Meet Me at Infinity ➵ Ashton Irwin

[19] Tal Bachman

[Ellie]

“Worried hours of contemplation, whispered bits of conversation. Unaffected orderlies, disinfected rooms and hallways” – Tal Bachman

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Some people say that everything happens for a reason. That your fate is set in stone, and your destiny is decided before you even open your eyes for the first time.

But as I follow the volunteer down a corridor to see my dying mother, such a notion is so completely horrifying and inconsiderate that I can’t understand how anyone actually believes such shit.

So my mother was always going to die? When she was born and put on a timeline, when she was still a child, it was already decided by fate that when she was only 47 years old she was going to die?

No. My mother’s fate had not been decided by some otherworldly figure. It had been decided by everyone around  her – doctors, specialists, friends, even my own father; they had all decided long ago that she was going to die, and that there was no way around that. It was inevitable.

My mother’s fate had been decided by others. I was going to decide my own fate.

With a hint of my old pessimism I scowl as we pause to enter the room. I don’t even fucking believe in density and fate.

Such thoughts fizzle away when the volunteer opens the door and stands aside for me. I freeze momentarily – almost as if I had forgotten I would have to face her. I would have to watch her dying in front of me.

I swallow thickly and move slowly into the room. For some reason I feel as if maybe moving slowly will make it easier, make the time and distance between us longer. As I come closer I can see her face, turned slightly to the side, a tube sticking out of her throat. Even from here her skin looks pale and grey, dark shadows in her skin and chapped lips almost white. I feel an urge to vomit.

Dad looks up. He’s been crying – his puffy eyes are lined in red. He smiles slightly, although it’s obviously only a miserable attempt for my benefit. He stands and wraps around me in a hug.

I pull away after a moment and look down at mum. My heart catches somewhere between my lungs and my mouth as I stare down at a woman who sits on the verge of death, her cracked lips parted. I choke on air as I look at the pipe shoved into her throat and the mist of death surrounding her.

I knew I would start to cry again, but I didn’t realise it would be so soon. Even though I feel as if I’ve cried enough tears to last a life time I break down again, crumbling and falling apart at the feet of my dying mother. My legs tremble beneath me and I let myself fall, hitting the linoleum floor with a shoot of pain through my ankle that I know will hurt later. Now, I feel the pain everywhere, but it’s not from my ankle.

I grip onto the metal frame of her bed, my knuckles turning white as I wail meaningless things, the bitter sounds filling every corner of the room. I feel like I’m drowning in quicksand; I can’t breathe, my throat raw and aching from the crying. Somewhere in front of my blurred vision something moves, and I think it’s Dad as he begins pacing as he cries too.

I fall into myself, slumping against the end of the bed, my head pressing into the cool metal frame. I can’t see, hear, or taste anything – all I feel is pain. Everything else is a numb wash of nothingness, taken over by the overwhelming intensity of the grief.

‘It’s not fair,’ I sob loudly. I claw at the sheets, gripping them between my fingers. ‘Y-you were so young, mum. A-and I never go to g-grow up properly. Y-you’re gone, and I h-haven’t even gotten married y-yet. Y-you’ll never s-see y-you grandchildren, mum. Y-you’ll n-never meet m-my husb-band…’