There is this new space in my chest that constantly aches, a burning hole that grips my lungs and I would do anything to be able to breathe the way I used to. To be able to run for joy instead now I run to escape. Things aren't good haven't been good and aren't going to get better, I had moments of hope, days where I thought I would wake up and it would be different. That maybe something would give, and we would finally be able to exhale. But my family has been holding their breath for a month.
Our life has become unrecognizable, hospitals and nurses, medicine and mushy foods, cold skin, boney skin, dull eyes that no longer shine. I feel guilty even saying it but I'm suffocating in this house, suffocating under the pressure to be positive, to pray, to have faith. I'm not one to quit, but...to watch her go through this is torture and I just want my mom back. I want her soft skin and warm hugs, her eyes that sparkle and her laugh, she's so weak right now she can barely smile. Her voice a raspy whisper, and for most of the time when she's not being poked and prodded, she sleeps.
I want her to nag me to get out of bed, to get on Jake for having a messy room. I want to smell her cooking, her baking, and even though she's still here in this house....it already feels like she isn't. The absence of everything that embodies her is slowly making its way through, taking and robbing us. Each day a new part missing, a new gap, a new hole.
It's time for her morning meds and since my dad got called in today it's my turn. He took a leave from work but remains on call for emergencies and the home nurse doesn't get here till 1:00pm. I fill a glass of water and go into her room. She's curled up on the one side of the bed, blanket upon blankets stacked on top of her even though its June and over twenty degree's out. She smiles weakly and tries to sit up when she sees me, "Mom just rest," I say hurrying to her side so she doesn't exhaust herself.
I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at her nightstand littered with six different bottles of pills. I pull out my phone to look at the schedule, the schedule we all have a copy of now, the one that tells us which pills she takes at which time and how many and if she needs food with them or not. This morning it's an anti-nausea pill, I help her sit up and hand them to her, holding the cup to her mouth while she drinks.
"How's your pain?" I ask.
She groans, "It's okay."
"Mom, how's your pain?"
"It's fine, I'll wait. They make me nauseous."
It frustrates me when she does this, she can be so stubborn. I fully understand now why she would go bat shit crazy on us as kids when we refused to take medicine, "Mom, if you are in pain we need to take these meds," I say holding up the painkillers, "the ones you just took, the anti-nausea one will combat the icky feeling, and then maybe you can eat something."
Her eyes flutter with tears, "You're not supposed to know these things," she shifts uncomfortably, "what pills do what, what pill fixes what," she becomes breathless, "you shouldn't to have to take care of me."
I tap out another two pills, the label says may cause drowsiness, and I lift the cup to her mouth again. She swallows them back with hesitation, "I'm sorry bear."
"Mom, don't apologize, I want to take care of you."
"Will you lay with me?" she taps the space next to her and I crawl in under the covers even though my skin is slick with a layer of sweat.
I rest my head against her body, but I don't let her see the tears that fall into the comforter or let her hear the sob that bubbles in my throat. Instead, I hold her hand and listen to her breath as she descends back into sleep, the rigidness of her body relaxes, and I know at least for a while she won't be in pain.
I must have dozed off because I jolt awake to the sound of the front door closing. I sit up slightly groggy and listen quietly for my mom's breathing, place my fingers on her wrist to detect her pulse. An unhealthy habit I've adopted, one that causes me immense fear every time until I feel the faint thump thump beneath her clammy skin. I throw the covers off and head downstairs just as my dad rounds the corner, he looks exhausted, and I don't know how he's managing everything.
"How is she?" he asks softly, the lines under his eyes look deeper, look darker like they've found a permanent spot to lay roots.
"Sleeping," I sit on the bottom stair, "she's barely been awake the last few days dad."
He sits next to me, "I know," he puts his arm around me and our heads rest into each other.
"Dad, I'm scared." I've been scared since the moment we found she was dying but I've never said it out loud. I was too afraid to say things, admit things because if I put it out into the universe I can't take it back.
"I am too," his voice hitches, and his head falls forward, "I don't know what else to do, Katy...I'm completely helpless," and for the first time my dad breaks, the strong sturdy man crumbles before my eyes, he sobs silently into his hands, "I....I always know what to do...and...and now there is nothing I can do to save her."
His words set my heart ablaze, the emptiness of my stomach churns and I fear this moment will haunt me forever. I don't know what to say to him, how to comfort him, how to ease his pain when mine is spiraling so furiously beneath the surface. He gathers himself and slowly clomps up the stairs towards their room. Vomit burns in my throat and I race to the washroom barely making it before I fall to the floor dry heaving into the toilet. My body viciously attempts to purge the aching pain, tries to free itself from the emptiness of its emptiness but it's useless and I only feel worse.
