I am simply too young, I suppose, to understand what my mom means when she says she is ready to die. Maybe if it were an old lady taking her last breath after a long, fruitful life or a hero sacrificing himself for king and country these words would make sense. But she is a healthy individual, and mortality is a subject I find unsuitable for work. The spotless lab equipment surrounding me is no comfort for my restless mind, bouncing my focus as readily as it reflects the florescent lighting. So I try to brush it off. "That's good, I guess," I say, doing my best to convey that I disapprove of both the topic and the timing of the conversation. The sickening smell of freshly sterilized bacteria cultures emanates from the autoclave, pervading the room and persuading us to open the door for some ventilation. We are the last two people left during the lunch hour, everyone else having abandoned the hostile environment for the fresh air outside.
I hesitate for a while, trying in vain to gather my thoughts in the hopes of making some intelligent response. I quickly realize that no such response is coming, and rather than continue standing silent, I say I need a drink of water. The door to the hallway closes behind me, and the white tile stretching out toward the bathroom doors is bright with a sheen of fresh wax. I stop in front of the vending machines, remembering when I would bike with my mom on her three mile commute to work just so she would buy me something from behind the glass.
When I return, she has swiveled her seat to face the lab bench, devoting her attention to the microscope in front of her. I imagine her eyes drying as the steady breeze of scrubbed and filtered air (guaranteed contaminant-free up to six inches past the edge of the workspace) takes its toll. My eyes tear up just thinking about it, but I use the sleeve of my shirt to brush them back to normal. The implacable humming of the incubators, sterilizers, refrigerators, freezers, and air filters adds up to a dull roar, so I put on my headphones and pretend the noise-canceling effect is better than it really is. A cartload of dirty glassware waits to join the already-gleaming assemblage drying nearby, so I stride to the sink and start to scrub, surreptitiously glancing over every so often to make sure she's not expecting me to be formulating a response.
I tell myself the reason I haven't said anything has something to do with preserving our working relationship. I mean, she is the reason I have this job, and while washing dishes is certainly not glamorous, it's fun to say I work in a plant genetics lab. Really, though, I'm just confused. It's as though she meant for the news to reassure me somehow. Like it would put my mind at ease to know my mother is complacently waiting to die. I glance over yet again, searching for a sign from her seated figure that death is impending. Nothing. She sits as unmoving as the endless columns of plastic-wrapped petri dishes behind her. I doubt she even knows the effect her words are having on me.
Every day I stand at the sink in exactly this manner, headphones firmly in place, oblivious to the conversations occurring around me. Normally this is how I prefer things, but today my isolation just strands me with my thoughts. The burnished metal basin in front of me is gradually coated with soap scum, its shine buried under layers of bubbles, and as it loses its luster, so, too, does my idealized image of my mother. On some level I know she wants to ease my worrying, but all I can think about is the fact that she is in some sense giving up. And that idea is completely foreign to my conception of her. Even in her present surroundings she seems out of place in her resignation.
This large room full of sound and shining surfaces, all devoted to manipulating the life of corn and soybeans. Test tubes are filled with sprouting seedlings (except that they didn't come from seeds, but from carefully grown clones) despite the battery of trials to which we subject them. And life pushes on. We inject the plant tissue with customized DNA; then we try to kill it. If it survives, we have succeeded. In a way, the whole process is a testament to the struggle for life.
So maybe that's the reason I am so put off by my mother's statement. Nobody should ever be ready to die. If we can expect the plants to fight against the odds we have stacked against them, the least we can do is follow suit. This is a subject where complacency is intolerable. A bottle slips from my soapy grip, my distraction evincing itself abruptly with the sound of splintering glass. I look over, slightly panicked, wondering if by chance the resounding noise has gone unnoticed by the person only five feet away. She is out of her seat before the echoes of my blunder subside, making sure the glass pieces are contained to the sink and that I haven't wounded myself. Satisfied that no lasting harm has been done, she returns to her chair, back to the work of moving plant tissue from one petri dish to another.
Her dirty blonde hair is showing evidence of silver, though its short styling draws little attention to the fact. The face it frames is not quite gentle, and the simple practicality of her cotton shirt and khaki pants gives hardly any indication that the body they cover once set five national cycling records in a single day. How much must have changed, I think, for there aren't many things more life-affirming than the work that goes in to that sort of achievement. Each day spent training is a celebration of the body and its ability to accomplish the extraordinary. But now, apparently, she is readying herself for death.
She has mentioned that she felt differently in her youth. That the inherent unknowability was troublesome. To me it is downright terrifying. And it bothers me to think that somehow she has tricked herself into thinking it's okay. That she has resigned herself to the inevitable. That she will go gentle into that good night. It makes me angry. Makes me want to rage for her against the dying of the light. From birth we have but one real responsibility, and that is to live. How could she have forgotten that? I play what she said again in my head:
I'm not afraid of it anymore. I used to be, but not now. I guess what I'm trying to say, is that if the house is burning down and you have to choose someone to save, don't let it be me. I'm okay. Save your sister or something.
I finish the dishes, look over, and ask if she's hungry. We leave the terrible smell of the lab behind and go outside to eat lunch together. It's quite sunny, even a bit too warm, but the conditions are definitely preferable to the stench inside. Plus, artificial bulbs can't compare to the light out here. I still don't have a response, but she doesn't seem to be looking for one, and on some level I am comforted to know she is content with how her life has gone. There is no doubt we will discuss this at some point, just hopefully not in the sterile environment that is our workplace. For now there is reassurance in the silence, for I know that even though I can't understand yet, peace of mind is possible.
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