Help Me

I forget how many times
Mom has said help me Anthony
in the past few hours,
how many times I’ve stood
by her bed, answered
I’m trying to, tell me what 
to do. But she doesn’t know,
it hurts so much Anthony.
Today my brother’s here 
telling her he’s the only one
who believes her, how bad
she feels, how much worse
it will get, who recognizes
she’s near the end. I hold 
her hands as she resists 
her treatment, tries to tear 
at the mask. He wants me 
to shut it off, show some 
mercy, drop candy, pretzels 
in her mouth instead. I think 
he’s picturing a peaceful 
death. He’s never here 
at 3 AM. Me either. 
It’s my sister who hears 
her screaming help me 
I can’t breathe, sees mommy 
lurching, grasping for breath 
before Donna finds, straps 
on the BiPac mask. I’m not sure 
how long Donna can handle 
the sleepless nights. Ten minutes
later I remove the nebulizer, 
give mom a handful of Raisinettes, 
pop a couple in my mouth.
 
Every day I ask mom 
if she’d rather go
to sleep and not wake up,
die. She shakes her head, 
stop asking stupid questions,
Anthony. If it was me 
lying there, I’m not sure 
what I’d say. I could
flatter myself into thinking 
I’d be a cooperative patient, 
not so terrified, but I know 
how easily I’ve lied to myself 
through the years, so many 
times I’ve disappointed myself.
 
I watch mom’s face loosen
when she gets a visitor, talks
to grandkids on the phone 
and she seems to enjoy 
eating more than ever.
I attempt to convince myself 
her existence isn’t so tragic. 
Still if I had the power to kiss 
her on the forehead, the cheek, 
send her wherever people go 
when they die, I would. Right 
now. With all the blessings
I could muster. Instead, 
I go to the bathroom, take
the book I’m reading, 
Wherever You Don’t Belong,  
hope while I’m sitting there, 
my brother smothers her 
with the pillow, gives everyone
some momentary peace.