Before, After & In-between

Chapter 27 - Before

A new phobia unlocked, hospitals. The smell, the white walls and dirty floors. The sound of beeping and rushing and crying and...dying.

I hate coming here. Jake and I have been matched up with a grief counselor in which we're forced to see every week now that my mom's diagnosis is written in stone. In my opinion it's a waste of time because it can't help me feel better, in fact it makes me feel awful. We sit together, sometimes alone in this tiny little room that has posters of families and words and sadness all mashed up into what is supposed to be encouraging.

Today there's two notebooks on the table waiting for us, we sit in our familiar spots and I watch as Jake flips absently through his. Paula isn't here yet. Paula has a cheery disposition despite her position as someone who helps people deal with death.

"Hi there," she says rushing into the room, her short brown bob bouncing playfully like she's just come from somewhere fun, which likely isn't the case, "sorry I'm late."

Jake looks up from hooded eyes and returns back to his notebook, I manage a quick smile and shift uncomfortably in my seat as she approaches with an oversized bag of 'goodies' as she calls them.

"So, how are we today?"

"Okay," we say at the same time.

"Good, so I spoke with your dad last week about an exercise I wanted to do with you, and he gave me this box of old photos," she says pulling out the small Christmas themed box my mom keeps all of her special pictures in. A chill quivers along my spine. It doesn't look right in Paula's hands, in this sickly room with all the white. It belongs in the wooden chest at the end of my parent's bed nestled amongst quilts and pillows and our old stuffed animals.

"Why do you have that?"

"Your dad let me borrow it so we could use these photos for the exercise."

"But those are my moms," Jake says quietly.

"Yes, from what I gather they are special pictures near and dear to her," she pops the lid off and a pang of guilt hits me in the chest, "I thought we could use this in your memory books."

I understand she is only doing her job, trying to help, but in reality, this little exercise is reminding me that pretty soon all I will have left of my mother is a memory, a few photos to look back at when I miss her. There is nothing about creating a memory book that says "coping" to me.

"How is this supposed to help?" I ask impatiently, and Paula frowns.

In the beginning when I met Paula, I still had hope. Hope that my mom would get better, hope that I could feel something good, something more than just the restless beating of my heart. It was me convincing Jake that we needed this, needed her. Only it didn't take long to realize it's all just a distraction. A distraction from what we're losing, who were losing, and Paula can't fix that. She can't fix cancer, she can't send us all back in time to the lives we had, and she can't fix me. This emptiness sits with me daily, throbbing and pounding in the small hollow of my stomach. It grows by the minute with each fear, each worry and thought. It consumes me and no amount of distraction is going to dull it's power.

She looks at me with what seems like patience but more likely annoyance, "Because Katy, memories are important, and these ones are special to her."

"Exactly," I say standing, "these are hers and they don't belong in some stupid craft!"

My bluntness alarms Jake, "Katy it's fine."

"It's not fine, and I'm not doing this," I pace around the suddenly claustrophobic space, "in fact I think were done here."

"Katy, we haven't even started, please sit down."

"I don't want to sit down, I want to go home!" I pant aggressively, so aggressive I seem to vacuum all the air from the room yet it doesn't satisfy me and my legs wobble slightly at the dizziness of it.

"Katy, I think you should sit down before—"

I've never paid much attention to the art of breathing, to the unknown way our body brings air into our lungs without instruction. We go about our lives just breathing every millisecond of every day and I've never once noticed just how precious it was, until I couldn't do it anymore.

"I...I can't breathe," I gasp, my hand flies to my chest. I feel the pressure of my chest rise and fall, hear the sound of my choked breaths yet I feel like something is stuck, stuck in my throat and in my chest preventing the air from going down, from getting to the vital place it needs to reach in order for me to live.

Paula stands up and reaches for me, "It's okay Katy," she guides me against my will to the couch along the wall, I all but fall into the safety of its cushions relieving my legs from the added stress.

Jake runs to me in a panic, "Are you okay, what's happening?" He looks to Paula for guidance, "is she okay?"

"She's okay," she says calmly, "you're okay," she reassures me.

"Am I dying?" I shake, "what's happening to me?"

"You are not dying," she rubs my back, "you're having a panic attack...this is all normal Katy. Try to focus on something good, something that makes you happy."

My brain scrambles amongst the lack of oxygen but nothing good comes. My shoulders tense and pull with each attempt to breathe and with each attempt I fail. The tears spill into my mouth, and I cough against the saltiness of them.

"There's...nothing...good," I wheeze.

Jake gets up from my side and runs across the room, he returns with the small Christmas box in his hand, "Look," he says fishing out an old photo, "remember this vacation?" he smiles, "remember mom's first-time skiing, she went straight for the big hills." I look at the four us standing at the bottom of Bolder Mountain, rosy cheeks and goofy smiles. My mom laughing with a thumbs down, "she fell at the bottom and broke her thumb, remember?"

"Jake that might not be the best—" Paula says.

"No, it was the best, funniest vacation we ever had," he says beaming at me, willing me to remember to come back.

I stare into the photo, into the blue skies that served as a picturesque backdrop, I can smell the cold mountain air and feel the frost on my skin, the burn of minus 25 in my toes. The sound of my mom laughing, the sight of her hair flying in all directions behind her as she bravely zoomed down the terrifying slope. She was fearless, it drove my dad crazy, it made me giddy with envy.

She didn't care she broke her finger, and it definitely didn't stop her. That's who she is, who she was, she taught us to be brave, she taught us to never give up.

"I remember," I sniffle clutching the picture to my chest, "I remember."

Jake and I go through the rest of the pictures, each one transporting me back to that time, that memory. Before long I realize my chest doesn't hurt anymore, my breathing has calmed and some of these pictures have even warranted a few laughs. I didn't think small glimpses of our old life would make me so happy. In fact, I didn't think anything could make me happy at this point.

I look at Paula, who has remained quiet while we reminisce, "I guess you do know what you are doing."

She smiles kindly, "Do you think you're ready to put some of these in the book?"

Jake and I exchange permission, "Yes I think so."

As painful as it is, as hard it's going to get if remembering the good times helps me during the bad, I'm so desperate I'll do anything.

"Katy?" Paula pulls me aside, "if that happens again, I want you to do the same thing, find something to ground you to bring you back." I nod, "and please if it keeps happening tell someone, this isn't something you have to navigate alone."

I agree and dismiss the idea because just the thought of it happening again is enough to make it happen again. I shake off the feeling, push it to the deepest parts of my mind and hope I never have to feel that again because that felt like dying, and she's dying, and I can't fathom the thought of her suffering.