left in a mess this morning is now neatly made with Daisy’s favorite bedspread and ten beautiful little designer pillows, all perfectly positioned.

  My car won’t start, and I end up getting it towed to the repair shop and have to wait for the car service to pick me up. By the time I get to the hospital, Mom has already been moved to a new room. The unit is different than the rest of the hospital. The rooms on the hospice floor look like they belong in an upscale hotel. The atmosphere is more homey, more comfortable—it’s even beautiful.

  My mother’s room is painted sage green with lovely floral drapes framing two windows that overlook a pretty garden. The wide window sills are covered end to end with stunning arrangements of flowers and plants from friends and business associates.

  I meet with the hospice nurses and the social workers, who are incredibly kind and understanding. They take time to sit with me and explain the whole process and what I can expect. We cry and even laugh together. I show them the document I brought to the hospital, and they assure me that the proper department will be contacted, and that they’ll be up to see me soon. I come away with a deep respect for them. It takes special people to be able to give comfort, support, and dignity to a dying patient and the family. Both my mother
and I are in good hands.

  I sit with her while they remove the feeding tube and intravenous drip. I had imagined that it would be a lot harder to watch—more traumatic—than it actually is. After the “dream” I had, for the first time since the accident I feel that my mother is no longer there—not in her body, anyway. It is such a strange feeling that the essence of my mother—her spirit—has already departed. It is my goal to honor her and be with her through the next phase—the last phase— of her earthly life. I want to be present and in the moment for her and for myself. She is a unique, wonderful, and special woman and deserves to be treated as such, to the very end.

  The nurse leaves the room. I take my mother’s hand and softly tell her, “Mom, I love you. You have been the most amazing mother anyone could have. You took fantastic care of me, my whole life. It’s time for me to take care of you, now.”

  The nurses gave me a palliative care handbook. I start to read it and am surprised that there is a term called “active dying” that describes the last stage of life. It isn’t until I start to read further in the handbook that I understand a person actually goes through different physical phases during the dying process. Their breathing changes and so does their color. There is more. I try to read about it so I will know what to expect when the time comes. After a few minutes, I put the book down and start crying. I decide to use this book as a reference only when I really need to understand what is happening to my mother, when it’s happening.

  I walk into the waiting room to call Auntie D. Neither of us can believe that Daisy’s journey, which we both have had the privilege to be part of, will soon come to an end. I tell Auntie D. that now is the time for Daisy’s close friends to say goodbye to her. That it should happen in the next couple of days. The doctors said she could live a week, maybe a little more, after the tube is removed. Auntie D. tells me she will call Tommy and Fernando, and they’ll let everyone know.

  I tell her about the document I found in the silver case and what I plan to do with it. She cries and says, “Oh, honey, that’s perfect. Knowing your mother, it makes sense that’s what she would want. You understand her wishes, and you, my darling, are taking it to the next level.”