Saying Goodbye

• Emma Berry, Grade 12
• Short Story
• 2012

They say that a parent should never have to say goodbye to their child. But what they don’t tell you is that ‘should’ has a different meaning to ‘might’. A parent might have to let their child go before them to whatever lies after life. I had never expected to have to do so for my own daughter. I never anticipated the thoughts that may pass through my mind as I make the most heart-wrenching decision that a parent could ever make. They never suggest that there may come a day when you look at your daughter’s face, and it is no longer lit with the laughter of youth, but the impending dullness of an untimely demise.

Gripping my daughter’s cold hand, I silently pray if there may be a chance that blood could pass through it. It is not too late for life to return to this destructed body. Deep in my soul I hear the words of a brave mother: it is time to let go. Most parents let their children go when they send them off into the real world, to university or a full-time job. I couldn’t have foreseen the idea that letting go might mean giving up on my daughter’s survival.

Courageously, I swallow my tears and continue to clutch my daughter’s hand. No matter what, I won’t physically let her go when she’s still breathing, even if it is aided by machines. This knowledge of my daughter’s current and possibly last predicament sends me over the edge and I unleash the tears that have been threatening to come for some time. My body shakes and the hairs on my arms rise, sensing the forthcoming decision. My mind has come to terms with it, but my body and my emotions have not. How can a mother end what she brought into the world? She can’t, but she can cease pain.

Inside, I find my quiet release as my tears freely run down my cheeks, each dropping onto my daughter’s soon-to-be lifeless skin. My body has finally accepted the decision and my emotions have retreated into silent mourning. My lower lip quivers, unable to form the words I need to voice my daughter’s imminent passing. Finally, my mind conjures some words to tell the nurse beside the hospital bed.

“You can switch it off,” I murmur, hardly seeing through my watery eyes. I glance at the nurse as she quietly walks to the switch, pausing slightly before she flicks off life support. My senses weaken and all I can focus on is my daughter – how her chest stops rising, instead resting peacefully; how her facial features relax as if she is succumbing to paradise; and how for the first time since she fell into this coma, she looks more alive than ever, as if she has escaped the confinements of her mind and body.

It is difficult to let go. It doesn’t happen quickly. A person can’t live forever, but memories of them can.