I am still holding your cold hand after 72 hours of painful anxiety. I am still here, trying to make up for a lifetime of mistakes.
Your veins, standing out from the back of your stiff hand, contrasting with your pale skin, pulsating just beneath my fingers. Your chest, going up and down with every breath, accompanied by the hoarse sounds of your exhaling. Your closed eyes, the white eyelids marked by tiny blue lines that matched the bags from under them. Your frame, so slender now, too delicate and fragile...
You're sleeping. I'm still trying to tell myself that you are going to wake up every moment now and you will fling your arms around me. You will smile, brighter than ever before and your eyes, will spark with joy-filled tears.
But that's my fantasy and it's crumbling to pieces every time I hear the doctor saying that you won't make it. You're strong. You will wake up. And when you do that, I promise to become better.
We had so little time to spend together, always fighting, yelling. I chose to walk away as soon as time had allowed me to. I wasn't aware of how wrong it was or what the results would be.
This is not happening. It's only a nightmare. I will wake up in my comfortable apartment. But when I will wake up I'll phone you and promise to  visit on Christmas.
I open my eyes and you're still in front of me, breathing heavily with all the needles stuck in your skin, the white walls surrounding us and the beeping sound from the heart monitor echoing in the room.
I am numb with pain. Pain of the body, for not sleeping and eating for days, for crying so much my eyes became sore, for grasping your hand so tight I couldn't feel mine anymore. Pain for the soul; the pain I felt now because I was never there for you when you needed me.
The beeping sound stopped abruptly. You fell in the dark pool of memories because now, you were only a memory, the memory of a lost person. You were slowly engulfed in Death's cloak. The body became ice cold. The breathing stopped. The chest went still. The life drained...
And now, sitting here, alone in this white hospital room, I need to tell you these things I should have told you earlier:
Mother, I am sorry for every time I was wrong and for not caring. I know that regrets won't bring you back but the same goes for tears. I want you to know that my heart was never made of stone, because I now feel miserable, that I admit that I was wrong, that I am your daughter despite walking away from you, and above all, I would like you to know that I love you.