We were all there except for Steve. Against Hillary’s wishes, I hadn’t been to visit Steve at the mental hospital, even though several times she called me begging me to go visit him. “It would lift his spirits and make him feel forgiven– perhaps that he has a chance back at a real and normal life.”

Suddenly I remembered our last phone conversation, with me trying to make her understand.

“Hillary, he tried to kill us,” I said. “That’s one of the top ten reasons not to be forgiven.”

“I forgive him.”

“You’re his mother. You have to.”

“No, I don’t. I thought about writing him off, but I knew that would solve nothing.”

“He’s yours, you created him and you’re a good person who feels responsible for him, but I think you shouldn’t. I’m sorry, I don’t wish him any harm, but I don’t wish harm on myself either.”

“I understand,” she said quietly.

And that was the last time I spoke to her.

Now I, along with Greg, Eric, Drew, and Mike, stood around her bed as a loud consistent machine pulled and pushed her breath-- oxygenating her lungs. Maxfield had left earlier to retrieve something he needed and I wondered about their relationship. How sad it was to be deemed by society as weird and lewd, for this man loved Hillary and at times like this, with looming death, you realize how every little piece of love is needed like a food. It enables you to go on, to make more decisions. Like the decisions we were about to be faced with.

The doctor came in with a chart and a pen. His glasses fell to the tip of his nose. “I see Hillary has many loved ones.” We responded with silence. “Is Maxfield here?”

“I am.” Max came right in behind him.

“Did you bring it?”

Briskly I asked, “What?”

An awkward silence fell before Maxfield handed off a file to the Doctor, then turned to us all, walked over to Hillary, and took up her hand. “A living will. I am the executor.”

Greg asked, “Is that what I think it is?”

“She didn’t want machines. She asked to be set free if it were to come to that.”

I worried my knees would buckle, “Is there any chance…she could survive?”

The doctor lifted his head from his chart, “I don’t think so. Without support, she would die–but of course, there are sometimes acts of God that even doctors can’t understand.”

Eric kept his eyes on Hillary, “Acts of God for a queer transsexual. Wouldn’t that be beautiful?”

“Honey,” Drew said, curving his arm around Eric’s shoulders. “Hillary believed in God and it’s just her time is all. If it came to this, she wanted God to take her.” I could see Eric narrow his eyes and glare toward Drew. He didn’t like Drew’s response, but knew this was not the place to fight about it.

Maxfield quietly stated, “I want you all to approve of this because I know Hillary loved you all very much and I want you all to be comfortable with this.” No one said a word and he knew it was all right. Again, my legs started to wobble as he took the pen and chart from the doctor’s hand and signed his name at the bottom of the paper that lay flat, one-dimensional. He handed the clipboard back to the doctor.

Greg blurted, “You’re going to do it now?”

Maxfield nodded and in a soft voice said, “I understand if you need to leave the room, but your presence is kindly felt.”

“I’ll stay.”

The doctor moved to the machine and we all gathered at the top of the bed. I watched as the doctor pulled the switch down. The lights changed and the sound echoed to a dull hum before completely ending. It was silent. Hillary’s skin quickly started turning blue. Greg was next to me and we dug each other’s hands together. As Hillary became more peaceful and quiet, our sounds of grief became louder-- almost like an
announcement.

“God bless you Hillary,” I said, not knowing I believed in God in that way, but for some reason, suddenly I did. Maybe it was just that I needed it at that moment, but as I reached down deep inside myself, I found that I believed Hillary was with God. Perhaps a kinder God who loves us all-- who loves even more the ones that weren’t loved enough while they lived with us here on earth.