My mother had been in a coma for several days, so when she stirred, I quickly reached over and grasped her hand. I prayed that she would open her eyes and say, "What's up Doc?" or something silly. In the past, cracking a joke, even a bad one, was how she dealt with life.

"Hey, Mama," I said softly. "Do you need something?" What an inane question, but I'd read somewhere that it was important to talk with a comatose patient as though they could hear every word.

I'd flown to her side from California when Mama was diagnosed, knowing that I might be away from my own home for months, which turned out to be the case. I brought books with me written with caregivers mind, things to do, say and not do or say. I brought healing oils that smelled like stale eucalyptus, meditation tapes and enough affirmations to restore world peace. All I wanted it to do was restore my mother's health.

A no-nonsense woman, Mama looked at all my paraphernalia with raised brows and a skeptical eye, probably wondering when I had fallen off the deep end of woowoo.

"When you take a shower, Mama, visualize those bad old cancer cells going down the drain." I thought it was a great analogy, a visualization that might work. It served to convince her that her only daughter was looney tunes.

So there I was on Christmas Eve, feeling helpless as I sat quietly beside her bed. The only sound in the room, other than my frequent sighing, came from the gurgling IV tubes attached to my mother's body. It was a maddening quiet. We need some music in here, I thought.

Mama loved the Big Band sounds of her youth. Even after her 70th birthday, Sinatra could still make her swoon, Sammy Kaye made her swing and sway and Spike Jones broke her up. At home, she often played Sinatra albums while painting flowers on the delicate pieces of porcelain for which she had become known.

I squeezed her hand. "I'm going out for a while, Mama. Don't go anywhere till I get back," I teased. Grabbing my coat, I rushed down the stairs, grateful that "the store where America shops" never closes.

I purchased a portable tape player and then went back to Mama's house for Sinatra tapes, delighted to find one of his Christmas albums. Humming Dashing through the snow, I dashed back to the hospital loaded with tunes and feeling a lot less helpless. I knew it wouldn't cure her cancer, but maybe on some level she would hear the music she'd always loved.

"Mama, I'm back, and I brought Ol' Blue Eyes with me!"

Sinatra's distinctive sounds soon filled the room. Glancing at my mother, I longed for a smile of recognition, but her expression remained unchanged. The music made me smile until Ol' Blue Eyes sang I'll Be Home for Christmas. That song made me cry, which is what I was doing when I heard a soft knock at the door.

"Hello?" It was a woman about Mama's age who looked even more tired than I felt. "I'm Helen from down the hall. Your door was ajar when I passed by just now, and I heard music. Would you mind terribly if I come in and listen to more?"

I grinned at the woman. "Not at all. I'm happy for the company." I inclined my head toward the bed. "I'm playing music for my mom in hopes she can hear it. Do you like Sinatra?"

She smiled, and for a moment I saw the beautiful young woman she had once been. Still lovely, she became even more so as Sinatra's voice rang out with Silver Bells. The worry lines on her troubled face all but disappeared.

"Like Sinatra? Darlin', I used to date the man," she said as a matter of fact.

Right, I thought. And I used to date Robert Redford.

She laughed off my disbelief. "Oh, it was a million years ago, honey. We were together for about six months." Her eyes twinkled. "You probably weren't even born."

Suddenly captivated, I ditched my cynicism in order to hear more. I didn't care if her story was a fantasy, it was far better than gazing out the window.

Plopping down on the battered old recliner, I put my elbows on my knees and cupped my chin in both hands. "What was Sinatra really like?"

She didn't hesitate. "Skinny. Skinniest man I ever saw, and big feet. But he was a snazzy dresser. A regular clothes horse, he was."

Big feet was not how I'd ever pictured Sinatra, and for a moment I feared Helen's description might burst Mama's long-held Sinatra bubble. There was something earnest in the way she spoke, however, that made me ask, "But was he nice? "

Before answering me, she gestured toward the tape deck. "Listen. He's singing my favorite Christmas song. Oh, what a voice." Reaching over, I turned up the volume and the words Jack Frost nipping at your nose floated through the air.

Her eyes thanked me. She crossed and uncrossed her legs and then smoothed down her dress to cover her knees. "Yes, he was nice," she said. He was on his way up, so he knew how to be nice when it counted. He also knew I couldn't help him become the star he aimed to be, but I was pretty and I knew which fork to use."

She looked at me with her old eyes, faded from what I imagined had once been a startling green. "I was a spoke in his wheel of life and I never expected I'd be anything more. When he left me that winter without even saying goodbye, I was hurt, but not surprised. It was fun while it lasted and that was the lesson. Now when I hear him sing, well, I just sit back and enjoy what was."

We jump-started her memory with more Sinatra ballads before she stood. "Thank you for making an old lady feel young again. I'm sure your mother heard the music, too."

As though anticipating my question, she said, "It was hard to let go of my feelings for Frankie, but then I met Edward and we've been married for fifty-one years. He knows all about my fling and teases me about my famous boyfriend." She grinned. "He's been here three weeks and today his doctor told me that Edward won't be coming home again."

She looked tired, sad and suddenly very much her age. "I'm so sorry," I offered. It was lame, but I didn't know what else to say.

A wistful smile played across her lips. "Don't be. You helped me more than you know. You see, I'd forgotten how to let go, but when I heard Frankie's voice, it all came back. I needed a reminder more than ever. "

I hugged her. I mean I really hugged her, and it was far better than words.

How could I have known that playing my mother's favorite music would reach beyond her small hospital room and touch a stranger in need.

After Helen left, I looked at Mama and was amazed to see that her eyes were open and focused directly on me. She wore the sweetest expression, a decided difference from the pale, slack face of the past few days.

I tried to say something, but I was choked up so I didn't make a grain of sense. Mama's eyes remained locked on mine, though she made no attempt to speak. Just then, Sinatra began singing Silent Night, and I stopped crying.

Holding my mother's hand, we listened to the quintessential song of Christmas until the last Sleep in heavenly peace was sung. She closed her eyes, and shepherded by the memory of Sinatra singing Silent Night to her, Mama very quietly left this world.

I let go of my mother's hand, but I will never let go of her heart.