I.
She fidgeted in her chair beside my hospital bed. She'd go between reading her romance novel, setting it down, then out for a cigarette. Then pacing the room. Reading. Then out for another smoke.
I couldn’t talk. I had a fat tube down my throat, pumping bile from my stomach.
I spent days unable to speak, mindlessly staring at a constantly on television screen. My mom stayed with me until the tube came out, scraping it's way up my esophagus, burning, the taste of vomit, acid.
Right before the surgery, my mom's stepmother's latest husband said they would cut open my stomach, and take out all my guts and put them on a small table. Then they'd comb through my intestines until they finally find the appendix. They’d snip it off, then shove all my guts back inside my body and stitch me up.
I was fourteen.
I thought of my insides, all red and bulbous, getting cold and drying out on a stainless steel tray while I watched my mom fidget. She chewed her nails then caught me watching her. She smiled, warming me inside, and gently patted my forearm.
I couldn't speak for a couple days after the tube came out. She fidgeted more, stopping only after she asked me if I minded if she returned to work. She was falling behind, she said. I croaked an OK and she said she loved me. Then she went back out for a cigarette.
It had been the longest time we stayed in the same room together alone.
That experience made me like hospitals. People coming in to take care of me, checking in on me. One parent proving that I do, in fact, mean something more to them than just some spawn they were saddled with because she wanted "a baby.” An accessory. But babies grow up and often become less cute and squishy, and no longer totally dependent on you for survival.
When Baby becomes their own person, things get complicated.
II.
The last time we were in a hospital room together, it was her turn. She couldn't speak. Her skin was so dry it stiffened, and her whole forearm shifted when I touched it.
Before she fell into the coma, she seemed so content. Euphoric. She asked me to promise her that I would keep making art, and I promised.
My aunt sniffled in the corner.
I paced the room, waiting. Would she live? Would she die?
I was eighteen.
Everyone hogged her. Before, it was just her and I most of the time, and there would be no such thing for her turn. For us.
I paced in and out of the room. One of my older cousins tried to comfort me.
Her body flung forward and a nurse bolted to catch her. I swore she was awake, but she wasn’t. I ran, screaming toward her, begging her to wake up. Wake up! We’re not done yet!
It wasn’t fair.
It was our turn.
We were only just beginning.
I was just starting to grow up, I promise.
It was our turn.
We were only just beginning.
I was just starting to grow up, I promise.
III.
Christmas was her favorite time of year. She’d blast Elvis Presley Christmas songs while she and I decorated the artificial fir tree with antique ornaments she finally let me touch for the first time.
I was sixteen.
She’d sing along off-key and I would listen, not yet secure enough to sing along with her.
The windows were open and a cool Florida breeze leaked in through the screens.
I remember this moment with her most. Wordless time, doing something together. Something she loved.
We never got another time in the hospital together.
We never got enough time outside sterile walls.
I was too young, too ignorant, and too self-centered. And she smoked too much.
She was only forty-six.
~~~
~~~
“Then It Was Over” is an early draft of a nonfiction short I’m working on.
I’m thinking it needs a deeper connection point (the third section) to show the loving relationship between Mother and Daughter. That’ll be the next step.
What do you think?
My best,
My best,
Sara
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Before I go, here are 6 more things I wanted to share this week:
- Finished The Handmaid’s Tale (and will hopefully watch the series on Hulu soon).
- Started the essay collection We Are Never Meeting In Real Life by Samatha Irby.
- Being a parent made me realize how Karens are born; an interesting take from Modern Parent on Medium.
- The things that changed when I became beautiful, by Isvari.
- Authors Publish did a lecture on The First Twenty Pages. If you’re a writer, check it out.
- “We never know the love of a parent till we become a parent ourselves.” —Henry Ward Beecher