I’m not a puker. I never or I should say hardly ever puke. I’ve gagged, choked, even retched, but I rarely puke. I used to tell people I’ve only puked once in my life and he still lives in my house. Suffice it to say I don’t puke often. But now I’m going to have to revise that story or maybe just stop telling it.
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The nurse was explaining to me that if I didn’t sign, no nurse would come, no morphine would come. While she was talking I was having one of those out-of-body experiences where her voice sounded like it was coming from very far away. I told her I thought she was asking the wrong person. If mom thought it was the right thing to do, I would sign it, but maybe we should ask her.
She had been dying for 75 years and talking about it for 25, still I felt as if I had sentenced her to death. I ran down the stairs. My stomach turned inside out and forced its way up my throat, emptying its contents into the bowl. I jerked again and again until all that remained in my mouth was the sour bile that digests your food and eats the enamel off your teeth. I no longer had any claim on my childhood. I cried hard, splashed some cold water on my face, went back up, and fed her some butter pecan ice cream with a spoon.