***
The next morning is a commotion of chaos. Its Saturday and the nurses are here, they are changing out my mom's IV bags and checking her vitals. Although their presence comes with a sense of ease it makes me antsy, I pass by her room while the door is slightly cracked, and I can see they have her sitting up on the edge of the bed. Her gown hangs open in the back exposing the delicacy of her spine jutting aggressively beneath her skin. My breath catches and I hurry past, shutting my eyes wishing I could burn the image from my mind. The sun shines outside, the promise of a warm summer day taunts me. The windows are open and the breeze filters through, I inhale it as deeply as I can hoping to replace the smell of sickness, but it just makes me long for something that isn't here.
"Dad," he's sitting in the sunroom, his upper body hunched forward while his elbows rest upon his knees. His chin pressed firmly into his hand. A cup of hot coffee steams next to him on the side table as he stares blankly into space, "Dad, is it okay if I go for a quick run?" my voice trembles as I try to control the uneasiness in my body. I pray he doesn't say no, I need a break. I can't be here in this vortex of pain that threatens to swallow me up.
He looks at me with too much effort, and the defeat in his eyes startles me. He exhales, "I guess so," he hesitates, "just not too long okay."
I nod. He returns to his staring, I pause a moment then walk over and kiss the top of his head, "I love you dad."
He nods silently, "you too bear."
I don't warm up. I don't start slow because I'm too impatient to feel something good, to get lost and caught up in the only thing that feels normal. I follow my usual path searching for familiarity but what I get hurts more. The realness of life, of people living absent mindedly, going through the motions, taking for granted while I would take back anything. The lawnmowers roar, the kids play in the street. I pass dog walkers, and other joggers, people on bikes, cars with the tops down. My mind races and I want it to shut up, I don't want to think or hear I want to escape.
I push harder, ignoring the cramp in my thigh a result of not stretching and instead relish in the pain. It drives me, it forces me to keep going. Eventually everything and everyone around me fades into the background and it's just the thumping of my heart matching each beat on the pavement. Time ceases to exist when I run, and I tend to get carried away sometimes ending up in places I had no intention of going. I've ended up at the boardwalk, its bustling with the Saturday morning crowd and I know why I came here. I slow my pace to a walk and hurry past the patio goers until I am down on the sandy beach next to the pier.
I sit beneath its shadow letting my feet reach the water's edge and lay back until the warm sand blankets my skin, sticking to the droplets of sweat. I close my eyes to the sky and focus on the sounds around me, the seagulls gulling, waves rolling, the breeze whispering promises of summer. The tide comes and goes calmly, and I dream of it taking me away, take me away, please take me away. This is her favorite spot, where her golden skin would glisten like a sheet of diamonds beneath the sun. I can picture her eyes beneath the large floppy hat she insisted on wearing and the flowered wrap she bought at the Sea shop. I can smell her coconut sunscreen and hear her laughter in the waves. I want to disappear in it, in the memory of her, of how she was, not how she is.
A few hours pass before I pry myself from the sand, I am sunburnt and sticky and extremely thirsty. I buy a Gatorade and chug it back in one gulp, then I take my time jogging home slowly my body depleted from my earlier run and too much sun. When I get home and walk through the door the house is quiet, too quiet. I glance at my watch and see its 330pm, I have been gone for five hours. I walk through to the kitchen, an uneaten sandwich sits on a plate, the orange juice container open on the counter, life interrupted mid living.
"Hello?" I call out.
I race from room to room, the sunroom is empty, the back yard is empty, "Dad...Jake?" I call a little louder. I open doors, shut doors, run circles around the house. I stare out the front window and see my dad's car in the driveway...I'm so confused, the nurses are gone, but they would be gone, but where is everyone— my heart stops beating, its stuck mid pulse and it pulls and tugs at me in warning. I bolt up the stairs with three long lunges and burst into my parents' bedroom.
Its empty. The bed is empty, the blankets pushed to end, the pills are there, the IV stand hangs abandoned. I blow into the bathroom her robe is gone...her...her ...her... I can't breathe...help...I can't breathe. Where is my...where is my phone...? I fling open my bedroom door and see it laying on my bed. I left it here how did I leave it here I never leave it here. I pick it up with shaky hands and see 50 missed calls.
My legs collapse beneath me, I bring the phone to my ear and play the messages.
Katy, where are you?
Katy, you need to come home.
Katy, its Jake, were going to the hospital, please I need you.
Katy, its dad, moms... choked sob, where are you? pick up
Katy, its Leah where are you? You need to get to the hospital
Katy, please bear you need to get here, please oh God where are you?
I descend into blackness and can barely decipher words or anything for that matter by the last few messages they are all the same, they are all the same the same the same, urging me to get home, urging me to get there, where am I where am I? I am here, I am here I am here now...but its too late too late, I'm too late.
Katy...she's gone...where are you...she's gone bear...she's gone.
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