I Love You

When I awoke from the first of several mini-naps I got in the middle of the night last night, the first thing I saw dancing in front of me was the over-sized pink and red balloon I had sent to Mom's room on Valentine's Day.
Mom and I had a rule. We never said goodbye without saying, "I love you," even if we were annoyed at each other at the time. So when I saw the balloon swaying in the furnace breeze of the gift shop I stopped and ordered it sent to her.
When I visited her on Wednesday evening, the balloon dancing and swaying in Mom's room seemed to add a little life and cheeriness to the drab and dark feeling there.
Last night I called Mom to tell her "Good night and I love you." She usually now only picks up the phone and listens because she still cannot use her voice. But this time, she did not pick up. I called the nurses station and the phone there only rang. I panicked. Several seconds later, which seemed like hours, the nurse called me back and told me Mom's blood pressure and heart rate were dropping. She thought I would want to know in case I wanted to come back up.
In the middle of the night, the balloon only added an obscene sense of movement when I knew there should be none. It wasn't dancing a happy dance, but seemed to be taunting me.
I looked over at Mom from the recliner. She sat upright in her hospital bed, her eyes closed and chin laying on her chest, her head sometimes seeming to bob with the rhythm of the balloon and the machines beeping out a complimentary tune.