Two years ago today my mother passed away. That’s a delicate way of saying she suffocated after being bed-ridden for a month with a BiPAP mask strapped to her face, forcing oxygen down her throat day and night. Having recently survived a heart attack, she was too weak for pain killers, so they doped her up on anxiety meds instead. She couldn’t talk, experienced only moments of lucidity between long bouts of dissociation. Just gasping for air like a fish, lips cracked and eyes dried out with a wide and vacant gaze. The doctors and most of the nurses in this Muskogee Oklahoma hospital seemed indifferent of her condition, and not at all optimistic of a recovery or improving her comfort. The letters “DNR” were tattooed on her wrist, but I don’t remember if the ink was green or black.
My brothers and I went to IHOP for breakfast that morning. As we were leaving we received a call to rush to the hospital, but we were too late. She died 10 minutes before we arrived. And I’m not sure if I’ll ever forgive myself for not being there. Her last moments were in a room full of strangers.
Death puts life into perspective. I spent most of my days sick with insecurity, inadequacy, anxiety, and insidious “what ifs”—worrying about so many things that can change. But we can’t change a death. We can’t reason with it, fix it, or work it out. Death begins a new constant, and gives life a different perspective. I am now in a world where my mother is gone, and nothing I can do can change that. When this permanence stared me in the face, waiting for me to pick up the pieces, I become aware of so many things I CAN change.
I decided to make and publish as much music as I can, that’s now this started.
So, two years ago today she passes away, and today I release a song called “Exodus”, decorated with an intense photo of Soviet 7.62×39mm bullets (so my brother tells me). I guess I have a funny way of dealing with things.
Soon I’ll release two more songs in my first EP, “Void”.
Stay wavy y’all.