copyright 2017 Chris Smith All rights reserved.
"Everything feels wrong...the sun is too bright...the towel is too rough...the food has no taste."
I climbed downstairs and looked in the living room that was also my Parent's bedroom. Dad wasn't there. So I walked over and opened the partially closed bathroom door, and sat down on the tub ledge, for our normal morning talk.
It was a brutal cycle we were in, trying to keep Mom comfortable. Nothing seemed to make a difference any more. I was conflicted by two different needs, knowing and not knowing. If I didn't know, then I could keep some level of hope alive.
"How did it go?" I asked.
"It didn't go well. I'm having to turn her every two hours," Dad said.
"You look awful," I said.
"Thanks," Dad said.
"So, what are we going to do?" I asked.
"I thought I'd put a call into the Doc," Dad said.
"Okay," I said.
"Mom's body just may not have the strength to get through this," Dad said.
My heart fell. It was gut-wrenching to hear those words come out of his mouth. Dad knew Mom better than anyone else on the planet. And if he didn't think she could make it, didn't think she wanted to make it, then we were fucked.
Me: Mom had a really tough nite. We're waiting to talk to the Doc. Dad said her body may not have the energy to get through this.
I walked into the living room. Mom was asleep. I went into the kitchen and started my morning routine of emptying the dishwasher and pulling my nutritional supplements out. My stomach rumbled but my heart had no desire for food. I was worried. This wasn't going like I thought it would. I didn't know what we were going to do.
Was there was any hope left...anywhere?
I went outside to dump the kitchen water into the potted plants. Dad was still on the phone with the Doc. My whole world was changing before my eyes. I was helpless to stop it. I knew this feeling and I hated it. I hated how it always made me feel powerless. It was as if I was standing on the shore watching the tsunami come for me and I couldn't move to higher ground because there was nowhere else to go.
Dad walked back inside. He looked somber.
"Let's talk for a moment," he said.
"Okay," I said.
I followed him back outside.
"Okay I talked to the Doc," Dad said.
"What did he say?" I asked.
"He said it's time to give her the morphine. He said to stop giving her the juice," Dad said.
"Wow. And so no more pills either," I said.
"He said we've taken her as far as we could. But she's telling us that she's had enough. So he's suggesting that we stop giving her the juices and her pills. He says she's telling us she's ready to go."
My whole morning routine for Mom was out the window. I wouldn't be doing any of it. This was it. This was the end coming for her, for us, faster than I thought. I wasn't ready. I didn't feel prepared. I hadn't gone through proper training and preparation to guard my heart against the pain swelling up inside.
How do you get ready for that?
I would make our juice today. But Mom wouldn't get any. Her nutritional supplement bottles would stand unopened. The mortar and pestle were dried and still in the dishwasher. I wouldn't be using them anymore.
"He said that he thought she was ready to go. And he didn't think it would take long," Dad said.
I was speechless.
What could I say?
Nothing. There was nothing to say.
"He said that we have done more than enough, beyond what most people would ever do, to try and give her the chance, if she was going to come back," Dad said.
It didn't seem like enough at my end though. If it had been enough, we would have saved her.
If this sob story had turned into a miracle story, we'd be having conversations with the Doc about how fucking great she was doing, about how she bounced back from death's door.
My face was wet. I was crying. But I hadn't realized it.
Damn all emotions. Forever.
The emotional burden of everything we had been through the last year trying to save her life, and now the answer was to just let go.
How the fuck do you do that?
Juice Day 122
4 leaves collard greens
1 tablespoon ginger root
1 cup napa cabbage
YOU ARE READING
A HARD RUN INTO HELL Book 4 (EDITING) is the juice worth the squeeze seriesNon-Fiction
I was standing in Hell, burning. I looked over to see my Dad, standing right next to me. He was burning too. We had brought my Mom home from the hospital and care facility, after being diagnosed with Stage 3 cancer and decided not to do chemo, ag...