I walked around the corner heading into his office and he was on the phone. His eyes were huge, round disks, his mouth slightly open and he had a grim look on his face. I backed away but recognized that look. It was the look of somebody whose mother was in the ICU. He was talking to the doctor or his father or his brother but the look was the same. I know my own face had looked like this as I sat listening to the doctors or nurses or my siblings talk about own mother when she was in the ICU. It’s the look of helplessness and numbness as you hear the latest installment of the rollercoaster ride.

Down: “How can this be, she was doing so well yesterday?”

Up: “She’s made real progress the last few days”

Down: “It’s very serious and she’s very sick”

Up: “She’s off dialysis”

It’s the look I had as the critical care doctor ran toward me, heading me off before I could get to my mother’s room. “We’ve had a setback and I want to prepare you”. The words barely sinking in as I stared at him with unblinking eyes while telling myself not to forget to breath and stay calm as my heartbeats slam into my ear drums. Boom! Boom! Boom!

It’s the look I had as the doctor suggests ‘comfort measures only’ since there is no more that can be done. My feeling hands frozen, my wide-open eyes looking at him but not seeing anything, my ears hearing the quiet sobs of his young associate, nodding my head.

It’s the look I had at the funeral home, with Kenny Roger’s ‘Through the Years’ playing in the background, while friends asked me if I am OK and I try to smile and say yes.

 It’s the look I have as I write this almost 3 years later still not able to understand that she is gone forever.