nina, i remember.

I stayed by her bed for three days as she died. The sides of the metal hospital bed were finally pulled up, to keep her in, to keep her safe. The metal slats of the window blinds clicked together and then against the pane of the glass in the air conditioning that kept her room cold, cold.  The night before she sank into death, she had even lost the ability to write, our last form of communication. And around ten o’clock that evening, she needed me, she needed something, she needed. And I couldn’t tell what. By that time, I had been there so long, and so long near her, that I smelled like her. I had become her hands for so long, I knew them like my own. Her hair was matted against the back of her head, and she looked panicked that night, for hours. The sound of the oxygen machine, its ceaseless rhythm, sank into a rhythm with my own breath, or mine sank into a rhythm with that of the machine. The nurses knew. They knew things I could never know, about how her body was shutting down. I thought she would survive. Surely she would.

For five hours that night, Nina was alive again, strong and ferocious and manic. Struggling to tell me something, her arms stretched straight up into the sky toward the ceiling pockmarked with tiny holes, her eyes so wide, looking past me and through me. She was wailing and looking up, like a pilgrim who has had a vision. This went on for hours, and I got used to it. It stopped scaring me. “Nina,” I whispered to her, leaning down to her ear, “I feel like I’m failing you at this important moment. I know you are trying to tell me something, and I don’t know what.” She moved her arms to her heart, over and over again. Suddenly, without any warning, she opened her arms again and grabbed me toward her, pulling me up and over the bed rails with a strength long since gone from her arms, but now back. She held me the tightest I have ever been held, my torso on top of hers, the bottom half of my body dangling over the metal rail. She held me.

Rest in peace, Nina. I remember you every day, and especially on this anniversary of your death.

About Patti Digh

Patti Digh is an author, speaker, and educator who builds learning communities and gets to the heart of difficult topics. Her work over the last three decades has focused on diversity, inclusion, social justice, and living and working mindfully. She has developed diversity strategies and educational programming for major nonprofit and corporate organizations and has been a featured speaker at many national and international conferences.

12 comments to " nina, i remember. "
  • Kim Mailhot

    Big, big love to your tender, remembering heart.

  • Esther

    I remember your writing last year about Nina.  It is good to remember and helps me remember, others, too.  I hope the day is gentle with the memories, the celebrations, and mostly the memories.  Thank you.

  • Adgarrett1

    I so vivdly remember your posts from that time. Even now, remembering them brings tears to my eyes. Bless you for being her angel and for sharing with all of us. Hugs to you today…

  • Reddoglady

    this touched me today patti — my 90 year old mom (who was still living alone and fighting getting some heop) passed away on May 5 — it was unexpected — she had never been in a hospital in her entire life — that day when we arrive we knew something was terribly wrong — we went to emergency room and after several hours it ended there in the emergency room — the first few hours she was semi aware and struggling to pull off oxygen, ivs etc — the last 2 1/2 hours she was in a coma I guess with eyes wide open staring and not blinking — it was a peaceful ending — I am sure the doctors and nurses knew she was sinking into death, but I had never seen anyone die so my husband and I didnt know — I wish I did now so I could have said some things to her — tomorrow is her 91 birthday and my children and her great grandchildren are going to her favorite italian restaurant for dinner to celebrate her — to end on a happy note — it has been a rough time for me — a big void — cleaning out apartment, paperwork etc, but I am slowly cvoming to terms with everything –  thank you for this wonderful post patti —

  • Terry

    Oh Patti.  I remember too.  What you shared then and now is so very important to this world.  You open up whole universes with your love and sharing.  Thank you.

  • Tina Tierson

    To let someone not die alone is the greatest gift.  You are a gift, Patti.

  • Nanmacd

    I remember Nina, too.  Her kindness and support of me as I wrestled with the possibility of writing a book.  She told me to do it.  She hooked me up with another professional in my field who has written books.  I hold her in my heart . . . 

  • Pointpoet

    what wondrous moment for Nina and you. Why do we become emotionally true in extremis? 
    Thankyou. Claire Curtin

  • wow, just wow.  what a beautiful thing you have shared, and a beautiful moment you had.  i sit here in tears.

  • Roxanne Galpin

    What a lovely tribute.

  • Mira Desai

    it never goes away does it? you reminded me of the last minutes with my parent. and how even delirious he’s waited for my all right before slipping away into nothingness.
    its in my spine that I remember him and try walk tall

  • Amanda

    I remember, too. 

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