Kiran was dying and I didn’t know it.

I hate thinking about his last days, his last conscious hours.  Maybe it is because I didn’t know they would be his last conscious hours.  If I knew I would have done something differently.  Now I have the remainder of my life to review those days and hours and wonder which choice I could have made which would alter the outcome.

I should have known.  I am his mother.  I should know more than his doctor, nurses, and even his father.  At three I indulged myself in thinking he was still like an extension of me, my own body.  I should just feel the change in him.

My last memory of his being awake with me is still too personal to share.  It happened late in the evening the night before he died.  I relive it over and over wondering if he was scared.  I hope he understood that his mama was there, trying to take care of his needs, even when I had to leave his side to let the nurses do their jobs.

It was very soon thereafter.  I don’t even know the moment he slipped into sleep, never to wake again.  It would be at least twelve hours before I understood I missed the moment.