Home again

On July 11, 2024, my mother left home for the last time.
On August 25, 2024, she died in the night in a nursing home.
On September 10, 2024, she returned home in a black box of ashes.

I know the ashes are not the person. What cruelty it is to have ash as the substitute.
I believe the spirit or energy of my mother lives on in some way.
I believe energy is never lost, and that hers and mine will recombine, eventually.

Every day, I cry. What cruelty it is to have tears as the evidence of love.
I have done all that can be done and must accept eternity's fate. 
Now I must calculate how to fulfill the command - honor thy mother.

May her energy live on in the hearts of those who loved her.
May our tears wane and joy return.
May she rest in peace.

Unresponsive

"She's in the ER and unresponsive," the caller said.
It was 30 minutes until the first class meeting of the semester.
I chose my mother over my students.
I forgot to get my driving glasses; reading glasses will have to do.
When I arrived at the ER Cardiac room, she was just lying there. 
I put her hand in mine, she opened her eyes,
Her look was shock and surprise, then the eyes went to a smile,
Then back to unresponsive.
The monitor above beeped as her heart rate dropped to the 60s,
Then a few minutes later rose to 130s, then down again.
For two hours I held her hand, stroking her fragile bruised skin.
Suddenly she woke up, fully, asking where she was.
Asking why she was there. I called the nurse.
She said she was dreaming of being chased.
She didn't know who was chasing her.
The nurse and doctor came; she joked, she obfuscated.
She slurred her words. She didn't know my name.
The tests all came back negative - no stroke, no heart attack.
There is no explanation for her becoming unresponsive.
The decision is made to send her back to the nursing home.
She wants to come to my house - not the nursing home.

I'm sorry, mom, but that won't work.

She wants me to stay with her in the transport van.

I'm sorry, mom, but I can't.
It takes three nurses using a Hoyer to move her. 
Two hours later, she no longer has the ability to talk;
She tries finger spelling, but we don't understand.
As she moans and cries in pain, we have to leave.
I'm sorry, mom, I cry as I drive away.

How much more can she or I take?