I was slumped on a bed in a hotel room in Florida, sad that my college reunion had ended, when I noticed a text message from my younger brother: Mom is in the hospital. The end is near.

I've learned that in all matters concerning our mother, I must pay careful attention to my heart rhythm to know how I truly feel. The mere mention of Mom can cause me to stall in the middle of whatever I'm doing, like in a childhood game of statues. Though we hadn't spoken or seen each other in more than seven years, now I couldn't get to her fast enough.

Back in New York the next day, while walking toward the ICU, I pictured her already dead. I imagined an empty bed, a soiled pillow still depressed by the weight of her head. In one daydream, doctors scurried to revive her, pummeling hard upon her chest. Beeping sounds signaling bad news emanated from a deafening machine. I heard myself yell, "Please leave my mother alone!"

But then somehow I was standing outside the hallway peeking into her room. I caught a glimpse of her hands first, those long fingers that once played the piano now swollen like deflating balloons. An oxygen mask concealed most of her face. Her nearly lash-less eyes turned slowly in my direction.

That's when I saw it: the most important glance she had ever sent my way. My mother looked happy to see me. She acted purely on instinct during this, our first meeting in so long. There was no time for one of her false poses to punish me or for dramatic roles, other than that of a dying mother staring into the eyes of her only daughter.

I took her hand and felt the mutual tug as we stroked each other's fingers. I began crying but then quickly stopped. I didn't want her to think she was nearing the end. I moved in to kiss her forehead. Her skin looked shiny and translucent, but she didn't feel feverish like Dad had before he passed away. Crazy, but she was still beautiful to me -- even after so much time spent in that glacial wasteland between us.

I pulled up a chair alongside her bed and noticed the mangy frosted wig that sat upside down on the utility table. It appeared neglected, which was so uncharacteristic of my mother. I asked if she had any pain, and she gestured toward her hip. It must be the bed sores, which were what got her hospitalized in the first place. Otherwise, she would have died at home, lying on her two-sectional couch. A full-size bed crammed into a small studio apartment would never suit my Better Homes and Gardens mother. Looking at her now, I wished she had subscribed to JAMA or at least seen a doctor every few years.

Though she attempted to speak, her words were garbled by the bubbly flow of oxygen under the mask. I brought my face as close as I could to hear what she struggled to say. Once again, I became the good child, but as we both knew, I was only a daughter. I wanted so to hear her, to do anything to satisfy her. I nodded my head while she spoke and realized that was all she needed. Maybe I was protected by not having to interpret any deathbed confessions. When dealing with me, her desire to say what was on her mind had been first and foremost. To her, I was some mysterious island that floated off the mainland.

As she spoke I nodded, dutifully, and she seemed content. She held up two fingers, and I was wary to interpret the gesture. Was she reminding me that I'd only called her twice in the last seven years?

Eye to eye, I whispered: "Mom, you know I'm not young anymore."

Here she nodded emphatically, and we became two women engaged in casual conversation. There were no dismissals or negative gestures. Finally, we agreed.

A doctor came in to examine her, and I was both grateful and disturbed by the intrusion. He ignored the woman gasping with each breath, and asked if I understood the meaning of DNR.

Yes, I nodded and motioned for him to join me in the hallway. Once there, he began describing the details of my mother's declining health, but his jargon sounded rehearsed, a blur of medical text.

He suggested a procedure that might make her more comfortable, so her heart won't beat so rapidly. He barely checked her chart. I told myself over and over again: You are not in charge. Long ago, when it came time to choose her caregiver, my mother quickly veered away from me. She did not like my insisting she see a doctor and hadn't gone to one in more than 20 years.

"Well, how did she get like this?" the doctor asked. I wondered if he had the rest of the afternoon off so we could sit and chat about my mother's swollen and purple body, about her last fall, and the edema filling up the reservoir of her frail frame.

"Neglect," I answered with more than a twinge of guilt. "She never wanted to go to the hospital. She was afraid she'd never come home. Oh, and she hated doctors."

"So she lived alone," he asked, "in this condition?"

"It's what she wanted," and then, "I am not in charge."

When we returned to the room, my mother's eyes were tightly shut. I was certain she was gone. But then she looked at me wide-eyed, as if for the first time. A sensation nagged at me.

I wanted something from her, though I wasn't sure what. Anger? Scorn? I'd take anything familiar. Something to say she was not going away. This version of my mother was painfully unrecognizable. Always fast with the comeback, she had cut all lines leading to rebuttal. Her failing heart was the only thing fueled with purpose. It beat furiously to the finish line. My mother, who walked slower than any adult I'd ever known, was now making an Olympian effort to die.

Knowing she would indeed not see this coming Mother's Day, I could only think to ask: "Are you hungry, Mom?" Food, feeding, the simplest form of nurturing was all I could offer. She wiggled her nose telling me no. And while she drifted off, I sipped cold, black coffee from her tray. I never drink black coffee, but I wanted what was intended for her.

I stared at my mother's heart beating like a tiny bird trapped underneath, her gown rising into a dome. It was getting late, and I thought of slipping away while she was asleep. As I stood, her eyes popped open again, though this time she struggled with wakefulness.

"Mom, I'm going to leave now," I said, surprising myself. She looked like a young girl wanting to travel somewhere, but worried how she'd get home. I didn't want my words clouded by a rush of tears. I could almost hear switches shutting down in the fuse box that housed my emotions.

"I hope you know I love you, Mom." It was half question, half declaration.

Again, a nod, and as I started toward the door, I turned to look at her one last time.

My feet felt leaden, and I almost sat back down. But I couldn't watch my mother die, hear that last awful breath -- that gasp, rising from the deep river of her soul.

She tried to speak, but because of the oxygen mask, the words were muffled. I noted that she used four syllables. Maybe she was saying "Thanks for coming" or the harder to imagine "I love you too."

My hand rose slowly to blow her a kiss. It no longer mattered what she said.

Sande Boritz Berger's essays and stories have been published in TriQuarterly, Confrontation, The Rambler Magazine, "Every Woman Has a Story" by Warner Books, "Ophelia's Mom" by Crown Publishing and "Aunties: Thirty-five Writers Celebrate Their Other Mother" by Ballantine. Her novel "The Sweetness" was a semi-finalist in 2010's Amazon's Breakthrough Novel Awards. She has recently completed an MFA in Writing and Literature from Stony Brook Southampton University, where she was awarded the Deborah Hecht Memorial Prize for Creative Writing. Read her blog on Red Room.