“How long?”
“What?”
“How long have you known?” I ask. “When did you find out?”
“On your birthday,” she whispers. “I knew in January that it had spread, but we were hopeful we could get it under control. That morning, I got some results back and, well, it wasn’t good. They told me since I was no longer responding to treatment and was actually getting worse that, it was only a matter of time. And I just wanted to be home.”
“You didn’t even try to fight it?”
“The chemo wasn’t working, honey. If it had been, there would’ve been improvement. I wasn’t going to spend my final moments in a hospital room.”
“So much for that.”
“Yeah, fucking Marjorie just had to stop by today.” She laughs… she fucking laughs.
“That’s not funny, Mom. If she didn’t show up, you’d be dead right now, and I never would’ve gotten to say goodbye.”
“Zeke,” she sniffles, “I never wanted you to have to say goodbye. I wanted you to remember me outside of this place. I’ve been here so long I just wanted to go out on my own terms. Not attached to machines and hearing that god awful beeping.”
“That god-awful beeping is proof that you’re alive, Mom.”
“But I’m not. Not really, honey. I’ve made my peace with this, with all of this; I was hoping if I went without you knowing that the cancer returned that—”
“That what? That I’d feel better if I wasn’t with you during your final moments? That I’d be relieved I didn’t have to watch you take your final breath? Did you think it’d be easier for me to get a phone call telling me you're dead than me being here, holding your hand while you went to the other side?! When I found out something was wrong, I drove straight here. I don’t even know how I got here, Mom. And I thought I didn’t get to say goodbye the whole way. I kept questioning whether I told you I loved you the last time I saw you. I kept questioning what my last words had been to you. I kept thinking I’d show up here, and you’d be gone, and I wouldn’t know what to do. So, no, Mom, not getting to say goodbye wouldn’t have been better. Being left in the dark isn’t better than being able to prepare for what’s to come.”
I swat away my tears.
“There’s no right way for this to happen, Mom, because no matter what, I loseyou. Whether I’m sitting beside you, holdingyour hand, or getting a phone call from the hospital or Dad, I lose you. No matter what, you’re gone. There’s no right way to find that out. There’s no right way to say goodbye because I don’t want to say goodbye. I don’t want to lose you. I don’t know who I am without you, and I’m not ready to find out. Mom, I need you. I-I don’t, I don’t know how to live without you.”
She squeezes my hand as I lay my head down on her bed and cry. I don’t know the last time I cried like this. It’s not often that someone cries because they feel like their world is ending. But mine is.
I don’t know what life’s like without my mom. I don’t know what life’s like not taking care of her. I’ve been with her through doctors’ appointments and treatments since I was sixteen. What do I do when she no longer has them?
What do I do when she’s no longer here?
How do I keep going when the one person I’ve lived my life for, for the last five years, is no longer here?
“I love you.” She runs her fingers in circles on my back, something she used to do when I was a kid, the only thing that used to bring me comfort.
But it doesn’t.
Not this time.
forty-eight
Zeke
Ithink my body ran out of tears. I’m pretty sure I cried myself dry, but I guess that’s what happens when you cry nonstop for hours. The ICU visiting hours ended a while ago, but Dr. Sanchez didn’t care. He let me stay with her. Which honestly makes me more concerned. As if he wants me to get as much time with her as possible, like these moments with her could be our last.
She finally fell back to sleep about an hour ago, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so peaceful.
Me, on the other hand, I look like shit. If I didn’t know better, I’d assume I haven’t slept in about three months, when in reality, it’s just hours of crying after finding out the worst news of my life.
“Do you need me to page Dr. Sanchez?” The nurse's head pops up as I walk past her desk.
“No,” I reply. “I just need to go get some air. The room’s getting a little stuffy and, um—”
“I get it.” She smiles. “Whenever you’re ready to come back in, just let one of the nurses out there know, and I’ll get you back here.”