I can remember the first time I was really aware of how important it is to breathe.  I had just jumped off a wall and missed the tree branch I was aiming for; I was lying on my back like a goldfish on a rug gasping for air. Anyone who has ever had the wind knocked out of them knows that feeling. Sweet, sweet oxygen…  We breathe all the time, in blessed unawareness of the life that fills our lungs.

I remember rushing to the hospital trying to remember all the crap I read about childbirth. Pant, they said! Breathe through the pain. And so gasping and panting I welcomed my babies to the world. They have made me gasp, pant and breathe through many moments of joy… and pain.    


Breathing on the way to reach my Sarah when she called needing help, “Mom he hit me,” she said sobbing.  Preston was concentrating on driving to her and me? I was just trying to breathe.  In… two, three, four…out two…three four. Just get me there to see with my own eyes that she’s ok. The detached part of my brain was wondering why I needed to tell myself how to suck air in?

In the car, I’m driving mom home. She’s hooked to her oxygen tank and I’m listening to every breath. Walking from the house to the car takes a lot out of her.  “Breathe through your nose, mom. Suck in lots of oxygen…slowly….do you feel better now?”  Unconsciously I breathe in rhythm with her, but somehow it feels right. For nine months her air was mine. It’s hard for both of us. She’s breathing through the ravages of her aging body.  I’m breathing through the iron band of pain circling my heart. She labored to bring me to life, and now both of us are laboring as she leaves her own life behind. No one ever tells you what hard work it is to die.

And now I lay me down to sleep. I will breathe, and dream, and somewhere I will find the oxygen I need for tomorrow, and for the tomorrows to come. I can do this. All I need to do is breathe.

by Nicole Cater

She passed away. She moved on. She went to her heavenly reward. She died. Too young, I’m sure they said. Only 45, so much life left to live. Think of her poor children. Her little boy, does he even know what is happening? She died.

I feel bad for this woman, so sick, so young, so much to live for, now so gone. How do you mourn someone you never met? More importantly, how are you supposed to feel when one woman’s tragedy is the best gift you've ever received? She is nowhere and everywhere. I’ll never see her. I cannot hide from her.

There she is, her name tattooed on the shoulder blade of my love. Again, on his bicep, the hourglass, sand run down to nothing, the date, the last day of her life. A mere 20 days before the last day of my marriage. The little boy, not so little, taller than me even, on the cusp of manhood. He looks like her. I’ve never seen her picture. But I know he doesn't look like his father. He must look like her. He looks like the woman he doesn't even remember. He calls her mom. He calls me mom.  We share him, and I hope, if she knows, she doesn't mind.

They hang coats over chairs. I hang them in the closet. A small thing a woman does, without being asked, without being acknowledged, because that’s where coats go. And there is the box. Lovingly wrapped in a special t-shirt. Here she is.  This is her. For months she was hidden behind a box of tools. I found her when I was looking for a drill. I didn't know what to do.

When the man is at work and the boy is at school, sometimes I sit with her. I tell her I’m sorry she lost her family. I promise her I am taking the best care possible of them. I swear her son will become a good man. I remind her she was first; I’m no replacement, I just came after. I clean her box, making sure it is not dusty or dirty.  I re-wrap the special shirt around her. She no longer hides behind other boxes.  She has her own place of honor. She sits on a high shelf, where she can watch, if she chooses, to make sure the man she loved and the boy she birthed are being well cared for. 

I think she will rest. I will not forget her. I will not let them forget her. She deserves that. She was a wife. She was a mother. Bodies are temporary. Memories are forever. And even though I see her everywhere I look, I am not threatened. I am pleased. Look at what she has given me. Her ultimate sacrifice is my ultimate joy.  It isn't possible for me to love the man, to love the boy, without loving the woman who gave them to me. Yes, she is gone. But she will never be forgotten.