The change came at 2:17 in the morning, and there was no warning.
Her fever rose again. The monitor changed its note. I ran into the room, and she was awake, and she tried to speak, and nothing came. I called the team, and they came running, and for the next hour the room became hands: hands adjusting equipment, hands checking numbers, hands moving over and around her. Someone asked me to step back. I refused. Someone shouted my name, and then I stepped back.
My mother looked at me. Her eyes were clear, and that is what I remember. She knew me. She raised one hand, and I moved closer, and her lips moved.
I bent down. "Mom?"
"Coffee," she whispered.
I stared at her. "What?"
"Your coffee."
I laughed once, a sound I did not recognize. "Yes."
"Too much."
"I know."
"Burnt."
"I know."
There was a pause, and her fingers moved against the sheet. "Salt."
I laughed again, and she smiled. Then her hand went still.
The monitor changed. The people around me moved faster. I said her name, once, then again, then again, and nobody answered me. I reached for her and someone stopped me, and I pulled away from them. "Mom." Nothing. The room became very quiet. The monitor went on with its work for a few seconds, and then there was a long, level sound. I remember the sound. I hate that I remember it.
The treatment had slowed the illness. It had not stopped it. It had given me days, perhaps hours' worth of the feeling that I had won, enough time to believe, and not enough to save her.
I stood beside the bed. Her face looked peaceful, and that angered me. It should not have been peaceful. She should have been complaining about the coffee, asking about the crossword, telling me to go home. She should have been alive. I touched her hand, and it was still warm. I said her name. I waited, though I could not have said for what, and nothing came.