Book Introduction: February 2000

My commute home was like any average one that time of year. Dark, rainy, the freeway crowded with anxious brake lights. My uniform smelled of Seattle rain, diesel smoke, and sweat. I listened to talk radio and the thumping of my windshield wiper blades as I squeezed my little import SUV through traffic up I-5.
Filing off the freeway and away from streets with traffic lights, cars branched away and thinned as "home" encompassed me, releasing the daily tension in my neck and shoulders as I turned into my driveway.

This was the nicest place I had ever lived, and it was mine. My VA loan helped me purchase my first home at age 26. It was brand new; the show model and last available 2-bedroom townhouse in a handsome, well build, 40-unit complex, nestled at the edge of a tall-wooded neighborhood in family-friendly Mountlake Terrace.
It was my success; and it was off-limits to anything or anyone related to my chaotic past. It was my retreat.

I parked and hurried to my door. Rain dripped from the sharp eaves and gurgled through the efficient downspouts as I shook out my house key shuffled quickly inside.
Before I could drop my keys, the phone rang. It was my stepfather calling from the hospital.
"You've got to come down here right away," he said.

The same talk radio show was still on the same topic as I headed back towards the freeway; I turned it off. I called my wife at work to tell her I was headed to the hospital. Without hesitation, she told me she would meet me there. I was surprised.
I was familiar with the location of the critical care unit. My stepfather was standing at the nurses' station. He wiped the tears from his eyes with the back of his wrist, clenching his glasses. I gave him a light hug.

“She was up for a short time then got really tired and went to lie down late this morning… I couldn’t wake her up and I called 9-1-1,” his voice cracked.
“When they rolled her out to the ambulance I headed straight to the hospital, but they didn’t follow… I drove back to the house after 30 minutes, and they were still there, working on her.”

Before my stepfather could finish what he telling me, I realized this was it. Diabetes and heart disease and stress had been eating away at her for the past ten years.

“They finally got her here but she hasn’t woken up,” he said.
He turned and looked at three people standing on the other side of the nurse’s desk.
A doctor, a chaplain and a nurse looked at me. My stepfather said to them, “This is Sharon’s son, Eric.”
The doctor and chaplain came around the desk to me as the nurse turned away. The doctor introduced himself and got right to it; “Your mother has had another heart attack and is being sustained by life support systems.”
He continued to explain her grim state and my appointed responsibility in it.

“…Your mother’s paperwork lists you as the primary authorized family member to approve a stop-assist order. There is no definite result one way or another with the removal of the systems we have in place… We can only hope for the best.”

The doctor took a step back as the chaplain stepped forward and placed his hand on my shoulder, “Your mother consciously placed this clause in her orders for the purpose of having you here if she faced these critical circumstances.”

“Can I see her?” I asked.

I entered the tiny white tiled room. It was crowded with functioning medical equipment. Every item in the room had wheels. The room had no chairs to sit next to her, no TV or furnishings of any sort. She was suffering. The equipment on her and around her was sustaining her in every sense of the word.

After leaving her room, I found my wife waiting near the nurse’s station. I explained the situation and she immediately left to call her parents. My stepfather was on the phone with my older half-sister, Belinda. She refused to come to the hospital, but her father and her oldest child were on the way... but still two hours away, fighting traffic from the opposite end of the next county.

We waited. My stepfather made other calls and we spoke about the decision. One way or another, the machines would need to be removed; they appeared to be harming her more than helping her. After a while longer, I signed the form to “stop assist” and we entered her room, praying for her to hold on. People entered the room and removed the equipment. The chaplain held the door and was the last person out as my stepfather and my wife stood with me.
My mother struggled. My stepfather began to say a Bahai’ prayer as I held my mother’s hand for minutes. My wife left the room.
My stepfather’s prayer became louder and choked out and my mother began to struggle vigorously. I yelled over his voice, “It’s okay! Relax! Come on, calm down! …you do not have to do this! …You do not have to FIGHT anymore! It’s okay… We’ll be okay.”
Then she stopped. I watched her just stop. She left her body and it quickly turned gray. Her hand felt empty. I couldn’t believe it. My stepfather, panic stricken, stopped praying, “O My God! O My God!”
I looked around the room as if something else was supposed to happen. How could everything just stop? My ears began to ring and my vision narrowed... I was about to faint. I hugged my stepfather as he cried and prayed in my ear. My knees buckled as I staggered out of the room. He stayed inside and prayed loudly.

5/23/1982~
“Over one month and I have been only briefly lifted out of this depression. Thoughts of wanting death and wanting to live have plagued me. Sometimes I am afraid that I will die before Eric is grown. Sometimes I try to imagine the freedom that will bring – But the thought of leaving sweet Eric makes me pray daily for life – A better life for me and for my beautiful son. He is now doing big man things – I hate to let that baby go. He has grown so fast, his hands are so big and his feet… it was only yesterday – when they – his little hands, were pretty stars on my palm. I am going to put my pictures together soon – make a new album. And, I’m going to make a will. I’ll ask Pahnua’s brother to take Eric if I die – he’s a good Bahai’ and Eric won’t go hungry, he’ll be loved.” ~Sharon