Before, After & In-between

Chapter 18 - Before

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 fill 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.